Photo by Monicaat http://monicasmindlessmutterings.blogspot.com/
and http://familyaffairphotos.blogspot.com/
~
______________________
Walk me not through that field
of worry, grief, neglect.
Walk me towards that hope
of souls free of fear.
septembermom
One week after the photo or picture is posted I will pick one offering to put beneath the image. This is a way of celebrating exceptional creativity. Any and all posts are available for your creative mind to make an offering at any time (even ones where a writing has been placed on the front page like this one). If you are new here and want to offer to every image here, feel free. We are writers, WRITE! If this is your exceptional writing posted here on the Front Page Pictures, Poetry & Prose invites you to include the Exceptional Writing Award Button on your blog. Visit the Exceptional Writing Award post for the details and the button to download.
8 comments:
I'm no editor.
I'm a deletor.
I fill boxes with flowery words,
and then, quicker than I could conjure them,
I bury them in the sand.
Blank graves are all
these words have.
Anonymous, in the best possible way.
Some don't even seem real, and
in fact, they aren't.
Since I've forgotten, and
I was the only one to know them.
But, nonetheless, they get a grave,
a mound,
a memory,
a grain of sand.
Wow, Kate, this is really powerful.
I watched the blossoms fall at your funeral
and I knew it was your way of saying
that everything will be alright.
I found myself forgetting what I was trying to remember
as I sat around a table of friends.
Their names have collected dust,
I choke on them,
they're dead to me.
Outside I find you,
in someone else's eyes,
after years of searchin.
How did you find yourself imprisoned there?
You followed a voice,
"send me some sweet antidote,"
the words I mouth
to a silenced savior.
Upon catching the elegy
my voice set fire to the burial song.
Rising toward the sky I sang you
your final farewell, bon voyage.
A song in praise of the way
you captured life in your pupils.
Walk me not through that field
of worry, grief, neglect.
Walk me towards that hope
of souls free of fear.
They bore our crosses for us, those soldiers of yesteryear.
They fought for our rights,
Railed against injustices.
White crosses bear their pride.
Blood red poppies cry "Remember".
Driving to our Grandmother's
We passed a cemetery called 'Hills of Pine'
My baby brother looked out the window
and exclaimed 'Look where all those people died!'
true story
The Cemetary
Diversity-
Conformity-
Equality-
We're born.
We live.
We die.
Each cross set in remembrance
One for each life
Each one the same
Only set apart by writing
Marking a different date
A different life
Diversity? No.
In death we find ourselves the same.
Conformity? No.
In death we are set free.
Equality? Yes.
In death we are seen as equals.
We all were born
We all lived
We all died.
Living on only in a memory.
Keep us.
LJ - I submitted that too soon.
Add one word in the stanza about equality to read:
Equality? Yes.
In death we are seen as equals.
Finally.
Afterwards
We bury the dead.
One shovelful after another
We dig the graves, we bury the dead.
The rain pours down,
Soaking our hats, our uniforms, sneaking
Under our collars, trickling down skin.
And still we bury.
Our side, the other side,
Friend and enemy alike.
We bury the dead.
cross-posted at Lizbeth's Garden
Post a Comment