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Final Hug                                                                   Ronald Kilgore    

A History Of Protest In My Life

at 1 and 60                                                                 David Sparenberg                                              

Haibun                                                                       Mamta

River of Release                                     Danny McMahan

Sweet Fool                                                      Melinda Kahler

The Invitation                                        David Sparenberg

Final Hug             - By Ronald Kilgore

Eons stretching beyond belief
Now mean nothing but what we see,
With none more precious than this day
To him, knowing so few remained,
Poised at the edge of what’s to be.

A light-hearted spirit true to his nature,
Unaffected as one might assume
In his grievous condition, relieved
Me the task of feigned good cheer,
His buoyancy dispelling my dreaded gloom.

Instead we talked as a normal day
Of sports, of kids and elections, wise
In combination over one hundred years,
With catchall solutions uncontested
By those not there to see our eyes.

But far, far from a normal day
We knew tacitly – small jokes brought
Smiles but no belly laugh,
Mirth without twinkle and we paused,
Looking away, each to his thought.

Ensnared in a web of no one’s making,
Spun by blood cells out of control,
He bravely proclaimed his satisfaction
And readiness, but I thought better –
Valiant warrior, gentle soul.

I said I would see him in the Spring,
He hugged me with no uttered reply.
We knew only I would see the Spring
So I turned to go to my car,
Turned to hide my moistened eye.

                                rlkilgore

A History Of Protest In My Life at 1 and 60                                              

by David Sparenberg        

I did not do enough,

although it was in my heart.

I wanted to enjoy

the warmth of life

more than to put out

the fires  of war.

I protested

but I did not sacrifice.

I marched

while the innocent and guilty alike

were burned by death from the sky.

Maybe if that child in

Vietnam

had not died of napalm,

the children of Iraq would

not now be

dying in my name?

Being an American,

I chose the ease of

what we call freedom.

I said, "No,"

but I did not make myself heard in

the power of compassionate

denouncement.  I said “Yes,”

but not always to otherness

and not with the strength and

reverence of beatitude.

When I die

war will not have

left the lovely Earth and

should I come back in

the perfume of a flower, likely

 the petals will be

stained with freshly fallen blood.

What child’s cheek

may yet come to paint with

pain the soft white of the lily?  What

lust may yet harvest

the agony of thorns,

while crushing the ecstasy of roses?

I did not do enough,

although I had set out

to make a monument of

War No More. 

There is my failure.

The teeming world of

tears that so easily tips

into fear and madness

does not need

these words alone. Rather,

a communion

where none are absent.  Where

there can be anger as

an emotional bubble but

not enemies and

not crimes of hate.

It is said that

freedom is not free;

but it is

death that is made wholesale. 

The axiom is propaganda.  Peace

requires the greater vulnerability.

I have done some:

having spoken

when others remained silent; having

stepped up on occasion,

while others withdrew.  But I have

not done enough.  I know this,

so do you. 

That yet another generation must

plant the seeds of healing I

have dreamed of and they,

labor for the season

 I have not known.

Yet have I read, in

visions of prophecy,

that a tree will in twilight later grow

at the center of the circle of life; the

weapons of fratricide be

beaten down, the vineyards filled

with the royalty of angels.  Robins

singing and butterflies,

not boy-men crying

for their mothers’ mercy.

Rather,

to dance in that round in

footprints of a loving God!  To stand in prayer

blessed beneath that

earthly bough.

 When?

David Sparenberg

3 Feb. 2009

Haibun                - by Mamta

We held hands. Lazy footsteps swallowed the cobbled pathway on our morning walk. Eyes lingered on polka dot designs left on lavender dawn by twirling golden leaves. As they flirted with the beams, warm ocean breezes flowed over us. Quiet tunes of the breeze entwined with chords from emerald waters. Like an orchestra it played a background melody accompanying us on our morning jaunt. We wanted to sit and talk again.

wooden benches
savor first flush of dawn
sips of coffee
 

      River of Release             by Danny McMahan

 Talking to myself again, choked by arms of ice, 
 memories of how it used to be blurr before me. 
 I wait on her to achieve a pinnacle of love 
 I can not reach on my own. I swim in her aura, 
 essence and beauty...my life is not enriched. 
 
 Visions open wounds; I tremble, the mirror 
 cries how small, ugly and diminished.
 I grow to hate her as emotions sour 
 knowing her heart has no kindness. 
 She lacks consciousness that I exist, a world
 blinded by fantasy, her true nature flows, 
 through an underground channel where I 
 breath to survive. Sadness...tears from
 a child's lips, love never was assured 
 in her drunken rages.
 
The river's gradual flow becomes white water
 rushing over boulders. The sun's gentle warmth
 is absorbed in trees that line the shore,
 leaves parade autumn tints. Ducks take flight 
 silence is broken by wings beating air. The mallard
 and mate follow in nature's order as their squawks
 echo over black water that reflects amber shapes.
 Rising sun of copper above sparse gray cloud.
 I wade knee deep water to release a blood soaked 
 burlap bag, stuffed full it tumbles down choppy river:
 I scream out...Good-bye Mother.

Sweet Fool                           -by Melinda Kahler

I knew you once in aeons past

when I cupped your soul-face in my ethereal hand

and promised – Sweet Fool,

to love you for all time.

Incarnate we became then,

sucked into the mortal vortex – torn asunder –

Yet through this earthly cadence

where discord hums a patchy tune across my bow,

I searched in fiery torment.

We stood amidst the jigsaw then,

scattered fragments, shattered dreams –

the splinters of life too deep to see through.

You...trapped by walls of history;

Me...floating still, not anchored where I ought.

And I have danced a dance with Death –

not happy with a twirl He asked me twice,

his hot breath closing in upon my ragged breast.

Yet He, exhausted, bowed out first,

knowing I had not finished yet…

Not yet. I had not found you.

And as I gazed across the moors of time one unspecial day,

through these immutable mists I saw you rising

In the mirror of my mind your spirit formed

I knew you then.

Ah, yes. I knew you.

Yet though we danced a timeless dance –

you had lost your soul to this world

Not forever; perhaps not for long

But Time, you said, we answer to

Time, Sweet Fool, I said, is Lucifer's jester.

But passingly I held you

and no garment such as this had clothed me in its care

No Solomon's song drew near to these abandoned depths

For once, lost in your passion, you found me

and as your spirit grazed mine, I knew this would be all

It is enough.

I cupped your face in my shaking hands

and promised in my heart, Sweet Fool –

for you would not hear me –

that I would love you for all time.

You said goodbye then –

knowing not what you severed

Still, wrapped around your soul

there clung a tiny child – and I understood...

He wielded the sword.

Now in the darkest hour of night –

the witching hour of grim delight –

amid your dreams I hover close above your creaking bed,

to watch your body shiver

with some ancient remembrance of a soul embraced.

The Invitation             - by David Sparenberg

There is nothing you can bring

to the banquet tonight

the candlelight is exquisite

the bread and wine

utterly fine

the garden perfume

could not be matched in a thousand years

the air is still

the moonlight soft

and bright

there is nothing you can bring

to the banquet tonight,

there is only you.

David Sparenberg

21 Feb. 2009