Legionnaire
It was the water that did for him
Folded into the neryd-hair at the river bank
They found what was left, no food for fishes this
Soused enough to pickle sticklebacks
The long scars down his forearms livid
Like ash streaks on pallid china, bone dead
Gruesome find for superstitious fishermen
Or aged couple, festival weary, life-battlers
I remember him well, ever the character
The climber, tree-sitter, dilly-dallyer.
Used to watch a portable TV in his wardrobe
A better reception guaranteed
Took the final sail, though
no fiery arrow followed the journey
Left some behind to tell the tales
The long the short and the tall, as they say
Always likely to be one of the first to go
Often teased but hard as a pikestaff
Graced the ribbery, with a nod, with a ha-ha,
with an understanding of, more or less, important things, life welts.
Eased by, a knowledge of the true-cut, where
the sinister edge displays the artery.
The brand that never heals,
badge of forewarning.
It was old Glastonbury that saw him pass
Saw the stillness in the warrior
Many years before escaped, hell-sent warrior
A vision of a different kind of war-dead
The ranks of ancient sappers rose,
limbs lifting, drifting out
Beckoning, reclaiming their own.
Never to be seen again.
© 2005 Kahdoosch
Folded into the neryd-hair at the river bank
They found what was left, no food for fishes this
Soused enough to pickle sticklebacks
The long scars down his forearms livid
Like ash streaks on pallid china, bone dead
Gruesome find for superstitious fishermen
Or aged couple, festival weary, life-battlers
I remember him well, ever the character
The climber, tree-sitter, dilly-dallyer.
Used to watch a portable TV in his wardrobe
A better reception guaranteed
Took the final sail, though
no fiery arrow followed the journey
Left some behind to tell the tales
The long the short and the tall, as they say
Always likely to be one of the first to go
Often teased but hard as a pikestaff
Graced the ribbery, with a nod, with a ha-ha,
with an understanding of, more or less, important things, life welts.
Eased by, a knowledge of the true-cut, where
the sinister edge displays the artery.
The brand that never heals,
badge of forewarning.
It was old Glastonbury that saw him pass
Saw the stillness in the warrior
Many years before escaped, hell-sent warrior
A vision of a different kind of war-dead
The ranks of ancient sappers rose,
limbs lifting, drifting out
Beckoning, reclaiming their own.
Never to be seen again.
© 2005 Kahdoosch
posted by Kahdoosch at 7:45 PM
4 Comments:
This could be about an ancient celt or roman, autopsied by the wonders of modern day archeology... But it isn't.
It could be about an old mate, found, drowned in sight of Glastonbury Tor. Nothing suspicious, just a stupid accident, bloody old fool.
Catch up with ya later, Sparks.
auja alawin
This gave me goosebumps. I did feel every word and it is interesting how one can't wait for the ending. But then doesn't really want it to end.
Thanks all
Double thanks
It's possible that anyone could imagine that this poem is very personal.
Very personal.
It contains little subtlies that only 3 or 4 people might understand (they aren't between the lines but literal).
I can't write a friend anymore than I can catch thunder, or woo daydreams.
Only words...
...and howling, I gather them.
But again thank you. It means a lot to me.
I sort of feel a sense of death in this one. It is an eerie feeling but so well done.
A journey of something happening, but guessing is just a guess.
This writer (you) amaze me with such words.
jb writes in ways that get me thinking too. That is good. Things to get our minds pondering.
I am so glad you are here. Beats the message boards huh? haha. This is so entertaining for me. A good feeling.
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