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Bennett Kremen

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The Walking Wounded
by Bennett Kremen

Sunday, August 16, 2009
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Bennett Kremen
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           >> View all 43



                                                The Walking Wounded

                                                    We are all the
                                                    walking wounded
                                                    on the fields of
                                                    love--all of us.
                                                    Surely your mother
                                                    brought you into this
                                                    world in blessed agony.
                                                    And in agony
                                                    you'll watch her go.

                                                    And watch too
                                                    when crisp autumn
                                                    winds start blowing
                                                    how stags lock
                                                    horns in rut
                                                    and slash and gore
                                                    in mortal combat
                                                    all for love,
                                                    sweet, blind love.

                                                   Then listen carefully
                                                   on any night
                                                   and you'll hear
                                                   the young crying
                                                   in the darkness
                                                   of  their lonely
                                                   rooms for a love
                                                   they can not have
                                                   from glistening Prom
                                                   Queens on festival
                                                   nights or dashing
                                                   gladiators rushing
                                                   down cheering fields
                                                   to football glory.

                                                   And you my love,
                                                   who once intoxicated
                                                   me with hope and
                                                   dreams, have struck
                                                   me down breathless
                                                   today with a letter as
                                                   dark and cruel
                                                   as the grave.
                                                   "Dear Sir,"  it states
                                                   with brute authority,
                                                   "By the laws of The
                                                   State of New York,
                                                   your divorce is final."
                                                   Yes, final, and
                                                   already the children
                                                   are being rushed away
                                                   in wounded grief,
                                                   their terrified tears
                                                   resounding like the
                                                   crack of doom.
                                                   Oh, how I dread
                                                   that my heart
                                                   or theirs might
                                                   never heal again.

                                        Copyright 2009 Bennett Kremen
                                  author of Savage Days Haunted Nights
                                              availabe at                             



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Reviewed by Terry Rizzuti 8/28/2012
The walking wounded are growing in number every day. I wonder what happens when an entire society feels this way. Maybe ours mostly already does.
Reviewed by Connie Faust 10/9/2009
Splendid in its tragedy.
Reviewed by Regis Auffray 9/1/2009
Oh, how I dread
that my heart
or theirs might
never heal again.

Sadly, the theme that you express via your verses is an all too common one in this world/life, Ben. Thank you. Love and peace,

Reviewed by Karen Palumbo 8/18/2009
Such simple words, yet the weight they carry is tremendous and how the agony slices right through like a sharp blade for what once was is now no more...

Be always safe,

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