“Bloodied Roots”

beneath black boughs
drinking in sun and rain,
we bled ourselves
among the roots.

wind ran through valleys,
catching dead leaves
and dead men – it screamed
through lives lost and lived.

our Gods dined on blood and salt,
freely spilt and freely given –
they sheltered us, hinted at unknowables
and watched while we were cut down.

Advertisements

“The Valley Fled”

the valley fled from the thought of us
unimpeded by the wind or rocks,
axes brought to bear against trunks
and arrows notched at old souls,
curious in their repose at new faces
contorted with emotions they couldn’t
understand or know – the rage
of an unenlightened world.

“Forested Arms”

through bark and bough
bursting, demanding
light speckled leaves
fast-growing saxifrage
garlands gladly given,
hoisted around shoulders
which once bore rifle stocks
blooms keep blood at bay,
pressed into wounds
hereto unnoticed; trees
older than bullets break,
blasting splinters through air
cutting flowers and faces

he stops and drops his gun,
propped against a dying oak,
then walks, bloodstained
boots crunching leaves,
into forested arms.