PEOM

Seasons of Life & Love

A Word About My Poetry

Poetry is just a fancy way
of describing thoughts or observations.

I write a lot about the weather.
I have found, over many years, that life is
as unpredictable and sometimes as unsettling as nature.
We speak of stormy relationships,
love that grows cold,
or sunny dispositions;
these are all the elements of weather and life.

Wheat

The wheat grows tall
but blows in waves at every hint of breath,
golden, and so full of life,
far from the penny whistle’s call,
far from the fatal reach of death.

One could not know
these fields were once so highly prized
that their soil drank the precious blood of souls;
so generals, safe and sound in their chateau
could stick their pins on maps of pointless goals.

The earth is rich,
the farmers thankful for such fertile land.
The bloody trench is now a drainage ditch
fringed in the garland, wheat,
above the corpses of the damned.

Though decades pass,
and they may drag away the dead
from where this peaceful harvest grows;
the ground still writhes in silence.
Rising from its dark morass,
into the light, its condemnation throws.

Here lie the shells
exposed—and bombs—reminders of man’s zeal to kill;
sending saint and sinner to their respective hells,
God on their lips, assured in pious prayers this is His will.

There is no lingering love,
no hate, no pointless reasons left to kill,
—no hearts that beat;
But just the earth,
to view the passing clouds above each silent, rolling hill.

And the flower of forgotten youth
to feed the golden waves of wheat.