Hiding from the War

I hid from the war
behind the walls
of an Army compound
in Northern Iraq,
hearing occasional gunfire,
explosions, and
the constant drone
of gas-powered generators.

I hid from the war
in our clinic compound
shooting hoops in the
shrapnel-scarred courtyard
or throwing the football
with a volunteered
soldier who had
better things to do.

I hid from the war
in my sand-bagged cell,
lost in my laptop
photoshopping images
and writing poems
to feel connected
to my son turning two
six thousand miles away.

I hid from the war
singing karaoke on a couch
in the Commander's office
laughing as a car bomb
detonated in the distance
and the black hawks
lifted from the tarmac
to retrieve what was left.

I hid from the war
until called to see a detainee
standing in his underwear
on an ice-cold concrete slab,
crying and shivering,
while I stood before him
in insulated boots and
wrapped in layers of warmth

and I could no longer hide.


***

When the Storm Comes

When the storm comes,
the head becomes a cave
in which to hide from danger.

When the storm comes,
the world closes off and
we feed ourselves on anger.

When the storm comes,
love grows cold and
all becomes a stranger.

When the storm comes,
Wisdom is a homeless child
who cries and we harangue her.



***

The Murderer

He was a murderer from the beginning, 

and he will kill your body and soul if he can.  

Do not partner with him or those with him.

Resist in whatever way you can: with humility, 

with patience, and most importantly with love.

A selfless love achieved only through action,

not always feeling it, but always doing it.

Your strength will grow, become death-defying, 

thoroughly destroying the work of him who 

was a murderer from the beginning.

***

baby ate him like a man

We visited our optometrist's office this weekend where there is a children's nook full of books and toys.  Anya and Elias decided to occupy themselves with building a castle out of blocks, working from opposite sides.  This kind of sibling simpatico is more rare than I'd like it to be, but an absolute joy to my heart when it occurs.

While they placed block on block I squeezed past them and into the nook.  I discovered a bookshelf that was hidden around the corner that is not visible from the waiting room proper.  On a middle shelf was an old weathered set of Childcraft books with an "annual" from 1973.  This placed the collection squarely in my early childhood and as I read the titles I felt the surreal sensation of time bending in my brain.

I pulled out a volume or two and flipped through the pages.  The images were vaguely familiar, but did not elicit any strong feelings.  Then I spied the volume "Poems & Rhymes" and I felt my heart skip a beat.  Every image on every page brought on a torrent of memories.  This was the volume that I'd spent the most time going through as a rambunctious boy.  It had held my attention and taught me the traditional poems and rhymes of youth.

One picture in particular has remained crystal clear in my memory since that time in the early seventies.  It was the Fishy-Fishy in the Brook poem.  It fascinated me because it was a real picture taken with a camera, not a flat illustration.  I wasn't sure how it had been made which was part of the fascination.  It had reminded me  of claymation films, like "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" that was on TV every winter.

In the late eighties I was a student at Indiana Wesleyan University and took a World Literature class with Mary Brown.  I was an avid reader and this class felt more like a fun college interlude than a course requirement.  Some of my classmates would brag about how little they'd read of the assigned literature which for me was like having a gourmet meal set before you and
thinking it was cool that you'd only eaten a few peas from the plate.

That first day of class Prof Brown had a handful of cutout goldfish that she was giving out as rewards for students being able to finish a poem/rhyme/lyric that was on the theme of "fish."  I secured my first fish by finishing a line from Dan Fogelberg's song "Longer."  A few fish awards later she recited the first half of Fishy-Fishy in the Brook.  I think mine was the only hand to go up for this one and that image from the Childcraft book came vividly to mind as I finished the line  "...Mommy fried him in a pan, and baby ate him like a man."

***

The Autumn Years

In the Autumn years

full of hopes and fears

when the heart grows bold

with the ease of tears.