The Soldier
A soldier walks among them,
he has progress that they
never planned to mend,yet
he has capabilities when all
they want is living, into the bare
reward, a punitory end, opening
to disgorge the dilemma of the living.
He wants suffrage for green
military forces left suffering
the end. He knows black forces
will strike, bringing dewlaps soft
swinging, breath to speak against
the lot. Carry imagination to limiting,
to the end. He settles, flat, uncontented.
Down he strikes the enemy, it
matters not, who it may be,
the sword finds ethereal point
drives deep the moral standard,
he will follow determined to found
a resolution crafted by the sad few
people in hiding, the camouflage so tented.
He asks not, but is given ranking
high. They listen to his words and learn
a calm within hate to smite adversaries hard,
use weapons long outdated, but sure in their
lethal power. He speaks of freedom and rights
of the living, community, society, of cities building
commerce, centers of the arts, keepers of knowledge.
They rally to him, promise a brave
new platform to leap from to the fray,
unbewildered and stolid in offense. They
tongue praises to the Lord. Vote him as a
savior, an honest man with purple heart to prove
sincerity. They voice enthusiastic slogans, words
to push them past the brink, to fight a battle victory.
The soldier nods his head, resigns
himself to small comfort that they will
try a first step, maybe all that's needed or
wanted by opposing force. Time could have
crusted old wounds, stopped blood's poisoning.
Habit might tread the deep footsteps of warring, a
pernicious philosophy born in a clan mindedness.
He trains them to stab and cleave,
to fighting close and, striking dear, to
wound, to bring down the opponent for
a death blow. He finds a small hope in their
avidness, their willingness to practice lessons
learned. He makes love to a daughter, breeding
instinctive for a future thick with inconsistentcies.
The day arrives. He dons his armor,
gains his sword and leads them to the
killing meadow. He exhorts them, cajoles
them. They move in to huddle, then spread out
as a line to his screaming. The charge explodes
desperate confusion, blades leaping, blood flies. The
soldier turns to a pleading cry and dies profligacy's stop.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 3/12/00
The Spell
I went to the old lady,
of the forest deep,
and gave her all my tokens,
precious gold to keep.
I asked her but one question,
at the surface of my soul.
I asked her the spell upon me,
the answer I must know.
"Old lady of the forest,
please tell me, Lord above,
what cast this magic in me,
what causes me to love
the attentions of a lady,
of whom I've never seen,
but of her words I notion
her splendor and her dream."
"Mark well,� said the old lady
�of what I say to you.
Tis a spell of wondrous making
of all that's good and true.
One day you'll understand it,
but till that day arrives,
embrace it with all your heart,
it's the joining of two lives."
I left, then, the old lady,
of the forest deep,
and crept the tortured pathways
to my homebound keep.
I know now what I long for.
I will no longer hide.
My heart will tell me truly.
I'll let it be my guide.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 3/12/00
The Road
A pass on down the road, is long.
I imagine the end to which I belong.
The way is twisting and curving at me.
It follows a puzzle, a sly mystery.
My shoes crack gently, as a crow
Caws at me in derision�s tow.
I follow no man, stay my own.
I make my way, your light is shone.
You are the strand that I hold fast,
And wrap my hand tight to last.
I will not lose you, now I found
myself out of darkness, I was bound.
I stumble as I walk the road,
In clumsy steps, emotions goad.
My heart lies open in my trust.
My body speaks to helpless lust.
I pick the flowers as must I go,
And florid others you do sow.
A brightness gathers over me,
Through dark clouds split in rhapsody.
I gather to me dreams of fair
And loving contentment. No despair.
The path I take brings me to your
caring, deep and gentle shore.
I travel with a light, sure gait,
Long walk ahead, a year�s long wait.
A year to grow to hold you dear.
The joy it brings may shed a tear.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 3/12/00
The Warlock
There was a wicked warlock,
who lived in a thundercloud,
his wife was a maiden fair,
imprisoned in a darkened shroud.
She'd tried many times to free herself,
and her two children small,
His magic was all powerful,
into his webs she'd fall.
But one day she sensed a change,
a long calling from the forest below,
a man it was, who wanted her,
and her children, with love to bestow.
Her hate fell away, and the shroud disappeared,
The prison crumbled with love,
And all the warlock's magic could conjur,
Was the call of a fleeing dove.
He sits now in his thundercloud
it's dark belly roiling in pain,
For now he knew what he had lost,
All he could do was rain.
The lady sits now at a warm hearth,
her children play at her feet,
Her happiness she has claimed,
her lover soon to meet.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 3/12/00
Teardrop
Hark, there falls a teardrop,
warm bit of glistening dew.
The sun has clouded over.
I go long missing you.
The dove sings solitary,
my heart is open nigh.
There pours from it the power
to heal your bated sigh.
Hark, there falls a teardop,
I feel my pain inside.
Your absence is a dark void.
Dismay I can not hide.
And when you can be with me,
I yearn to cross the range,
and hold you to me closely,
hold tight against all change.
Hark, there falls a teardrop,
as winter closes in.
It freezes to a snowflake,
my feelings caught within.
Once upon this good old earth,
I hope with all my might,
someday to hold you in my arms,
to know that all is right.
Hark there falls a teardrop,
Its purity runs blue,
the hopes and fears of mortal man,
and all of love that's true.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 3/12/00
Feelings
See oh see,
what you've done to me,
my pen strikes a poem again
Please oh please,
leave me at my ease,
but my thoughts turn to you, and then
I find you complete me,
you build me uniquely,
with feelings long buried
in strife
And if I can't have you,
as your friend I will stay true,
gather moments to cherish
for life
Copyright1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 3/12/99
Lost Dereliction
The street was hot on his feet.
He stops and checks the duct tape stuck
gummy and blackened, edges curled.
It would have to do for now, "Pal,
just don't scuff." He turned sharply
into the alley, full of likely looking
containers with lids, mostly. Hey, wow.
"Oh, monsieur would you care for
an ap�ritif before dining?"
He fumbled at the pocket,
wrenched at his patched green
army jacket, and twisted out
the bottle, lead, of red wine.
Gurgles with a swallow mellow,
"Grape of the gods," he'd read that someplace.
Sometimes he couldn't think of
things, they dusted off to wherever
they go. The Thunderbird was empty
now, taken wing, the bottle smashes
at the neck against a greasy mottled
wall, shards spread out like a hand.
"There you go bitch, like that?"
He plods slowly to the blue dumpster,
suddenly sweeps away the hinged cover,
peers cirscumpect, the lettuce wilted
cast aside, the meat patty is the prize.
Not too greasy, wipe the fat away, not
to slime the fingers, now, the
reward lies in the taste, smoky,
ignore the oldness, bring the beefiness,
to front, mayonnaise, not curdled yet,
bread sweet with age, not crusty,
good Macdonald's on the alley front,
regular gold mine, if one digs right,
paper sticks to reaching arm, ridiculous.
He freezes, seeing Mother shake her
head and tut-tut with pursed lips pressing
disgust, of course, always, never say
a good thing was alright, was O.K., dear.
He pushes out to the street, parking at
a corner light, the walkway chock full of
daytime businessmen and women who
show promise in their purses. He reaches
out and pronounces war heroe litany that
pauses them to answer, and once stopped,
they give coins to soothe a guilt made up
in their heads, but real enough to pay him
for the drink they know will play the day ahead.
He enters the liquor store, and makes
his choice, the special. The clerk shakes
her head, but sells the wine jug to him.
He grasps the half-gallon with trembling hand.
A march down Front Boulevard, paper
crinkling, tearing at the handle of sweet
nectar. He thinks the drunken fool will
yet leave, be replaced, substitution must
relieve the remorse, doubting fool who has seen
better days, of family and friends who care.
Idiots, and morons who cannot understand
the first thing about his need for solace in
tinted glass with caps or cork stoppers.
He dips his head for the proud policeman,
who is walking by and grazing him with a
look that speaks resentment and jail if he
waddles too extreme. He straightens.
Under the bridge, he slaps himself hard,
repeatedly, payment of the day, for he has led
wrongful actions, but he will overcome.
And soon the jug-full empties to haze and
glorify the simple things of life, the roof
of cardboard making safe, a peaceful
haven from the storms of memories best
laid in their graves. He shakes his head
tough, lays it down to not ever dream.
He becomes one with the transparencies
that surround him, the shapes that live
with him on sunken levels. Fantasies
awake him from their golden pushing.
He faces another day, another somnolent
beginning. Hunger is a partner best left to
its own devices. To pay attention carries too
much painful price. He combs fingers through
his hair roughly pulling strands, "Dickhead, it's
time to grovel," he spits congestion and
gathers his guts in a basket, to garland with
roses, and so stand his smell. Today would be
the day he straightened from this hideousness.
He staggered on the pavement, buildings
shadowed him, and pushed his spread fingers
out to rasp a siren call. "Mister can you
spare a dime for a wounded war veteran?"
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 4/21/00
The Knowing of You
I am lost in these new feelings.
I have no regret.
But I have fear.
I am not as bold as I thought.
And I am not the same.
I am new with the meeting of you.
I am most foreign to myself.
The days are empty, but those nights
with you
are most amazing to me.
I wish I could keep every moment
in glass.
I am growing
with the knowing of you.
I am pleased with my response.
That I would care so much
within me.
My heart possesses me.
I am beyond the horizon
of my dreams, my dreams.
I want to follow passion in wing.
I find I am strong, now,
with my single desire.
There is a place for me
in love's design.
I am open, revealed.
My need is naked.
I stand at a cliff
and let the wind
blow in my face.
This is my Spring, a newborn time.
There is no winter here.
My thoughts have joined
with my emotions.
I lay down my head
but can not sleep.
Excitement feeds me.
I have found someone
in the vast sea of people.
It is You.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 4/21/00
The Kiss
I will not open my eyes to it,
it is too sweet.
It starts fragile like the butterfly, whose colors
wipe off with the merest touch. A sugar
pinnacle to rest on a glassine base,
crumbling. Warm dancers throw a hot pirouette,
spinning faster than the mind's eye they circle
to the center, laughing. A deep ocean comes
to settle overhead, drowning away
thought. Questions slowly fold their tents
with secrets.
I will not breathe and let escape
the moment. Emotions set in crystal
facets lose their point. The worries of a
shattered world are their own. Here is peace,
a litany of peace.
Drama falls lightly, not wetting but,
shaping the next moment. Over again peals
the bell of shining fortune. Memory has
no place to call its own. Dreams and desires flow
as stories not yet told,
quiet imagining.
From one to one there is no
deceit. Wants of a lifetime
spread out to pleasure the other. Hope is new
and scintillating, beyond the fears of
misinterpretation. Two may not grow into one,
but it is close. All good teachers speak of love
in parables, as it's nature is mysterious.
Beyond the daydream or night. What must
be the answer? It is but the
the wind to pass,
a touching of the lips.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 4/21/00
Siren Call
He captures the fly inside his hands cupped together too tight,
"Hey, Mr. Fly, your world is closed and dark like mine. No sight,
muffled sound and smells too close and stuffy." He looks down
at his feet pressing hard against grass, welcome struggle found.
The sky is gray and too close,
clouds oppressing a bitter dose,
the grass is dry and dead brown
like his expression, deserted town.
Anything to fight was better than the waiting, the long binding
torment filling his chest with aching desire, unwanted finding
of golden imaginings reflecting her photograph in dream motion,
fluid scenarios pass by in love or lust, a whitecapping ocean.
And then, there is she, a wanton,
No, again she as a smiling phantom,
she moves with living, breathing grace,
she bends to kiss, a fresh, salted taste.
His reverie would not sustain, he snorts, then squints eyes
against the sun. What hell was this he had created? Lies
he told himself; that he would change, to better himself for her.
when she told him she wanted him, like he was, should remember.
Her voice is like a red autumn wind,
the phone line fairly sings with it, pinned
his heart to his sleeve, for all to see,
he would tuck it in his coat privately.
He could just breathe her warm hair thick, where it hung curling
and playful in the hands, to slip between fingers glossily unfurling.
Her form is solid and yielding, curving gently under his touch,
shining bubble broke, he blinked, and yet another thing, too much.
His mind will not rest, reluctantly
let imagination play what might be.
"If sinners were angels," he thinks, "light
is night, she makes it so, her face bright."
Into the breach he rushes, head high and stern, to mount a rescue,
saving her from the villains, the evil vanquished, much to learn soon
of her way of treating issues, situations, morals, what of the poor?
But all could wait for that embrace, victory laurels, romance�s lures.
He ducks his head, a wry smile breaking
his lips, and with a shuddering, making
a bow of his lips to whistle a mourning song,
the sad notes lavishing his lonely wait long.
She lives, she moves inside him, scintillating picture
painted with tender strokes, framed with sweet allure.
He longs to be together, conquer distance and obligations,
to carry her to his arms and hold her, lost is his patience.
He wants her now, regardless of consequences,
he knew she would come, he pauses, and tenses.
No, he must settle down, hunker down and wait.
She must live her life, take her steps to fate.
He will take what he can get, talking to her over distance,
desperation siezes him roughly, and in perilous instance,
hunts him. He sprints swiftly to his avoidance wall, slips. "Will
she like me, the way I look?" He stops, he has had his measured fill.
The sun drops, nestling the horizon, soon
the stars will prick the blackness, the moon
for lovers, but he will have had enough today
with sleeping forgetfulness to mantle his fitful way.
One last taste, he thinks, a vision to have and secretly keep.
A look at her in a garden, her faint smile to push a leap
into a joyous oblivion. A nestling pleasuring elopes.
He captures it unbound to comfort him and his hopes.
� 1999 DPMcClellan
Arch 4/21/00