Eventually....

  

 

Eventually it'll throw a rod.

The transmission will grind to quit.

A head gasket will blow.

 

The tires are bald.

Suspension's sagging; mufflers shot.

 

The interior's gone to hell....

filthy and torn.

 

Nothing left, but the rust that holds it together.

 

It's a CARcass. 

 

Handsome once. Elegant, even. Bright. Gleaming.

That was then. This is now.

 

It's a hulk. A junk.

 

Yeah.................and the car's in bad shape too.

 

       

Between Heaven and Hell

                 

 

A drawn line of battle is a heart-stopping thing.

 

An object of dynamic power kicking you in the gut

causing a man to not be able to swallow

burning the back of his throat

incapable of hating such massed, latent energy.

 

It fills you with awe.

 

Across the field, sun glinting off bared steel

glaring from flags and banners

doubtless in acknowledgement every weapon is prepared

to not simply kill

but maim, tear, dismember, disembowel, decapitate

in blood to a horse's bridle.

 

Better to die than be wounded and abandoned on the field.

 

No warrior speaks, there is no murmuring or cursing.

Absolute silence washes the field like a winter wind

 

Hundreds, thousands of human brains understand this view

is the most beautiful, horrible thing they will ever see.

For many, it is also the last.

 

They stand on the blade between heaven and hell

and cannot tell which is the best.

 

And they wait

for the command.

 

                        

Boots For The Burning

 No more shall we lace these up

for to journey to the kill.

Never again to thirst for blood

for the glory or the thrill.

 

Lay we down our instruments

our rifles and our bombs.

We will find no joy in body counts

and the filling of the tombs.

 

Our clothing we'll take off

and roll them all in blood

we've gushed from gory wounds

that poured forth as crimson flood.

 

These boots we cast in fiery mounds

and burn to cinder all.

No longer will we march in force

to cause other men to fall.

 

Times of shock and awe will cease

no more the marshal song of war.

Death will finally die, that day

and we will glory in blood no more.

2 Old Pals & A Cup Of Joe

 It's just a cup of coffee

in the cafe, down the street.

But it comes with a trusted friend

a place two pals can meet.

 

He usually has a piece of toast

but I'm an omelette kinda guy.

Sadly, the one that eats the most

is the one that has to buy.

 

No matter that, we talk and laugh

and drink a whole pot of Joe.

For a couple of retired guys

we drink, and then gotta go!

 

We figure the bucks we spend

is the price we pay for rent.

We pay for more than food 'n Joe

we pay for the time we've spent.

 

It's just a lot of coffee

but really it's for the joy

of two old guys that for 20 years

on Fridays turn back into boys!

Prison of the Present

 the prison of the present

prevents the dreamer from
reaching beyond their keyhole
into a world of
marvel!

just beyond the key plate
is all manner of delight!

marvels that tantalize the mind
exhaust the body
stimulate sexual passion
offer success and acclaim
tease the future
all shimmer just beyond
the keyhole.

ah, but the prisoner laments
the verdict
sentenced to a life of......

What Might Have Been
What Never Will Be

all because
the prisoner of the present
never held
the key to tomorrow.

The Inhalation of Skies

 i am Wind!

i am the inhalation of skies
lungs of terrible draft
and willful fury.

i am Tornado!
i spin with hell's
centrifugal anger
and i will sweep far
your most worthy foundation.
i will lift high and dash your infants
with more ferocity
than Herod
stripping away every
cherished
prize.

i am Hurricane!
i will level your cities
break your levees
and forbid your populace
to return
rebuild
re-begin.

i am Wind.
i am deaf to
cantons of mercy.

when you believe you are safe
build monuments to the slain.

        But
I WILL RETURN!

I am Destroyer Wind.

Your True Friend

 LISTEN TO ME! Evil awaits. You, Rabbit, of all creatures

must know this. How many bled out
trusting in the confidence and
tender sensibilities of known enemies?

Little Red Riding Hood believed a wolf!
The Three Little Pigs thought themselves safe!
The Boy Who Cried "Wolf!" was so smart, was he not?

Where are they today, I ask?
They are Gone! No More! Disappeared!

You believe yourself immune to disaster.
No trouble will intrude upon your peace.
More highly evolved are you.
Your rational mind perseveres always.

When will you listen? I have your interests at heart.
I alone am your best...only...friend!
Trust me, Rabbit. I am nothing like my cousin, the Wolf.

I am your true friend.

I am just a Coyote.

The Harsh School Master

 War is a harsh School Master. You must trust me on this.

I learned that armor helps the warrior feel safe. But, it is heavy.
The trade off is, it slows you down. Leaves you vulnerable.
If your vehicle catches fire, there is no egress.

That big gun on the turret of tanks is impressive.
It, too, slows one down, and the supply of shells, if they catch fire
will cook-off, explode, kill the entire crew.

Perhaps you never witnessed a flame thrower
take a round, charring the wearer to ember?

What lessons, these?

Every fabrication of your true self is, at best, risky
and, at worse, tragic.

It will, eventually, slow your progress, or halt it altogether.
Sooner or later, that mask you insist is necessary, convenient
will completely diminish your true personality
and you will only fool yourself.

Your image is flammable. It can be reduced to ember if nothing
but a poor facade, incapable of rescue.

War teaches you must eventually walk in your own boots
know your capabilities and limitations
exercise your wisdom and forsake your foolishness.

Masks limit your vision, impair your progress, and limit
your potential.

Masks are impossible to maintain. The time will come
you will be discovered a fraud.

As hard as truth is, it is the only path to hope.

I speak this to your benefit.
Ignore me at your peril.

I am war.

the mercury rider

 well, if you really want to know

i'll try my best to explain.

you ARE the payload.
they place you, none too gently
into the space no bigger than
a phone booth.

you sit there
waiting for 'Go to Launch.'

if a flock of damn geese stir
from those marshlands
they stand down the count indefinitely.

you're laying flat on your back
looking through this tiny view port.
Couldn't call it a windscreen.

then, eventually it's a "Go.'

to me, it's not as dramatic as it must seem.
you see, you're busy working all kinds of data.
no time to think about it.

avionics, telemetry information
and communication to downrange operators
takes all your concentration.

then they light the candle!

it looks like a slow lift off on television
but inside that tiny capsule it's like
a mighty kick in the ass!

the entire craft vibrates like a horse with a wasp up it's rear!
it bucks and snorts
tosses one way
then another
and you are
pressed
flat
by
G's.

you weigh a zillion pounds
and all you can do is keep talking to Control
so they know your brain still works.

and up.....up......UP you go
until that triangle viewing port turns a strange blue/black
like you're in the bluest ocean, and you swim over an under-water shelf
and it's the blackest of black......

and suddenly all the G forces are cut off, like you didn't pay your bill
and you're free in your restraints! you could float if you un-belted...

....so you do.
you do.

oh, god
you do.

my old man

 He was my old man, but I never referred to him that way out loud.

All my years under his roof I never disrespected him.
He was, still is, my hero.

My old man wore old, broken-down boots, busting sod as the son of a share cropper in North East Arkansas. He was taken out of school in 6th grade, to follow a mule with a plow. But he was the wisest, most intelligent man I ever knew.

Six days a week, sunrise till long past sunset, my old man
pulled on his worn, brown leather boots, ice and snow or scorching sun
my old man hung on the sides of houses, fitting, jamming, installing.

Before i came along, my old man pulled on combat boots for the 2nd Armored Division, pounding from North Africa to Sicily, Normandy, France, Belgium and Germany. It was miraculous he survived, but my old man always did.

I have no idea how many pairs of boots he wore out, but the new ones
always looked exactly like the old ones.

I never thought my old man would die, but he did. His body simply gave out. I guess you are allotted a set number of boots, and time's up.

When he died we spoke to the mortician. "Don't put his shoes on him," we asked. "We believe he deserves to take them off awhile."

I think my old man would've liked that.

photo prompt #1---21 lines for a new poem for A Father's Shoes Contest, by James Woods6 (in tribute to (Cpl.) HL Woods, my dad, my old man.) © 13 hours ago      

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