Play for January: Brothers in Arms

                     Brothers in Arms

                            by
                        Joe Nelson

Poem Jan 31, 2011

Vile seeping corruption
Posing as innocence
Threatens to pry
Us off the tracks.
Dissonant chords sing
Out to the masses
Through a dumbstruck star.
Plug in, turn on, drop out
Is how the heart decays
In this cyber wasteland
Devoid of the tender touch.
One will come after me
Who will save them all.
When he comes
And lowers his rod
People will learn
To fear the new God.

Poems Jan 24- 30, 2011

Jan 24

The Sad Queen sits
Enthroned in solitude
As specters from
Across the Sea
Buy and Sell the
Land She once ruled

Imprissoned in her own
Palace, She pauses
Before her favorite piano

She sits, She Plays, She Cries

Not the Fond farewell
Aloha Oe, no
Not greetings or
Tropical treats from
The soon-to-be 50th State

She writes a Prayer
The Queen's Prayer
A prayer not to God
But to her People

She begs for their forgivness.
Forgiveness for her lack of fortitude
She has lost.
She was beaten.
But they must live on
They must be perpetuated
In Righteousness.

Jan 25

Gladiators in their glittering mail
Silently praying the others fail
Will forever lose and fetter
Faced by those who wish only to be better.

Jan 26

Swirling colors and a deafening roar
Bleed out into the world from the door
Decadent and depraved they are
Who wish upon sex like a star.
When at last that golden pinnacle is reached
It is shown to be nothing, just a lie impeached.
These Bacchae find that it is only sand
The solid ground on which they stand
But to retreat now would be to admit fault
And maybe bring their orgy to a halt.
So onward and upward, to infinity.
And that's how the night took my love from me.

Jan 27

If God was truly just
Some would not have freedom
If the World we truly fair
Many would be much worse off
If people truly loved
Mankind would not exist
     For a true lover would not allow
     Their true love to live in this world of
            Suffering

Jan 28

We raise our voices in dissent
Dissent to the idea we will not survive
We are the ones who will continue
And usher in a new age
An age of intelligence with imagination
An age of love without guilt
An age of sunlight with faint shadows
We will save this world
And you can't stop us
For our dissent is not shouted
But laughed.

Jan 29
Fear is the string
That the Shadows use
To keep you dancing.

Ignorance is the heroine
That the boss uses
To keep us working

Banality is the apex
That the rats say
You should be hunting

Break the strings
Tear out the needle
And turn yourself
To the morning

Jan 30

Push me down
Into the dirt
Never let me out
From under your boot
Crush me.
Crush me into sand.
Leave me.
Leave me unable to stand

Bury me deep
Cover my eyes
Never let me see
What you don't want
Trust me
Trust me without control
I'll never
Never tell a single soul

Smash me like a mirror of myself
And rearrange the pieces
I won't be anything
Unless you force me to be

You birth me.
Give me life.
You push me out
Out into the light
Burn me?
No that's not true
I grow.
I grow to overthrow you.

Poem Jan 23, 2011

Something has fallen apart
Or was left behind
Seems I've lost something
I just can't find

Before all was warm
And the world was bright
Now my skin frosts over
In the harsh of the night

Where has she gone
The one that I miss?
I doesn't matter much
When we meet again: Bliss.

Poem Jan 22, 2011

Oh mama, I"m trying to sleep
But the devils won't leave me alon
It's four in the morning
And they're trying to get into my home
Feels like I'm being drowned
And it's going oh so slow
Can't get up the strength
To put on my shoes and go

Oh mama, I'm trying to sleep
But the memories just won't go
How I was young and strong
And death was conquered years ago
But the demons keep at my door
Saying "Come out and Play"
And I don't think I can hold them off
Clear on to the break of day

Oh mama, I'm just a midnight writer
Wrestling with a case of the blues
Staying up late and talking
With the ghost of Langston Hughes
I look at him and he looks at me
I say "Help me man, can't you see I'm stuck?"
He just shruggs his shoulders and
Says "Kid you're shit outta luck,

With them Midnight Writer Blues"

Poem Jan 21, 2011

She disappeared into the fog
Taking with her so many memories
She will come back, he thought

Her final image was etched into his eyes
That silhouette, obscured by clouds
She will come back, he thought

Time cannot be spent, only wasted on longing
Nothing has any meaning to the waiting heart
She will come back, he thought

Through ghostly,regretful nights
And interrogatively bright days
She will come back, he thought

One day she did return
Identical to the holy etched image
She has come back, he thought

Reaching out to touch her he couldn't breathe
But she retreated, no longer his to touch
She came back, he thought, but her heart did not.

And he could breathe again.

Short Story Jan 15-21: The Mother Fox

            The sky was clear and clamoring with the musical confusion of hounds as the hunting party began its crusade.  Fox hunting was the favorite pass time of the King, King Brutus X.  The thrill of the chase and the sensation of the nostril-flaring steed between his thighs gave his majesty the feeling that he was flying on the winds of God. No one loved the sport more than the King with the possible exception of the King’s favorite hound.

The hound’s name was Uriel, after the Archangel commonly referred to as the patron saint of confirmation.  The King was given Uriel on his fifteenth birthday in hopes that the act of hunting would make him into a man.  The two became great friends and were practically inseparable.  When the Brutus was crowned King following his father’s death he ordered the construction of a gold edged pillow so that Uriel could sit beside him at court.

It was often joked in the kingdom that Uriel was the real ruler and Brutus was simple a Lord Protector who made sure the King was fed.

It was true that even as Brutus and Uriel moved into their older age, the King remained a child at heart, rarely raising his voice or losing his temper, while the hound gained a stoic and some would even say royal attitude.

That aside they both loved to hunt.

When the King had children of his own he would entrust Uriel to watch over them until they were old enough to take care of themselves.  Brutus had very little to do with the lives of his children.  His eldest son, Goltana, was finally of the age where he could join his father on a fox hunt.  He was excited to accompany the King and saw this as an opportunity to finally show his father that when he died, the kingdom would be in good hands.

Poem Jan 20, 2011

And so the curtain rises
On the Final Act
Make up running wildly
Mixing  with our sweat
We step out of the wings
And into the lights.

We live the lives that are
Written for us
Knowing the final curtain
Is coming nearer.

Remembering fondly the ones
That we've left behind
Like smiling faces from
The summer rain
We sing, we dance, we speak
Not for the audience
But for ourselves
For each other.

No one has ever matterer
More than us.
Nothing Has ever happened
Before this.

And when the lights
Do start to fade
It will be each of you
My Band of Brothers
That I keep my eyes on

Until they can see
No more.

Poem Jan 19, 2011

A quiet but cold morning
A soft but warm smile
A loud but joyous laugh
A high but fond ideal
They sit and dream
Together.

Poem Jan 18, 2011

Quiet the Soul
To hear the bubbling
Truth from within

The Stars swirl
On their Axis
Distorting the sky

A Train of Thought
Derails killing
Unwritten characters

The Sun rises
Burning away
Last night's sins

The Heart cries out:
I rise in flames!
I am the Phoenix!

Poem Jan 17, 2011

The Emperor sees
The frothing waves of
Demented Avengers

For him, they have come

They close in fast, surrounding
His Royal Person
They strike fast, spilling
His Royal Blood
But they realize, too late
His Royal Death
Won't return to them all
He has stolen

Poem Jan 16, 2011

Two young people
On the threshold
Of Great Adventure

She stops short
Looks back to him
What if? She asks

What if we don't make it?
What if our best falls short a bit?
What would we do?
I don't want life to disappoint you.

He pulls her close
She gives a smile
Their hearts sync
On the Miracle Mile

Poem Jan 15, 2011

To stand tall in the face of
                                       Humiliation
To never bend for leaders but stoop to help the
                                       Fallen
To dance for the night and forget about the
                                       Dawn
To look cold death in the eyes and
                                       Laugh
To know when you are beaten and when to
                                       Concede
That is to hold hands with
                                       Gods

Poem Jan 14, 2011

It was a sad day
The day the priest walked down the aisle
No one had a word to say
As we watched him suffer his silent trial
His face was pained
His walk was weak with crying staggers
His smiles were fiened
As we saw him stabbed with ghostly daggers
What would he say
What would we do when we were told
He died on a Sunday
And my heart grew very old.

Short Story Jan 8-14: The Bunnyman

            There had long been legends of a deranged man living in the woods outside Jackson City, Virginia, but until recently it had been dismissed as an urban legend.  A tall tale that mothers told their young children to prevent them from wandering off alone.  Many a mother had told their children:

            “Stay close, or else the Bunnyman will get you,”

            The story was that deep in the forest, a family of hillbillies lived in a shack not far from a bridge where a set of train tracks crossed a back road.  The family lived there for generations, without much contact with the outside world (inbreeding is a common part of the Bunnyman legend no matter who is telling the story).  They were supposedly hostile to any outsiders who would encroach upon their land, even police, so everyone with any sense left them alone.  To ward off any trouble makers the father of the family would catch rabbits, splay them open and leave them hanging by their necks from the bridge.  A warning, scrawled in rabbit blood, was left on the over pass saying that anyone who trespassed would end up like the rabbits they saw before them.

            One night, they say, the youngster of the family snapped.  Either because of his terrible up bringing or inbred brain, depending on who tells the story, the youngster took an axe to his sleeping parents and siblings before hanging them up from the bridge that same way as the rabbits.  The story goes on to say that in solidarity with the rabbits that his father had killed the young man created for himself a suit made of rabbit fur that resembled, best he could, a large bipedal rabbit. 

            After the bodies of his parents were discovered, police searched the area only to discover the shack and carcasses of skinned rabbits. No trace of the boy who would become the Bunnyman.  The case was never solved, so the legend went.

           

Poem Jan 13, 2011

The hag stalks around the jailhouse door
Asking the prisoners if she can have more
More to eat, more to sell
More to pave the way to hell
Scraggly hair hangs in her eyes
Helping to disguise her lies
She plays a pipe and the children follow
When alone she gives them poison to swallow
This hag has grown big and strong
Here in this world, this world long gone

Poem Jan 12, 2011

The cycle turing in the colored wind
Does not betray the beauty of a blushing cheek
Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh
You won't leave me at the mercy of the gathering dark.

When in the end we see it was all really nothing
And our sins are called forth to be accounted
You will be there, blood of my blood
You will be there, flesh of my flesh.

Together we shall fight every war at once.
And win.

Poem Jan 11, 2011

The artists is not like a flower
The artists is not like a bird
An artists is not something
        Pretty
An artists is much different
From what they create
Like a miner, the artist
        Descends
Down into the dirtiest
Down into the darkest
Recesses of the Human
        Spirit
The trip is dangerous
Many have been lost
But the rewards
       Shine

Poem Jan 10, 2011

When snow fell in the Ardens
On the day of December 25th, 1944
Both Germans and Americans
Decided to put an end to the war
For that brief moment in time
The war was over, peace was riding high
Enemies were friends, sharing stories and rhyme
They could look up together and cherish the blue sky
But then their commanders ordered the killing back on
Before retreating to the rear to drive their men forth
Some must have wondered, and were not wrong,
"What's different between today and the 24th?"

Poem Jan 9, 2011

*an homage to Gil Scott-Heron*

The revolution will not be Tweeted.
It will not fit comfortably into a small box on your computer screen.
It will not be in 140 characters or less.
It will not be preceded by the @ symbol because
The revolution will not be Tweeted.

The revolution will not be about Lebron or Kanye.
It will not be to the music of Ke$ha or Lady Gaga.
And most of all it will not be about you because
The revolution will not be Tweeted.

The revolution will not be Tweeted.
It will not be the cutting edge 3d touch screen technology
It will not be able to run two apps at the same time.
It will not have cute accessories that will match your friends' because
The revolution will not be Tweeted

The revolution will not be Tweeted
Taylor Lautner will not take off his shirt in the revolution
During the revolution, no one will care about Lindsey Lohan
Sarah Palin will not be a part of the revoltution
Neither will President Barrack Obama
The revolution will not be Tweeted.

The Revolution will not be egocentric
The Revolution will not be Universal Health Care
It will however be health care for the universe
The revolution will not be Tweeted.

Poem Jan 8, 2011

Thousands of birds fall from the sky
The government deems telling the truth a crime
The State has sanctioned the ability to lie
And people wonder if we are approaching the end of time

A nine year old girl was shot to death
Caught in the crossfire of political rage
The ghosts of end days are given new breath
And it's just another symptom of the digital age

All hail Might King Gold
Just do as you're told
And you'll live to grow old
If you aren't bought and sold

Where is the one that we were promised?
Who would pull the sun across the sky with a team of horses
Have we taken our shot and has the bullet missed?
And from the dark march destruction's forces.

Welcome to a world where basic human rights can be bought
Where the future is for the greedy and the meek inherit naught.
These are the ideals that our children will be taught
Break the rules, make money, and don't get caught.

Poem Jan 7, 2011

The sun decscending
Below the snowy mountains
Makes him dream of her

The artist looks up
And upon seeing her smile
Writes operas to love

Poem Jan 6, 2011

A man enters a room
A dozen other people
Don't notice his entrance

He needs someone to talk to
They are all completely silent
It would appear, in a trance

He tries to speak out
But not a soul can hear him
They are to busy talking
         To people who are not there

He stumbles out to the street
Crying out for recognition
People don't notice, just keep walking

Deprived of a friendly word
He sits by himself, completely alone
Watching the unfeeling world walk on by

Blood will have blood they say
Flesh must have another flesh
Deprived he lied down to die
      He was the man who wasn't there.

Short Story Jan 1-7: The Fey Gargoyles

The Fey Gargoyles

Terry stepped out of his bus at the first security check point, out of three, that lead into the Fey Memorial Institute for the Violent Minds.  The building ahead of him housed some of the most violent and mentally deranged individuals on the east coast. How Terry wound up on this assignment, he wasn’t quite sure but upon seeing the building from afar for the first time, he cursed the stars that crossed themselves to bring him before this forlorn and intimidating sight.

            “Christ almighty,” he whispered as he handed over his identification to the officer at the gate. 

The officer took his time going over the cards and papers that granted Terry permission to enter, looking again and again at Terry as if at any second he could attack.  He wasn’t taking any chances.

“Ok.  I need you to stand back sir,” the officer said.

“Yeah, ok,” Terry acceded as he put a reluctant distance between himself and his only means of escape.

The officer boarded the bus, carrying a very large gun, the sight of which sent a wave of goosebumps up and down the rollercoaster of Terry’s spine.   Why would someone need a firearm that grizzly?  He didn’t pursue this line of thought any further.

 As the officer was searching the bus he turned his attention to his destination in the distance.  The building itself sent the message that it was pregnant with a bitter child.  It was tall and block shaped, made of a stone that looked like it had once been white but for whatever reason had turned a sickly yellow color, a color that was oddly matched by the trees that surrounded the grounds.  The trees, mostly oak and maple, were tall, probably second growth that flourished well in the rich soil found in the middle part of Virginia.  The size wasn’t particularly noteworthy but Terry did notice that every tree in view seemed, no, was, leaning away from the building up on the horizon.  It’s as if the entire forest, with a single hive mind, recognized that the further it was from the Institute the better.  Each tree doubled back and warped in on itself in an apparent effort to put itself at the greatest possible distance.

Another avenue of thought Terry didn’t want to follow.

Poem Jan 5, 2011

I stop
and I
breath.

There is
no sound
silence.

But then
just then,
Trumpets.

Poem Jan 4, 2011

I can't have children
I am a man
But I believe
That I carry
Something much more
Dangerous.

Not the smiles and squeaks of a newborn
Not the long sleepless nights of crying
Nor the premature grays of endless worry
No.  I carry something much more
Dangerous.

In the crevices of my mind
Stalks a Specter
And in the seven spheres of my imagination
Soars an Angel.

A ghost that keeps me awake for long nights
A cherub that speaks in giggles and coos
A phantom that drains my life
A seraph that lights a fire in my eyes

I am swollen not with child
But with dreams
And I will either give birth
Or surfeit and bleed out

Poem Jan 3, 2011

I am a faithless man
The word "God" means less to me
Than the stories of
Odin
Zeus
and Moloch.

But.

It wasn't always this way
I once had faith, believed
That is a wonderful thing
To BELIEVE.

To believe is to have a pair of wings
You can't
See them
or
Feel them
But
You know they are
THERE. and
With them you can soar
Higher than the
Earth
Higher than the
Galaxy
All the way up to the right hand of God.

And many do.

Many fly the flight of Dedalus through the ever singing choirs
To the dominating dominant dexterity of the anno domini.

And then, there are the rest of us.
The
Icari.

We try.
Try so hard.
But the wax...
The wax on our wings is somehow
Inferior.

If God knows all and controls all
Why are we flying with sub-standard supplies?
Are we marked from the beginning to fall?
Borne on the wind of failure are we any
Different
From Lightborne Lucifer?
Who
An hour before his fall God thought him the
Brightest
Most Beautiful
and
Best?

His Favorite.

What chance do we

The Icari

Stand?

Poem Jan 2, 2011

A King may stoop to love
A Beggar may rise to the occasion
A Muslim can marry a Jew

The world can rise above
I know this for one reason
I am in love with you

Poem Jan 1, 2011

Blood greases the cogs
As the great machine
Hurls forward into
That great Tomorrow

The vas deferens cut
Only blank humans
Spew forth out of the
American Dream

Mother Nature, nailed
To the cross, cries out
To the father: Help.
Blood pools in her mouth

From her mouth the blood
Is harvested by
Spiritually
Bankrupt Humankind

Happy New Year friends!
Westward the course of
Empire! And downward
Goes America