Poem: Speaking correctly

An answer to the garbled rhetoric, failed in design by fancy poets, weavers of the tangled tongue, to hold the attention of code breakers; of Laymen holding their hands against faces chagrined by and from their lack of understanding. Failure to connect; no touches of nature; no dreams; no inspiration – merely a trail of breadcrumbs strewn, nay scattered, around the minds of those feeble ragged seekers whose desires, and fabric-laid wonts, land squarely on breeding intelligence (minds prized above others and no mind of God in beautiful spiritual lands) and squeezing out the putrid recycled tomes sitting on dusty shelves of the purple and gold illuminati libraries, touting classic literature as suitable books for the clones who have taken up their places as gatekeepers. In these classic pages decoys of mystery, worldly magic played. Some ideas die underfoot of soldiers marching off to war, their wills return on stretchers. Some with shoulder boards in body bags flow down the early Potomac to the aisles of Montezuma, filled with the rusted iron cogs of dull days sniffing the blood of their comrades soaked into a ruby colored earthen floor, swallowing made hard from mourning to morning. Culprits, the sabre and AK47. No pages in journals could save them from the blades and bullets of sacrifice, of arm-chair leaders, second guessing the guises of terrorism, none of them pledging any allegiance, merely residing as ghosts, invisible pawns with no names or numbers, to do the devil’s bidding, and by directing zombie armies from which enemies emerge weeks and years after being friends, to find they have wasted shots in the dark. Foe no longer except for what is seen in the mirror. Then sparks light up the Fourth; no the Christmas day of light, and the smoldering lightning bolts of ancient Earth, of not knowing the true American cause, now starving, cold, sitting in a trench together, eyeing the other’s family in cracked photographs, Kodachrome and Polaroid. There, they find more in common listening to their respective God, from Christ and so on, doubt cast like the smoke from a cook fire in a covered wagon from which a small brazed squirrel becomes a shared meal, a sacred supper. Wine with it carries a distant taste. Thus domestic whiskey and beer, then to individual ruin. Toasts to victory feel as hollow as the empty broken Chinook in the mountains, bleeding fire, the carcasses of visiting men, foreign only in their National passports. My face turns toward a brilliant orange sunset half a world away, and conjures blessings counted which included another day at Camp De Dodi. Acrid soot wiped from faces, wishing we’re all in other places. HOME to be exact, of red, white and blue memories, the touch of a horses muzzle ridden ‘long the fence-line, the hum of tractors gobbling up chemicalized produce to feed the world, what juxtaposition, of spelling it out in bold letters of hometowns printed on airline tickets, a ribbon and a pittance of weak currency for our trifles, of long rifles standing next to pitchforks, next to brooms for sweeping the dust under our peoples’ rugs, of memorabilia in closets and attics adding the certificates of 18-year-old corpses to trunks laden with personalized treasures, in their land a martyr, ours a hero, no different on the scales of justice, each one celebrated for the cost of freedom, but whose? The flavor of such wafts in our noses, but is never served to us. Was the man, whose joker grin, lined his silky pockets with silver, gold and oily coin, overburdened, riches too much to spend of any lifetime? This choice was made by ‘we the people’ led to trust the governments who swore an oath to protect ALL OUR innocent lives, though we all be sinners, accomplices of corruption, we were marked winners, or we were so boldly told. We are granted free will, you know, to choose sides, to be put asunder, or to fly where eagle glides, through and in our own sovereign holy efforts. Be not fooled by the sparkly glitter on my military chest, just know I did my best, and now hope our (the world’s) children learn the truth about the power they hold, small hands reaching out to Heaven’s gate. We are young in this world, the spirit flies across the stars in the blink of an eye put out by flame, where the sun rises and falls, but we are also old, dressed in silver hair and beard. All we can do is try… to be better. We can try to improve. Tired we may all be of playing this game. Merrily we still go round. Be still now. Now is the time, we must learn OUR true name.

Published by: frankmarquezwritings

I'm a writer, and have been for most of my adult life. Without making this sound like a resume, I wrote creatively in college, dabbling in poetry, short stories and play writing. Later, I became a journalist, public affairs specialist, copy editor and eventually a guy who ran his own newspaper. Now, I'm back to letting my imagination run wild in some new creations including a science-fiction novel. Somehow, I also managed to teach English to high school kids, and roam the battlefields of Afghanistan as a field historian. Field historian may be a misnomer considering all I did was write abstracts summarizing military unit profiles and missions that included hundreds of interviews of troops and contractors in combat. I grew up in a small town called Gering, Nebraska, before escaping to Pomona, California, where I spent my last two years of high school, graduating from Ganesha High School in 1983. I have a Bachelors in English from the University of La Verne (1987), and a Masters in Education from UNLV (2007). In between, I worked for government - the Army and TSA. I served tours in Panama, D.C., and Tokyo, all thanks to a teacher who encouraged me to see the world before I settled down. As hobbies, I run, hike and bicycle long distances. I have also been known to surf and ski. I now live in my hometown after moving back in June 2015. I get to see family on a regular basis, breath fresh air, and not have to ride the D.C. metro or get stuck in traffic. In fact, I ride my bicycle whenever I can. I'm happily married to my wife Lisa, and we watch over a pack of fur babies, our dog Charley, and three cats Spike, Bootsy, and Franky (his shelter name). If you should ever visit me in west Nebraska, be prepared to feast your eyes on paradise.

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