There are periods of moments
strung together like seagulls
along the white wake of time
that seem to glow with more light,
more intense shadows sliding,
more music in their foam.
There have been days like this
leading to the now of writing
on this poignant day of remembrance:
I shivered, sweating and sleepless
through nights of fevered demons
the medicines invoked in the blood.
And at the same time needing
to solve incomprehensible clues
leading to solutions of puzzles
I didn’t ask for or want.
And always the rumors of war
we didn’t ask for or want.
There were the anniversary rituals too.
One year after the crowning of the mad king,
and the previous day, because he knew to leave
before the Ace of Spades became the trump,
Mister Cohen waved farewell.
I bled tears that day for a man I loved.
And today, the eleventh day of the eleventh month,
we enact our agreed rituals of mourning:
Silence, remembering, honouring the dead
of the wars that never end.
People, we can do better than this,
isn’t it time we gave all our children peace?
“From bitter searching of the heart,
we rise to play a greater part.”
Mixed media art, photo and poem by Clinock