Jonathan Livingston Seagull

“They are saying in the Flock that if you are not the Son of the Great Gull Himself”, Fletcher told Jonathan one morning after Advanced Speed Practice, “then you are a thousand years ahead of your time.”
Jonathan sighed. The price of being misunderstood he thought. They call you devil or they call you god. “What do you think, Fletch? Are we ahead of our time?”
A long silence, “Well, this kind of flying has always been here to be learned by anyone who wanted to discover it; that’s got nothing to do with time. We’re ahead of the fashion, maybe. Ahead of the way that most gulls fly.”“That’s something,” Jonathan said, rolling to glide inverted for a while. “That’s not half as bad as being ahead of our time”.
Richard Bach
Jonathan Livingston Seagull

The Seagull Speaks Creative Commons Copyright


Creative Commons License
Original work on The Seagull Speaks by Michael A Wride is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Monday, February 1, 2010

War Memories I and II

Some dark stuff from a while ago...written sometime 1987-1990

I. DEAD COMRADES
        
Black bodies bubble,
Silently charred,
In death's dark doorways.
        
Drowning.

The bell tolls.
        
Obsoletion.
        
Spasms of facial contortion,
Through which they no longer smile.

Under fire,
Under siege.
        
Screams,
Shattered minds,
All manner of broken dreams.
        
Unspun,
In destiny's web.
        
Undone,
In time.
        
Made to die.
        
Congealed,
Without hope,
Unchanged by molding hands,
Unsurpassed in illness,
Undreamt.
        
Picture a thread through a needle,
The needle in your life,
Poking you,
Mocking your heart,
Killing you.
        
It sees beyond the facade,
Through which you try to smile.

       
II. POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER
        
The demons in the dream scream,
Flickering as flames in a grate,
Whirling flitting incandescence,
Rising upwards,
Born upwards,
In an orange tinted half light,
Floating upwards,
Born upwards,
Spiralling,
Spinning,
Taunting you they float,
Haunting,
Grinning.

A bed in the middle of a floor,
A room with no walls,
Windows with cracked pains,
Shattered shards cut you,
Pierce your soul,
Your spirit hidden from you,
You lie alone,
Your head in your hands,
Nail biting,
Perpetual grimness.

 And all there is,
A vision,
Through mists and rain,
Of words swirling,
Of poetry peeping through keyholes,
When you're sleeping,
Of delightful escapism and happy moments,
They taunt you,
And are gone,
Even before hands can grasp them.
        
Pin your thoughts to the ground,
Hang your head alone,
There's no speaking when you drown.


A dark poem about war and its consequences on the human spirit. It was written in early 1991 around the time of the Iraq War... I found the report of the bombing of the road to Bazra particularly harrowing.



 
                  

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