Monsoon Season
I killed like a god once,
No remorse or anger, no pity or passion.
Like a Monsoon,
I wreaked destruction when set loose
and left my victims in scattered remains.
My hands had the power of the wind,
my soul had no hesitation,
and my heart was as hard as the mountain.
My Monsoon season has passed now,
and I find myself just a man.
The wind has gone from my hands,
and the storms have left their destruction in my soul.
My heart is no longer made of stone,
No, it's very much flesh and blood...
And as I walk through these scattered ruins,
how it bleeds and bleeds, and bleeds.
Waiting
Anticipation is an animal stalked by Fear-
fleeing across the smoky hanger,
jumping from eye to eye,
Anticipation seeks solace in uneasy laughter
yet still,
Fear follows.
Slow, sure and heavy-footed,
Fear follows Anticipation across the hundred cots,
to card games and loud conversations,
even to quiet ones-
like me,
alone with our caged thoughts.
Still unsatisfied ,
Fear drifts slowly to the back stairway
climbs carefully as a shadow
chasing the timid light of a single lamp
left swinging as Anticipation passed.
Fear follows the soldiers into the dim latrine
their feet restless and their eyes furtive
as they wait-
with Anticipation,
for Fear to arrive.
Desert Mind
Three months in the desert
and the sand is everywhere,
invading your food, your clothes, your body
even your mind.
The desert wind is making a wasteland of my mind
blowing into every crevice, every memory
drying out each tender lobe
wearing down all resistance
until it reaches the oasis that is you.
Then the spring of our love bursts forth,
and rushes over my dusty mind
like a flash flood of sweet wine over cracked lips.
My desert mind becomes an ocean
and memories swell like the tide
crashing to the beach where we ran barefoot in the sand
and first drank in our love.
Sunrise
The winter sunrise in the desert is a spectacular sight
first a dull red glow consumes the blackness
then an explosion of light rushes across the hard, flat sand,
piercing straight through you and beyond
with nothing larger than scruff bushes to slow it down
except for our small camp-
a few tents and the watchtower,
a lone sentry hunching over his machine-gun
surviving the sunrise with me.
The morning winds will freeze you to the core,
and the sentry keeps his hands off the frozen gun
as he gently rocks back and forth to keep warm.
I'm rocking too, but not from the cold.
For this morning I'm wrapped in my thoughts of you,
and I can't decide what's hotter...
The embrace of your dark August skin in the Carolina sun,
or the passion in your eyes, hands, lips and tongue.
No... winter winds can't touch me this morning
as I play with you and our newborn child
in the warmth of our home.
I'll be home soon my love.
Maestro
I watched them come in-
a squad of seven,
the heavy sand of the deep desert
fresh on their clothes and boots.
Their restless eyes took in
all the limited civilization
this temporary chow hall had to offer.
As they took their place
in the long dusty line,
we all watched as one stepped away.
He made his way slowly and deliberately
across to the far back corner of the room
where the demands of war
had pushed aside a small piano.
He sat down slowly and...
Like returning to a lost lover,
he closed his eyes, held his breath,
and began his light caress.
The music began gently
softly and slowly drawing away from this war,
then growing strong and powerful
swelling with joy, crashing in anger,
throbbing in pain , falling in sorrow
rising in hope.
The songs filled the room,
enveloped our souls,
and flowed without restraint.
Nobody left,
nobody moved
I don’t even remember breathing.
Then one of his squad rose,
left an empty plate
and laid his hand on the Maestro’s shoulder.
‘We have to go.’
He let the music fade and die
took one long deep breath
drawing in the last of the song
then opened his eyes... stood,
and without eating, walked out.
Conversation got lost that night
wandering amidst the dunes and stars,
never finding its way
back to that crowded, silent room.
A Taste of War
You might think it’s her hands
that are dangerous.
Quick to use a blade or gun,
Nervous to find some purpose, some action.
They lay in wait
For the unsuspecting.
You might think it’s her mind
That’s full of traps.
Seething in betrayal and anger,
Churning with schemes of revenge
Always three steps into the unknown.
You’d be wrong,
It’s her eyes that will kill you.
Burning homes light the path to the hell in her eyes.
A path lined with screaming children, wailing mothers,
Whole families destroyed by sprayed death.
Tortured children that reaching out for your soul,
Clawing at your innocence, tearing out your love, your beauty,
Your very life.
Throwing back a withered corpse
to wander silent
Through this mad, mad world.
Judgement
“Why your eyes so sad Daddy?”
My daughter questions me in my sleep.
I smile, “Ask me when your older my love.”
But her eyes hold me trapped,
demanding reply, and my smile fades.
“I’ve seen terrible things, my love,
I’ve seen the death that sleeps in weapons, hearts,
and even hands...
I’ve watched my friends, my enemies, myself,
awaken that death and set it loose on each other.
Sometimes in madness, sometimes in anger,
sometimes just quietly, coldly.
And though my mind tries to forget,
my heart tries to forget, my hands try to forget,
my eyes remember.
They can’t forget what my hands have done,
that’s why they’re sad,
that’s why they cry, my love”
As I awaken to the feel of tears coursing my cheeks,
her image stays with me...
And I can’t tell whether her eyes judge me
-yet.
Our Daughters
We were taught how to protect ourselves,
how to protect others.
We were taught how to close off
fear, sympathy, love…
to push away any softness or tenderness
and show only strength, anger, and control.
As a soldier, our fierceness was our weapon,
our defense, and our way of life.
But what they couldn’t teach us … was how to love our daughters.
My friend,
It’s in your memory of one of our best,
that I see the anger, the frustration,
the pain and confusion of a little girls eyes,
trapped in a woman who’ll never know why.
Why her daddy was so hard, why he didn’t hold her,
Why he had to pass on before she could ask.
I wish I could quiet those memories.
So I reach to my daughter,
stroke her hair, brush her cheeks,
whisper her name and pull her close to me,
to show her,
for you and he,
that a soldier can still be tender.
Kipling's Lie
(White mans burden)
Take up the white man’s burden
send forth the best ye breed
go bind the world in poverty
to serve your pocket’s needs
To place with heavy burden
on dark-skinned far and wide
the yoke of manifest destiny
and the crime of manifest pride.
Take up the white man’s burden
in patience to abide
to veil the truth of history
and erase their sense of pride
By twisted speech and actions
a hundred times concealed
seek the white man’s profit
take all the land can yield.
Take up the white man’s burden
and reap his old reward
the land of those ye conquered
the fear of those ye guard
Take all that makes them different
their gods, language, and past
then steal it from their children
replaced by laws of cash.
Yes, take up the white man’s burden
ye dare not stoop to less
than rape pillage and plunder
with reckless thoughtlessness
Yes, carry on the tradition
and doubt not once the creed
Dark men are naught but animals
bred to serve your greed.
Reincarnate
You’re a wise man, Father.
You have an open mind and a gentle nature.
I’ve enjoyed our conversations
and I respect your counsel, but...
When you say there is no reincarnation
my hands say you lie.
I’ve spilled blood with these hands, Father,
and the skin washes clean
but the bones beneath
were already stained with old blood.
These hands remember old battles,
old weapons, and old anger.
My hands say you lie, Father.
You say there is no reincarnation
but my heart says you lie.
It’s too young to be this scarred
It burns with passion, swells with sorrow,
and tears in anguish beyond its few years.
My heart says you lie Father.
You say there is no reincarnation,
but my soul says you lie.
It’s wrought with yearning and loneliness,
haunted by too many ghosts
and ravaged by far too much guilt for this lifetime.
My heart says you lie, Father.
You say there is no reincarnation,
and I pray you are right.
For happiness has been a mirage,
peace has been a phantom,
and this raging void of despair
has brought pain to all those
I’ve tried to love in this life.
Please Father,
I beg you...
Tell me there is no reincarnation.
I can’t go through this kind of life... Again
Written by
Michael Cox
