Iterative Poetry

Deployment of Morale

Mark — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 05:26:48 +0000

The exhaustion of doing nothing but waiting
Is a slow poison, working on the mind while sparing
The muscles. Sitting in uniform, weapon slung,
Boots always too tight, just waiting for our flight,
Is enough to create second doubts, lower morale,
And make a soldier wish for home before he leaves.

He needs a mission, a clear goal, to know differences
Were made by the sum of his small actions:
Bringing in a prisoner, raising the wall of a home,
Fixing a generator, watching the perimeter, cooking.
What comfort can a person find in such conditions
When orders stop the usual routines of feeling loved.

Whether in the arms of another, the glass of too many,
Or the addictions of slovenly lifestyles, this denial of self
To accomplish the mission comes at what cost to our identities?

Filed under: poems

Reincarnation of a Memory

Mark — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 03:32:32 +0000

You: the dark haired woman I used to see in dreams,
Then laid beside, our bodies lit by morning sun beams.
Do you remember how we would laugh and shout,
As we wrestled and played, rolled in and out
Of bed and across your flat’s rug strewn floor,
Or when we couldn’t wait to open the front door?
You thought you had me on my back and pinned;
But to be accurate, I actually just gave in
And pretended to struggle, to see your wide smile,
Knowing that in a sweet, glorious while,
Our clothes would be lying, discarded, in a small pile,
Nearby.

Then you were taken, moved a continent away;
And those precious memories came, at first, every day,
But in time, only in dreams, then slowly forgotten,
Until I received from you a long, written letter,
Which I read. My heart turned rotten.
I remembered.

A woman, with light hair and sitting on my bed, asks,
“Are you weeping, lover, for someone from your past?”

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Canaan

Mark — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 03:36:55 +0000

The sand that creeps into my boots,
That coats the bolt of my rifle;
The grains which cover every surface
And cloud out the horizon with gray haze,
Permeates my consciousness, becomes a part
Of my thinking. To be dry, and not dusty,
Wet without mud, or to tumble through grass
Would be a miracle to my sand blasted soul.
Cool winds make it worse, and a stillness,
Where heat bakes that top layer into cakes
Upon my skin, breaks my adventurous spirit.

This climate, the cradle of many cultures,
Drove them forth, in search of a lost paradise.
And the few who remained became cursed,
Like Cain, to never know rest amongst the sand.

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Chasing the Sun

Mark — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 04:52:34 +0000

You know what it is to love bright and hot
And stir the blackened ash the flames leave behind.
Instead, turn to look at the sky.
See the single star rise and brighten the night
And scorch away the fleeing darkness.
The hottest fire comes from the rising sun,
That is only warm upon your frosty fingertips,
Compared to the ice which drips from twinkling lights.
But, come midday, your sweat will pour and skin glisten
With the excitement of chasing that fiery orb
To make sure it never sets to the distant west,
Until your heart has beat it’s last.

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Idealism

Mark — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 04:12:49 +0000

My strength is sapped from out of the air
As the nearby star pelts me from above,
This work – this waste – of being in the sand
While the heat, fatigue, and heavy armor
Drag down my shoulders. That burden,
More than simple weight, rides upon me.
Atlas had it easy, since geography
Does not move like borders before soldiers.
We fill the ground with enemy dead,
But the pressure upon us never relieves,
For the duty and responsibility, those hopes,
All depend on an ideal no human ever sees:
That soldiers are more than mere men,
And their actions are always just and right.

Filed under: poems