Ghosts, in memorial

 

Ghosts, in memorial 

The annual wraith of war
stalks sensitive earth,
leaving blood-stained trails
haunting tendered lives
with its heavy boots.

Ghosts, in memorial,
gather around
gatherings around
memorial stones
and half masted flags.

Poppies, in abundant echo,
badge lawyers and teachers,
housewives and doctors,
nurses and drivers
who have never ventured
before gunfire,
nor skirted craters
in a rush to oblivion.

The holy water of tears
elaborates grim remembrances
of histories shared
or
held at arms length by generations
that poorly understand
the painful chaos of conflict.

 

                                                                  Keith Wallis

Beyond the moment

 

Your eyes steal you away:

the steely prison of the moment

cannot stop your escape.

Baggage remains unclaimed,

discarded, abandoned,

shed in the journey

beyond this moment.

The shadow of a kiss

stays, soft and silent,

imprinted on your lips

like unspoken words

held back for fear

of losing them.

The moment has stolen you

in its moon tide;

sails,

winged with wind,

draw you distant

to the echo

of a sound

yet to be made.

Knife Angel

Knife Angel

What is in your eyes,

as you gaze down in sadness,

at those around your feet

who return your stare ?

You bear the weight of souls

within the blades you have saved

from deadly purpose

that inhabit your form,

in sinews of steel.

The blood of rust, tearfully,

cascades from blade to blade

as you sentinel dismay.

There is an unspoken plea

in the mouth of your hands

which speaks,

above the dumbness of metal:

dismay, futility

and the inevitability of nothing learned.

On your deadly feathered wings

you carry the mourning

of the life-deprived;

engraved names

whose uncompleted journeys

leave scars and wounds

beyond blood

in those who grieve.

I have seen you,

yet others pass by,

in unanswered conversation

and unmet eyes,

armed with discontent

honed to sharpness

and the cutting edge of fear

and pay no heed.

Tomb

 

Tomb.

 

All is silence.......

until  a crescendo of birdsong

fanfares day,

hailing the coming of sun,

the return of the Son.

The silent stones of Palm Sunday

attend the moved rock

of this Easter Sunday

silent in awe.

There are no palm leaves here,

discarded fronds  blown away

by the week of wind, of storm,

and the mischief of history.