. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Twelve Soldiers

A poem pulled from the far years past inspired by a trip to the wild desert where everything is both gorgeous and tragic at the same time...

Twelve soldiers disappear into the deep desert on a lonely night
when the wind kept the sand comfortably cooled after a day-long fiesta of heat,
a day that missed the stars but made the wait worth it,
a night so cold that it fooled you into thinking there wasn't sand beneath your feet,
twelve soldiers walked out into that,
beyond the fence line where the laughter in the lit tents ceased to be jolly,
where men feared not the death of endless walking,
endless days in a tomb without walls
that without a heavy lid a soul could wander carefree to heaven,
the path to its gates marked by the crescent moon
and protected by the sun himself,
twelve soldiers feared nothing as their sandals whispered hushed words
and left a meal of footprints for the hungry Eastern Wind,
innocent eyes watched near camp fires as fathers melted into shadows,
the shadows soon into nothing,
the camp fires burned ever onward,
the night rolled and dipped on the back of a lazy camel fast asleep on his feet,
for a short while the dust twirls in his shaggy hair beneath the ropes and carpets,
and he knows peace,
when the morning again arrives the sun replaces camp fires so vigilant in the night,
but the twelve soldiers are a thousand miles away.


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