Piling on Stones

On a bright September morning,
my laughter turned to ashes and my dancing turned to flames.
I dug a grave seven stories deep, and I filled it
with blood and bones and memories.

And now I'm piling stones,
from an Afghan Winter and a Baghdad Spring.
I'm piling on stones
with every butcher's now-stilled heart,
every bastard's dying gasp,
every twisted sermon from the now-silent lips of the damned.

I'm piling on stones,
with every tyrant thrown down,
every enemy overcome,
until it stretches a thousand feet
into the sky.

I'm piling on stones for every dream,
and every memory
and every moment of childhood and innocence lost,
for every mother and father never coming home,
for every daughter and son never calling.

I'm piling on stones,
a thousand feet into the sky,
until I can sleep again
in silence.

One Perfect Moment

In the Summer of my sadness
In the Spring of your embrace
In the moment of my madness
There's a state of perfect grace

In the lifetime of our loving
In the blinking of your eyes
In the Autumn of our years
There will be magic and surprise

In the instant of reaction
In the Winter of my soul
There's a deeper satisfaction
When two parts become one whole

In perfect thought and action
Synchronicity released
In the torrent of four boys
There is a perfect point of peace

And if I never said I love you
Quite as often as I might
Then let me tell you now
You are one perfect glimpse of Light

On the Eve of War

There was a post at Scrappleface which was not a humorous take on current events, but a place for people to post messages in support of our troops. I wrote a poem rather spontaneously in the comments:

On the Eve of War

Then sleep tonight, my precious sons,
for hard men stand upon the wall
and watch while you lay sleeping.

Dream your dreams of simple things -
of games and balls and riding on shoulders,
of Mother's lap and Father's homecoming -
for far away our Nation's best,
our sons and our daughters,
husbands and fathers,
wives and mothers,
all watch over.

Wake to the dawn,
your PJs on,
and come happy to your breakfast.
Somewhere in the cold desert,
those who would die for you
are waiting.

Live, my sons,
not knowing
what your few years cannot yet tell you:
that somewhere in the darkness
stand those who keep you
free.