Having Survived Myself I Lean Away

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Survival

Having Survived Myself I Lean Away 

You know that
but not
why

the mockingbird mocks,
or how one note

marries others,
forming blissful

chords. And the skies
flaring each night

betraying your willful
ignorance,

while you paint
the words for love

in seven languages
you can’t
speak.

Where are you now,

whose bodies
have you denied,

wrapped in linen,
bagged or boxed,
arriving unseen?

Sagging, I observe your
counted victories, the
smirk claiming

exceptionalism
and destiny or
nobility of purpose,

as even your own shadow
recoils.

cemetery

43 thoughts on “Having Survived Myself I Lean Away”

  14. I am sorry but I disagree.
    They are martayrs of your country. Wars may be futile in the political world.
    But on ground zero they have fought for their motherland. They died got what they believe in. I will without hesitation sacrifice my life for such a death.
    They are the sword that protects your country and slashes her enemies.
    Please give them due respect

    Liked by 1 person

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    • I believe we agree more than you think. Having been raised the son of a soldier, and having served in the military myself, I have great respect for those on the frontlines. They do what they must. But I have no respect for the politicians who sacrifice nothing but the lives of other people, and do so for power or monetary gain. I despise them.

      Liked by 2 people

      Reply ↓

    • As my mother and father both served in WWII, my father being awarded the Purple Heart, I asked them about and listened to what they saw, what they experienced, what they felt. I have nothing but respect, love and honor for them – as my parents and as two who served. I have both their flags – my father’s is in that triangle box, my mother’s waves from the porch of our home.

      I have a close friend, whom I met while he was in Walter Reed Hospital, in January, 1970. Drafted, he served in Vietnam. Not long after he was deployed, his unit was hit, buddies blown apart; and, the surgeons were waiting to see how much of his mid-section would heal before they operated. I’ve written a piece/poem as, sort of, an omniscient observer, based on his best descriptions, over time, of that place and that incident. This piece is, as yet, unpublished.

      I, too much prefer poetry.

      Liked by 2 people

      Reply ↓

      • Thank you for sharing such an meaningful story.
        I am sorry if I hurt your feelings in any way. It was never my attention .
        Deeply sorry for your friend. Sorry if I made you remember some hurtful memories. But these are also memories where you can be proud of your parents and friend.
        All d best for your life. Keep writing beautiful poems. I will be waiting to read them.
        Sorry, once again if I hurt you

        Liked by 1 person

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  16. piyush1751995 ~ Thank you. No apologies necessary. The memories that returned are sweet. The story behind how Alan and I met is something like a short, surreal film. Walter Reed Hospital, January, 1970. Walking through what felt like miles of connecting corridors to find his ward. Once there, (in the older part of this hospital), two long rows of beds, his the last on the right; and, he was asleep. I waited in the solarium adjacent to that ward, just around the corner from his bed. Another injured vet rolled his wheelchair ’round that corner. We talked, on and off, for almost an hour. He had no legs. Every once in awhile he’d wheel back, check and say, “No, he’s still sleeping.”

    I was visiting, unannounced and completely unknown to Alan, delivering several copies of an alumni magazine, in which was a beautifully written article about Alan and a fellow alum who had both served in Vietnam and wound up next to each other in that ward in Walter Reed and a book review copy written by a fellow alumn. At that time, I worked with that magazine; and, my former spouse (visual artist) was having a show in DC.

    Just the walk through the corridors was/is singularly memorable. Too many wounded. Not enough beds. Broken veterans, bandages, various body parts missing; and, me, a younger woman, making eye contact, saying “Thank you.” and asking for further directions to get to that ward.

    After he finally woke up, Alan and I talked for over three hours that day; and, have sustained our friendship since. Operations. Healing. Law school. First marriage. More unexpected injuries from a lawnmower and a flying rock. Children. Divorce. Second marriage. Children marrying. Grandchildren. He and I talked only several days ago. We recalled (again) the circumstances of our first meeting and all that’s happened to each of us since. I, even, mentioned that piece I told him I would write. I mentioned it was finally finished. He didn’t even ask to see it. He knows he will.

    So, you see, piyush1751995, there is no pain in these memories.

    And, then, of course, there’s the stories and memories of my mother and father.

    Nothing but Love.

    Liked by 1 person

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