Everything To Forget

Oh! Hands of agony.
Twisting life out of my inside’s.
While guilt gnaws on my heart,
my womb attacks itself.

An invasion!

Under the liquor, I know.
Stamped by a man’s life,
cut myself through the throat.

My own words, slicing
my flesh. Over and over
and over
again.

I despise June for all that it takes.
Keep it!
Keep it, I say!
I will keep words to myself.
Time will take sight,
sound,
hopefully, mind. And I can forget.
I can forget.

May 5

Today is nothing.  Gray ghost
canvas.
Every color has been broiled
out, to evaporate in
ammonia scented windows.

The kitchen is a common place
for rainbows, for
sunlight.
How many times has a wife
picked yellow kitchens?
Stitched yellow sunflowers
into their children’s memories?

Today, the kitchen is nothing. White walls
splattered
with greasy old moments
that reflect in the glass shower walls,
in the colors
from the sun outside.

The Charge

Hard back

pages, stained with time and
an aged aroma.

1915. A battle is painted.
Acid slashing,
spitting.

Direct eyes leap from a tiny cliff
onto young bodies. Bloodied. Abandoned.

Somewhere, some mothers stand as sharp
as shrapnel,
bullets piercing their wombs,
their children’s supple homes.

Trembling hands
find a gun
and
a buddy. A soldier. A boy.
Death has no time in
these fields. He is hurried.

Frontal attacks sweep
unprotected spots. Blurring instinct.
Blinding the Earth with a scarlet bath.

Burying dirt with
young boys,
men.

1915. Hard back pages, stained with
memory and
the scent of suffering.

And this….
just the beginning.

*About The Charge by W. Douglas Newton.

Soldiers

In the beginning,
it was as if barren logs
were thrown together in heaps
for
decomposition

cautious steps
young
benumb

do you hear the bombs?

we are in belligerent land!

The Speaker is right

hazardous air hovers
stagnant
air is vacant

a perilous scent lingers
under
my nostrils
disorienting
direction

South twitches!! To the left!

Barren logs
are not!

They are
amputees!
Victims of explosive surgery,
nerves of Soldiers’ exposed;
an operating table…

God’s acre.

Soft, barren bodies
thrown together in heaps
for decomposition.

A few operative
bodies
are moved,
thrown together in heaps
for bandaging

sent home to their
wives
children
friends

with a perilous scent
still lingering
under their nostrils

disorienting
direction.

 

You Are Leaving.

Picture frames decorate the carpet, broken glass
laying on top of smiling people.
The words hurled from you at a speed I couldn’t recognize
and blew the memories off of their chosen spots in
our home.
Around me, lay the shattered moments that I
treasure. I can barely catch my breath.
Time has froze, I’m useless.

I sit myself down in the middle of the debris,
the pain is flowing from me as if I became the Falls of Niagara.
I barely notice the glass cutting into my knees – feeding
me full of the poision, leaving me with scarred memories of
this moment that will never hang on a wall.

Moments – that feel like years – later, you are sitting
next to me in a truck. You are driving, we laugh, we stop,
we hug, we kiss. I feel my eyes flicker once again.

Then, I am home again. Hanging portraits on the wall. Careful
about their arrangement, they must be just so! I hear a doorknob turn
behind me so I turn to greet you with my love, but
time freezes with the coldness in your eyes and you tell me, once again,
you’re leaving.