Sunday Sit Down – Remembering the War

Sunday Sit Down Remembering the War

After a silent Sunday last week, I am back this week with another poem for Sunday Sit Down. This weeks poem was roughly written in 2009 during a free writing session at a writers group I used to attend on my lunch hour from work. I perfected the poem over a few weeks and I’ve always been very happy with the descriptive narrative and the message it conveys. I think for the week that is in it, it’s a perfect time to share it with you. I hope you enjoy it.

~~~ Remembering the War ~~~

 

Fiery roars crackled to the forceps of my ears – stillness interrupted,

Awakening the thought of before, rustling to past, remembering –

 

Perking up to recollections of fragmented, unwelcome aversions and

Desires lurching closer to the front of my mind – recalling –

 

I remembered a day when stars danced on my lashes – flashing –

When youthful vigour was lusting on fingertips made from pink feather boas,

 

Soft, stimulating, arousing – embracing our freedom thoughts – then suddenly

Aiming a pistol to become the first, the last and the something in between.

 

There, where swarms were made from the bee sting of human venom – and bullets,

Cries woke dust from the earth to the living dirt, settling (where it does not belong),

 

Alarms rang deafeningly in our shoes, splitting our toes – blasts catered by intruders

And the drink overflowed – delicious, tasting of home – and –

 

Quarters imbedded with tarnished casings of fake bullion, removed from the rubble,

Souvenirs uncovered deep in the absent boulevard of commerce.

 

Our hands treated to grateful kisses and tears from children and women,

Babbling in languages we learned out of fear – missiles equipped with their posies,

 

Wishing the woman we named would notice our tender eyes – searching –

Begging for comfort other than coitus, though beautiful she was –

 

How our dreams of nakedness always feature her, knowing

Here is where shards of despair will crush her sweet bud to that living dirt –

 

The same place where families lay tables and tuck their children to sleep,

Saying their prayers, blessing mammy and daddy – thanking

 

The Lord, our God, for this day and the next and I remember

Their black faces, dusted with skeleton remains – as I lay awake

 

Listening to the memory of your voice – play distant

Through this region I’ve unintentionally known – involuntarily called home.

 

I remember the wild fire break free from restraint and engulf

That woman I named – she emptied her pockets, clasped her hands, prayed,

 

We watched as a unit – no contact with locals – orders denied, forbade,

We broke them, as we became human – untrained machines out of order –

 

We saved one woman in the light of gas fire, rested that night when duty was over –

Now, as we are retreated to memories, I think on you, the woman I named,

 

Wonder have you survived? As I languish in my cotton chair, bones dusting

My lifetime, I think of my years since passed – and now, not surviving the war.

 

Geraldine Walsh © Over Heaven’s Hill

For More of My Creative Writing Series Sunday Sit Down click Here

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