 |
|
| Crossings Poems from the Battlefield a work in progress Copyright 2005-2008, K. Mercurio Gotthardt Not for reproduction without express permission from the author. |
| pg.4 |
| For questions, comments, or usage requests. |
 |
 |
| Crossing the Line "Government cannot endure permanently half slave, half free...." --Abraham Lincoln Were it not for barbed wire and thicket and thorn and mud that stands it own ground, I might attempt or be tempted to cross to the field where trails are confounded by opposite minds and the weapons they wield: tracks of hoof-prints and rut-rifts and puddles and holes, the scent of battalions that swear they are free. Were it not for my General, my brothers, my neighbors, I might try to unite these fierce armies in me. |
|
| Assault Weapon You say, "There is always someone worse off," as if no one has right to pain. Why not just go and invite them back over to assault us again and again? |
| The Second Civil War for J. P. M. "We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies." --Abraham Lincoln While we failed to give it attention, we were captured by the tension insidiously stalking the unwary: the debates, the issues, the parry, the throttle of ignorant arrogance, the slow closing fist of intolerance, the bi-partisan struggle for dominance, and the murder of compassion and competence. |
 |
| The Red-Flagged House You say you are here to protect us, the man-less, the son-less, the tepid wives wafting through misused rooms of our home-turned-makeshift-hospital. But the divan is upholstered in wounded, dun rags stacked on our armoire, gauze, iodine, ammonia, spirits following the hems of our dresses. "We cannot fit one more!" we cry. But you are deaf with war. "We have nothing left to give you!" we wail, but the moans of our warriors bury us in bandages and heat rash and fungus. Our dresser lies on its back, an oaken cot for Confederates, our maple table forced to feed soldiers to surgeons, and everywhere, blood of our bold and our young re-paints our wood, our walls, our memories. We shuttle torn uniforms from what was home to hearth, stir some in our soup cauldrons, burn others to stay the fire, the fetid smoke of our torched ideals and stained coverlets greeting each new casualty. You say you are here to protect us, we your women who don't want war, we who try to heal hurts, scouring basins with our old lace, sucking up sweat with our linens, mending the last blankets we own, and asking, "Who will protect us from you?" |
 |
 |
| It Might Be a Mountain From where we stand, it might be a mountain of hay or of hell, this looming terrain. We limp in split boots, torn coats and commands like starved deer in their skins in winter, and we whisper through weeds, we cough through wet leaves piling like corpses beneath ancient trees. Trudging up hills and dredging our flasks, we want water and wishes again. And we muse on the honor of keeping the grey through hills of briars and summits of clay. We soldiers of glory, some, barely-grown, beg for our breath without really knowing which battles we fight, what forts we defend, what is an enemy, or who is a friend. |
 |
|
|
 |
 |
| Death of the Baby Rat The killer is a white sister or aunt or grandmother or mother, lines of lineage unclear except she is close enough to know which of the babies must go. Hairless infant, could be any man's pale thumb, really, trophic, arthritic, rigid as age, a pin's width of life drained from deformed tip to base: this is what death looks like. Any death for the frail. My uncle came home from the war, slept with a knife under his pillow, woke in early air and screamed, "They're here!" blade close to his wet chest's skin, a last hope's shield from things past and yet to come. What could have done this? My mother's kin turned his tendons taught, his hope to sin, the great white rat poised above him, baring forgivingless fangs. |
| Canteen I have followed you steady wherever you've led, stuck by your hip and your horse's flank, held my own for your thirsty need and given you what you've wanted. Most days I am barely cool and others, I am rank with your sweat, thin rim melted smooth by your sucking, my own skin already drunk dry. Some days I am empty and you damn me, others you soak me to the brim, pinning me under and making me drink, force me to hold more than I'm made for. Still, I want you to live from the liquid in me, the stuff that will keep you alive, but you fill me with water from the stream they have poisoned, and I want to scream, "Stop! If you put your lips to me, you will die!" How you survive is a mystery to me, but who am I to wonder? I know my own fate is tied up to yours, and you will lose use for me. You see, there are plenty of others like me, those who have served their men. You toss us in victory, drop us in fields, leave us to be trampled by horses, our last ounces of life weeping back into the earth while you dance your battalions back home. |
 |
| Seeking the White Deer I searched for you this morning, but all the gates were barred, time passing in its usual migration across acres of trackless snow. I searched for you this morning and it was not an easy search-- there were traps I had to sidestep before I could get myself there, to the place that come before the search, the mere making myself look for you. But I focused on the better thought of you and not on mines or memories. And still, the gates were barred. I searched for you this morning, hailing your face in my mind, remembering the last time I saw you, how hard I cried while you just stared, using that hold you have that says, "I know you know. And I know why it is you seek me. Because I am different, too." Your eyes are unforgettable. I would have gone to war for you, but I know that's not what you wanted-- you with your sleek, white forehead, thin limbs evolved through the colors of ages, living because there are still shielded lands under surveillant eyes of a herd that protects you. I hope I will be able to see you again. You have become something heavy for me, a pack I never can leave, one I wear with my human back, always prepared for those inevitable seconds in which I believe I will find you. I loathe that you are elusive. I hate that I need you this much. But I love what you've done to my spirit. And for this, I call you God. |
|
| Battlefield Haiku He says it's about pride, American Values. I see dead people. |