I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Sir Robert Borden, blustering tory! Teacher, lawyer, banker, legislator; One of many authors of our story You look like a gruff, disgruntled waiter!
By D. J. Reddallabout a year ago in Poets
It was not that long ago, gentle friends That callow innocents risked life and limb To prevent fascists from achieving ends
The grey gloom chuckles at our cunning plans I find the stick rather condescending; If each crucial station, some soldier mans
Hot air can allow One to soar to lofty heights It will cool quickly
It is easy to romanticize war From the comfort of a small, serene life; Bloody mayhem seems thrilling from afar Untouched by the loud storm and bitter strife
A bone to pick have I, a skeleton: Bones do not get the respect they deserve Could any of you survive without us? Do you yearn to be an amorphous lump?
Abandoned by God and The Devil, both Between is my scene; the earth, my dwelling Carrying coal in turnip or pumpkin Deranged grins are carved on my vessels bright
Five hundred published But the numbers mean nothing Without you, reader!
Blood contains echoes They make the loud map you know How do our lives sound?
Advancing through the dark, the Dullahan Brings with him an augury of grim death Cautious as we may be to avoid him Doomed is the one whose name this rider speaks
I understand your fear, but be at ease Enumerate the things you will let go: Death erases all bodily disease From bone and flesh comes a bright imago
Amazon jungles are lush and fragrant Black is the lagoon therein where I dwell Curious humans disrupted my life there Eager to trace ancient bones to their source
