Was that really me,
signed his life away
fresh-faced, innocent
marched North
then sailed East
to unknown seas?
Fuelled by anticipation,
anchored by camaraderie,
that boy who crawled
through jungle deep
weathered Burma heat
and nightmarish infestations,
adrenaline pumping
infiltrated enemy lines
unarmed, feckless
nursed fears with booze
adopted false bravado.
Was that really me,
that man who emerged
hard-edged, battle-weary,
whose medals of bravery,
buried now, speak more
of loss, and horror
than triumph –
And who is this,
whose rage intimidates
with trigger-sharp precision,
who ravages all that is dear
ideals slaughtered,
hopes destroyed,
whose enemy
now dwells within?
(Today is Remembrance Day. Spurred by the prompts of Reena’s Exploration Challenge – “Was that really me?” and Ragtag Community’s “bravery“, I have tried to put myself in my father’s shoes. He fought for the British Commandos during WWII, and in hindsight, suffered PTSD.)
Oh, this symphony,
this magnetic resonance –
my brain is on fire,
a duende spiralling
mystical discovery.
(Ragtag Community’s daily prompt is duende. I am also linking up to Reena’s Exploration challenge #111, in which the linked video is the prompt. Credit to Aeon.com. Photo from personal collection.)
Source: “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot
I line my spoons on the counter –
measures of the day’s reserves
one spoon for morning tea
with a side of emails read
a shower requires two or three
with a guarantee of needed rest
I’ll linger horizontal – added care
when an outing is in the plans
the thrill of venturing, and delight
of conversation shared wipes
the counter clean – I’ll crash
and crave for one spoon more
enough to get me into bed
pray tomorrow’s count the same.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge, in which she challenges us to use one of the given lines of poetry. Spooning is the term used for those of us with chronic illness who have limited energy. Myalgic Encephalomyelitis is characterized by exhaustion after exertions. My day starts with depleted energy, and I work from there.)
Public displays seldom tell-all, Vanity figures performance called for – a ruse to make the hordes pander. Clearly fault lies with us, audience fuelling rhetoric, lapping up the hate. Give politicians their due, they deliver souped-up enemies to satisfy our tastes.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge, where the prompt is the line: Public figures make us hate their enemies.)
I know what infinity means:
it’s one hundred plus one.
Voice of innocence
serene her sense of self
of life’s complexities.
Should borrow from her,
embrace that confidence,
but worry intervenes.
How do we preserve
the wonder of youth,
save her from cynicism?
That it is! I reply,
my smile a warm hug –
vow to be forever advocate.
(I submit this poem, inspired by my six-year-old granddaughter, to three challenges:
Ragtag Community’s, serene; Fandango’s advocate; and Reena’s Exploration challenge. Image from personal collection.)