Felt like sharing an old poem I submitted once to a Canadian website named Poets Against War. I am wary of poetry as I hold it in such high regard that I feel completely inadequate in my admittedly rare attempts at the form. There's a purity to it that is almost intimidating. Anyway, this one is decent, nothing more. But since I am committing more time to my blog (two or three faint and hesitant cries of "yay" drift from the peanut gallery), I need to come up with more content, so consider this an adequate placeholder, no more, no less.
It's in the rubble
dubious patterns
for those eyes becoming fluent in
the patois of woe.
It's in the drinking men
in dark bars
who never offer their backs
to the bright doors.
It's in the quick flinch
of children
the sudden narrowing stutter
at a backfiring car.
Emergence. Chaos into patterns.
Seismic events
at first merely shudder.
Recognition
begins with one blink
of a clear eye
soon to be jaundiced
as the queasy map of infection
around an untreatable wound.
It's in the blood and the bond
the heart the hearth
the fond slow burn of the kill
it's deep although
(listen, still)
we may yet have something new to learn.