Forget Me

Memory has a way of hanging in the air
It leaves little trails of scent wafting
spiraling toward you
Wrapping you up, like an indian samosa,
in trails of yellow spice.

It dances on your tongue,
Sweet and bitter and blue
like a melody of taste, each note made of hard candy
and each measure draped with smoke.

It brushes against you,
rough and damp and cool against your skin
then retreats to its corner.
Where it is forgotten.

War Poems

Here’s a poem by Siegfried Sassoon, 1918.

DOES it matter?—losing your legs?…
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.	5
Does it matter?—losing your sight?…
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.	10
Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?…
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won’t say that you’re mad;
For they’ll know you’ve fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.	15

Boy + Girl

Spinning.
Hold my hands and swing me around.
Everything blurred
but you. Your
Smile
Sparkles in the sun. Your familiar laugh
echoes through my skull. Don’t let go
or I’ll fall.

Take a picture.
A perfect summer day to last forever
with me in your arms.

Small Beauties

Small Beauties                           

I dream of a day when time will slow for me,
that I may stop to notice a flower in the grass.

Leaves of vibrant green,
a green so fresh and saturated
that it radiates pure energy.

Petals of deep yellow,
the sun, a sinking orb of light
as day wears on.  

Nestled so among the tall blades,
ever tossed by those rustling giants,
that one may easily pass it by.

Yet if time could pause
its rushing agenda,

That flower in the grass,
small in size but great in beauty,
could bring such joy.

Charge of the Light Brigade

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
“Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Someone had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.