Tuesday, November 25, 2014

TIME FELL, WINDS SLIPPPED, CONCENTRATION IS RAKED--RARELY



SEASONS, LEAVES, THOUGHTS
Wet leaves once windblown
glued to the concrete,
no natural motion left them
in the dead days of their season,
child parent once feeding the mother,
too soon aged ripe with thoughts in color,
fallen to the ground barren, abandoned,
having done all the now dead could for the parent.
Frozen in place waiting for rot,
to search no more upon the only wings
they once knew in crisp dryness.
Bluster is like that,
strong winds that miss most of a thought,
attempting to try to pick fear up with a roar
but finding it too hard to gather
even a wet leaf to feed its rising whimper.

II
Where you invest your life you purchase your plot,
be it on a grassy green field
or a war strewn armageddon.
Once down,
once left behind
on the ground inthe place you raced to
for honor, valor, money,
there is no wind that will pick you up
return you to fly again
to a life lived different,
better;
not a life without death,
one with principle
that comforts you no matter where you fall.
We all be fallen in our season,
it is better to fall when you must for justice
 than for the false value
of a diamond weight glory.

© M Durfee
11.25.2014

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

SOME WORDS ARE BEST NOT LEFT TO OTHERS



EULOGY
I spoke in my eulogy
of the life I live
and broke the back of silence,
knowing that times for change
are always inconsistent.
Live for today,
yesterday’s life was different,
tomorrow’s life is certain to come
for some same as is when you’re no one,
among the entire population of individual someone’s.

Speaking of my own eulogy
I may not be accurate to perception
but it is honest in reflection
on a life lived with little violence,
trusts not broken until they needed be.
I do not like funerals anymore,
never did
even though attendance was mandatory for some
and others who had to live through the rituals
of laughter and tears,
never liked weddings for the same reasons.
Too many broken hearts wherever one travels
unless you travel alone
where there can only be minimal breakage.

I haven’t quite gotten to the point in my eulogy
where I know for certain if it best as the curtain rises
to be standing amidst a little blood and glass
or mounds and rivers of it.
Christ may know, but I do not;
which is the second line on my death stone.
 My generation said love was all you need,
I believed that until I tried to ease my bellies pain
and found that stomach’s get lonely too.

I have a life and I am living it.
Christ may know, but I do not.
© M Durfee
11.19.2014

Monday, November 17, 2014

EVERY DROP SPILT, EVERY HEAD LOST IS AT THE COST OF HUMANITY



AND THE BEAST ROARS FOR MORE—WAR
A wadi running red
 mystifies them not there
to see the felled heads.

We prefer to read of enemies declared,
enemies all, not our kind not our breed.
They are not dear to a God with a different name.

There is no need for diplomacy or palaver,
only more of the bullets spit and tonnage shit
from bomb bay doors, upon the enemy and the innocent.  

There is no agree to disagree in peace, not anymore,
those days sit behind a closed door
the entire planets population has not the strength to open it,

that door held closed
by the few profiteers
making money off expanding wars everywhere.

Surrender, raise the white flag
hope for mercy, where there is none
for the wadi is not yet filled with red blood of mother’s sons.

And in the middle stands
an indifferent war weary citizenry
as long as they are not personally touched by the blades stinging,

while surrounding that wadi is the dust of a fearful million
running from their homes knowing
that if the blade doesn’t get them the bombing will kill 'em.

© M Durfee
11/17/14