PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

       The morning sun appears

       to burn up the horizon.

       The woodlands awake

       whispering to long golden fingers

       There the day grows upwards

       songs whistle and greet

       as aged tenants rise up.



       A charred stand of perennial woodys      

       connects to the lush green.

       I'm speechless at the ravage

       of this exposed man made cemetery.

       I long for quick solutions

       a means sponsered by all aware of costs,

       a stretch of time,

       caught and held back for repair.



       I move my eyes

       from forest floor to burned soldiers

       cursing the poles

       left to grow out of the black.





       The birds,

       the moose,

       the bear,

       all souls,

       running, frightened

       until...

       The hot flames

       of the devil go dead,

       with scattered wildlife

       and blood

       at the end

       of a cigarette!