Battle Tales This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

February 3, 2013
Custom User Avatar
More by this author
It is not a day for Poetry-

It is for ripped knees,
scraggly fingers run through
scraggly hair,
and ribbed walls torn
under skies that bled and
seeped their color down,
now bright.

Clouds had stolen the fields, rain-
softened petals,
tears in the crook of a little
but not the toll of the bells because
they were too heavy, like
crushing stones in a young stomach,
or old bread, not paid for,
like his words of the last years of memory
and the passerby that spill silvered suns
into his weathered hat.

And under the cries of his gray eyes,
the explosion of folding uniforms, and
the splitting seams of the earth

How do the people still think they hear poetry?

Join the Discussion

This article has 1 comment. Post your own now!

harrykaps said...
Feb. 10, 2013 at 6:42 pm
What beautiful irony!  I really enjoyed this poem
Site Feedback