drift in sky blue
an seeking games play
ships under sail
of Teaddy Bears
frolic among clouds
sounds summer rain
soars, arms wide
pain, no more hurt
of soft gossomer white
i watch, tear drops fall
want ,hearts them feel
touch own cheeks
fingers them feel
look them at me
for them and them for me
hands my cheek,touch tears me
hold one tear each
heart me, heart them
from the Heavens
Tears,more precious gold.
Kicking pebbles in the street,
stained glass under his feet,
Bodies lying all about, people crying,
Mothers grasping those who died,
little ones who cry,
People begging and ripping at his sleeve,
His uniform tattered from head to feet,
child with a broken leg,
He lays her down as he takes a rest,
She is not dead, but barely alive,
Blood from a blow,
caused by sniper fire,
He wraps her up in his military garb,
Keeping her safe, away from harm.
Checking his own wounds,
a gaping hole, deep in his ribs,
The blood still flows, staining his shirt,
Drying on his pants, he stands up again,
the girl away from this carnage,
He step getting weaker, but he does not falter,
Soon he is close, to a haven for the
He gives the girl to a Nurse, as another,
Tends to his own wounds.
Shocked and amazed at this man's
A gentleman stands silent, at the soldier's grave,
Tears streaming down his face, as he holds the picture,
picture of his daughter, the little girl he rescued,
He lays the picture on the grave of the man,
Who saved the little
girl, who could have died,
In the enemy's hands.
Walking away with a feeling of
He should have been there; he should have been killed,
His daughter beside him, as she takes his hand,
looks at the grave of the man who saved her.
Her leg long since healed, but
emptiness in her soul,
She never got to thank the man, who saved her from the turmoil.
Danielle N Calhoun
Musing with grim memories wrapped around
him like a cloak,
While hollow-eyed wraiths swirl about like noxious smoke,
His mind drifts through the rubble of his
Masticating those doleful days like chewing sweet confections.
He gently strokes the aching as
though caressing a sweet lover,
Yet searching, probing, scanning, always seeking to discover
Some reason for the haunting
- or a cure for the psychic pain.
Or, perhaps at least the coda for this damned, recurring refrain
That plays forever
and ever on the soundtrack in his brain
Like an alluring dirge, a funeral march, a melodious elegy.
He syncs to the
mournful rhythm of his personal threnody.
He molds a sharpened stiletto forged of steely, unearned guilt
it like a harpoon into his vitals to its hilt.
Then rising like the Phoenix ascending from the flames,
He takes his
seat and wearily starts his penance once again.
©Thurman P. Woodfork 8/21/2003
firey smoke rising to Heaven...
the murder of thousands of inocents
a touch that day of Satan`s
Our grief is not quiet...
It wails in the streets
For all times this will be a sign
upon the broken New
Horror unspeakable we did record
'Vengence is mine '...saith the Lord...
but this be the prayer that
runs through the land...
'Lord,tip the cup to our lips... and let us drink,
for we need to feel the hilt of the sword
in our hand
prepared for the time when good and evil meets'
No,our grief is not quiet...it wails in the streets...
In the wind does drift memories
of Dear Ones taken against their will
on that fateful day in September
We do pause often to remember...
remember a terrorist act so senseless
which ended many innocents happiness
They have failed to tear us asunder...
all that came from the ashes and thunder
were hands reaching...pulling us closer together...
Now we do seek out terrorists
and we will forever...
until all their ashes we are able to cast to the wind
in vengence... for lives lost in their
Twin Towers sin