So many souls sacrificed for Mexico,
in Mexico,
May 5th. 1862,
Cinco de Mayo.
So many souls sacrificed
every minute, every day, every year,
in every nation,
at every beat of the drum,
at every beat of the heart
so many souls.
photographs and poem by Clinock
There are periods of moments
strung together like seagulls
along the white wake of time
that seem to glow with more light,
more intense shadows sliding,
more music in their foam.
There have been days like this
leading to the now of writing
on this poignant day of remembrance:
I shivered, sweating and sleepless
through nights of fevered demons
the medicines invoked in the blood.
And at the same time needing
to solve incomprehensible clues
leading to solutions of puzzles
I didn’t ask for or want.
And always the rumors of war
we didn’t ask for or want.
There were the anniversary rituals too.
One year after the crowning of the mad king,
and the previous day, because he knew to leave
before the Ace of Spades became the trump,
Mister Cohen waved farewell.
I bled tears that day for a man I loved.
And today, the eleventh day of the eleventh month,
we enact our agreed rituals of mourning:
Silence, remembering, honouring the dead
of the wars that never end.
People, we can do better than this,
isn’t it time we gave all our children peace?
“From bitter searching of the heart,
we rise to play a greater part.”
Mixed media art, photo and poem by Clinock
…” the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.”
Leonard Cohen. Anthem
That which once was clearly read
now manifests in ciphers,
silent, broken and disintegrating.
Whatever the answer was,
in this parchment of peace,
it is gone now, forgotten,
fragmented and lost.
Words and songs are smudged,
dark wings tear the light,
chaos reigns beneath the ordered surface
and the zero and the I,
tattooed in bar codes
indelibly across our eyes
binds us and blinds us.
And our blindness multiplies
with the hate and lies,
the killing, the hurting, the violence
wasting our hearts
to ashes, charcoal, stone,
and all we might become
is lacerated by darkness.
But still we inhabit our dream
as if the unbearable pain
was part of a stranger’s nightmare,
otherwise, we ask
how could we breath?
how could we sleep?
how could we believe in love?
So we claim neutrality,
pretend we do not see
the millions of bodies of falling doves
filling the sky like tears,
blood on white feathers
heaping around our feet
freezing us numb in holy snow.
Mixed media collage and poem by clinock.
Thank you Steven @ http://poemimage.wordpress.com for design inspiration.
art rat cafe 