DANIEL MCFARLAND   Page 8

STILL

the world is quiet, still,
no murmur from anywhere.
clouds patrol the morning air
on a constant standby.
sweat on my brow
mixes with the dirt around,
as we search the rubble.

what became of our sanity?
we kept running and running;
we kenw we couldn't escape
but continued anyway.
we neede a refuge -
couldn't make senso of it anymore -
now look at me,
you're supposed to make sense of this?

 

TROOPS

what greater pride to be concerted in:
the vesicular ensemble of warring sides -
to birds in flight, their rampant glory
gloats until its beak flown by.

and with each slash of fleshy life
under the crack of an otherly muttering gun
is heart the voices in cascading tongues,
"The enemy, those enmities, have us wronged."

burlesque rumbles gorge through the gray,
vomiting unto the night raisn,
crowding out piecturesque scenes
to those nightmare eves.

caught molding, milling no more in privacy
than wrenching snap shots in black and white
that play - though they've prayed
to lock in their sanities and
forget the bloody deeds tonight.

driven in the powers of rapture,
forceful, quaking scenes of cracks in the dawn
mute its loud light that careens
and subside to the rectifying throng.

troubadours, risen to occasion
the stale promenade of odors and decay,
welcome the disdainful display
while encoring masses beg before a risen cadre,
pitted in a seeming inescapable tune
that bellows forth the procession ot Hades.

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