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FEET ANCHORED IN THE MUD OF WAR
FEET ANCHORED IN THE MUD OF WAR
The sucking sound of the soldier’s boot is the planet’s cry;
The donkey’s feet carries the holy family to Egypt; the tern’s
Feet in the sand are the map of all the stratagems of war.
Tracks left in fossils tells us of raptors before us who sought
Death long before we knew how to kill with modern weapons;
It’s O.K. to praise the crow’s feet; they scare away old ghost.
Feet press grapes to wine tells us that those who march to war
Will turn the green fruit of our young men to a palatable taste
For the vintage of war. Old men speak of more aged vintage.
Farm boots try to domesticate the feet of poultry and bovines
But the trampling of feet over the innocent in riots cannot be
Tamed. Only the mule tests his feet before crossing a bridge.
The crane’s feet in the mud only last until he takes to wing;
Feet are only good for running or landing; maybe there are
Mice tracks to heaven if there is such an abode for them.
Both quadrupeds and bipeds thrash about lacking equilibrium
In their inner ears; perhaps it is not our feet that do the balancing
Standing up; only heroes know how to truly stand on their feet.
Those who truly stand for something have their feet in the mud
And their eyes on the stars; there is so much glory in the hooves
Of great steeds; all mounts bear the burden of stellar wars.
Wildebeests leap into the river spread legged; twixt the lion and
The crocodile there is no place to put their feet; hungry wolves
Grow tired of chasing caribou but we never tire of chasing war.
The first dead man on Omaha Beach got that far and no further;
Many already dead men followed and the shores washed away
Their prints and the terns as if to wash away our propensity for war.
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BEAUTY
If we have come to destruction let us blame beauty;
The face that launched a thousand ships also sank them;
I was enamored of you and then my house burnt down.
We are all heliotropes, always turning towards beauty;
For this we are burnt beyond all recognition, scarred
By the realization that we can never live up to it.
Disaster piles up near Venus and Aphrodite; and I
Would rather hear odes by rapscallions, than listen
To the muse enticing me to get under the juggernaut.
I saw your long hair and delicate porcelain face; then
I followed your soft light into the moonlit night; it is
Not the wolf’s fault that it is ravenous beyond belief.
My improvidence is to believe beauty is to be touched;
But beauty can also be sullied my wanton eyes; for
This reason Oedipus plucked them out of his head.
My improvidence was not to see beauty is shared;
For everyman wants to make chattel of the beloved
And for this woman have never pardoned men.
Reason and madness cannot share the same Inn.
When one checks in the other one must check out.
The triumvirate of Rome all checked out for Cleo.
-Sai Grafio-