Rest in War
I can’t sleep with those boots stomping upstairs
It’s that pounding soil I feel again
The swift singing of shedding skin
Muffled howls can’t flip my walls so small
And where was He in all of this?
Just listening like the rest of us.
By: Mark Anderson
When I listen to my pillow
I can hear my dreams calling
they plume out and pull me in
but I can't sleep, I lay through my dreams wide awake
the dreams I live through, am I dreaming now?
if I fall asleep will I be back in the real world?
foggy distorted life haunts us, pleases us, inspires us
who says the people in our dreams aren't real?
they touch us too, isolated we converse with them
the dream world says "Don't go to sleep"
the world we think is real says "Wake up"
while death says "Don't wake up"
when the time is right death speaks
murder is not death speaking but the world we think is real
contaminating the mind of the already sick and oblivious
while we dream, here in the world we think is real
with open arms hug the dream world, the Real world
the world that saves us when we are scared,
the world that steals us before we get to excited,
the world that protects us from being hurt emotionally,
while being battered and torn in the world we think is real
the Real world always waits for our return
all we have to do, is listen to our pillows
By: Mark D. Anderson
| Grandfather sat on park benches perched on his cane like a crow on the twisting branch of a willow. weathered skin sagged below his eyes revealing the red muscle that held so many years of sight into his head all those memories entombed through those wet lenses. liver spots, like coffee stains on a diner's smooth white tablecloth, sprouted out saplings among the rest of his tan leather hide. Hair like a gust of wind wound tightly back around his balding head the comb-marks like irrigation fields painted to match a depressed sky. Old funeral shoes lay flat, clapping the sidewalk softly to "My Girl." Beige pants like miniature tree trunks stretching to his tucked in shirt his belt mummified him, sealed with a buckle like a Pilgrims hat. An itch tickles his skin where he was injured in World War II and the darkened puncture wound seeps history through the scar. His mustache swept away his lips, as his brow blew folded skin upon his forehead as he gets excited, by simple things always. Swaying neck flaps expand and contract as he breathes. Muscles tighten as he staggers to his feet at his peak he looks to the clouds, oh how they have changed. As he holds himself up, hand infused with the mahogany cane, the seasons swirl about him and gather in his soul the closest source of history overflows through his veins like surges of hot water rush to the end of a water pipe. He inhales present and exhales the past. Grandfather gets all his information from a newspaper he is still amazed by electricity. I have never seen Grandfather frown, only smiles push up those wrinkled cheeks As the colors, smells, sights, sounds, textures, and breath of the ages radiate from Grandfather, and his glow projects the passing of time Grandfather is a treasure left unrecognized to modern times |
30 years I've stood and waited,
pondered and meditated,
of what essence was I created.
I've watched streams dry and flow,
A Stadium
before and after show,
like thirsty tear ducts of a defeated foe.
I've seen loyal brothers rise and fall,
though standing mighty conquered all,
Obedience reigns like Berlin's wall.
Rocks beg at my feet,
like dogs for useless scraps of meat.
For they I can only treat
my falling amber leaves,
that drop like dreams of redemption
By: Mark D. Anderson
upon the writhing breeze.
Multiple arms grasp the air,
puncturing useless ozone layers,
with jagged hopes of bliss.
3 decades alone
helped to see the light
not in God or divine insight,
but in myself I've put faith,
my mind alone writes my
Dogma.
