in the face of peril and the callus descent into the abyss of mortal combat, love rises from the depths to challenge the soul to be pure and share the passion for life and romance with an intensity otherwise unknown -- a provocative thought that consumes our emotions in logic that opposes all morality -- you've reasoned this through quite well Kate -- you have presented us with a view worth the perusal my friend -- peace and love -- Jon Michael
There is a sadness in this... maybe due to the loss of innocence that war brings. Sadly time never stands still, even at those moments when we wish it would...especially in those times of new grief when the world around us goes on living, spinning, flirting with that precious commodity of time...that commodity that we, in our grief, just watched slip through our fingers... leaving us only with memories of what once was and a hope for a bright reunion at some distant point in the future.
Two opposite forces here-- Constant live-action, and Time standing still. I get the sensation that I'm in a snow-globe, me, rooted to the base with my head upturned, my hand held fast in my sweetie's, but instead of flakes, there are red-eyed missiles,bullets, and bleeding leaves swirling around me--us. What a paradox that death missives can be so alive, and that defying death can be such a still moment. And what a truth that it is Love that makes this paradox a possibility.
The whole poem moves. It's meter eddies and pulls. We read rapidly through the bullets and sound-blasts of noisy consonants, "missiles striking", "sirens calling" etc. and linger long over the lovely visuals of the Tigris, and the clock's face. The last two stanzas move quickly again, only this time laced with stunning visuals of color. The meter there is striking. I found myself reading backwards, trying to find the rhymes--just a hint was all I found, slanted and alluring--bleeding into the leaves I guess.
My favorite lines were the last two-- truly, a gorgeous flight. --Charlie
EXCELLENT WRITE...SO WELL DONE. A TIME THAT ONE NEVER FORGETS...THE SEASONS WON'T ALLOW YOU TO...YOUR GOING IN OR...YOUR COMING OUT.
THANKS FOR SHARING THIS WORK THAT WAS SO ENJOYED. BLESSINGS.
JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS
excellent write Kate
I too remember those dats of sirend wailing out the danger
Us school kids scrambling orderly holding hands as we walked down
the stairs to the basement shelters of the cold war.
Love & peace be with you
How different for you, Kate...but true imagery in your chosen words. Lovers should borrow all the time they can amass, no matter the season, as war plays it's own tune of ticking, striking, and sirens; oh, that we could turn down the volumn...
Blessings and Love - Micke
Sometimes, when life seems hopeless or so very elusive, mano y mano is the only way we find comfort and peace. I could feel the urgency and lack of belief of a future in your words as two scramble to learn all that life has to offer, in double time. The motion you created in this piece made me feel as though I was running away from that which would likely consume me some time soon. Scary to be forced to live so in the moment and to do so amid bomb blasts and missles flying. Excellent work, Kate.
Take care,
Sherry
an unusual motif for you but you've managed to reveal quite a combative scenario through strategically arranged images ... nice how you compared autumn's red leaves to the young spring leaves of battle, falling fast in an "urgency of passion" and on "borrowed time" ...
Kate,
You make this a highly charged, highly personal response to the callousness and horror of assault and the very ugly nature of conflict, and transcend it all with excellent thought and fine fine language.
wow, this for some reason or other reminded me of all I heard and have read about England and especially London during WWII. Soldiers and young lassies finding solice in each others arms during air raids etc. Loved it.
hugs
Pops
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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This is a fantasy of reality! I have known 'war' amd know that it kills love, emotion, and futures. Excellent... and a must for a book. Wen?
Cryssa
Sheila
The whole poem moves. It's meter eddies and pulls. We read rapidly through the bullets and sound-blasts of noisy consonants, "missiles striking", "sirens calling" etc. and linger long over the lovely visuals of the Tigris, and the clock's face. The last two stanzas move quickly again, only this time laced with stunning visuals of color. The meter there is striking. I found myself reading backwards, trying to find the rhymes--just a hint was all I found, slanted and alluring--bleeding into the leaves I guess.
My favorite lines were the last two-- truly, a gorgeous flight. --Charlie
THANKS FOR SHARING THIS WORK THAT WAS SO ENJOYED. BLESSINGS.
JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS
Be always safe,
Karen
Cheers,
Dan
I too remember those dats of sirend wailing out the danger
Us school kids scrambling orderly holding hands as we walked down
the stairs to the basement shelters of the cold war.
Love & peace be with you
William
War in Spring is about as real as it gets. -gene.
Christine
Blessings and Love - Micke
Georg
Take care,
Sherry
Newfie Hugs, Rose
You make this a highly charged, highly personal response to the callousness and horror of assault and the very ugly nature of conflict, and transcend it all with excellent thought and fine fine language.
John
hugs
Pops
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla. :(
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in America, Karen Lynn in Texas. :(