aayoungin the twelfth year
of her peasant girl existence
Joan of Arc
saw god before her eyes
asking her to wage war
for the good of France
to rescue her people from their strife
she believed
she swayed a king
she kissed her sword
she kicked some ass
she achieved the impossible
she paid with her burning life
she became a saint at 20
her ending irrelevant as smoke rise
the point is
she had the courage
to stand
and fucking fight
(written for Manny Feuerberg)
bloody sword
hearts unfurled
he was
my Agincourt
Perhaps…
it is a failing
of my English
blood,
but some men
have an enticing way
of looking
like a war
worth losing.
“Every mile is two in winter.” – George Herbert
January
has a way…
of making atheists
of Englishmen,
country folk,
and poets.
It’s as though
they have forgotten
their prayers
and the inevitability
of cherry blossoms.
i have a friend named ira
who lives so far away from me
he is the only other man on earth, save my maternal grandfather, whom i’ve ever known named ira
he initially found a place in my heart for this reason…
he has a lovely wife and two beautiful boys, well tended to
one of his sons bears my father’s name, so i adored him a bit more upon the finding out, making him oddly familiar
he is british, as so much of my genetic material is
he makes me a colonist
however, all of this is of no consequence
he exists within a would five hours ahead of me
he challenges me intellectually, spurs me to create as he asks pertinent questions and draws such lovely pictures
spurns me to write the poems we will never be
he creates brilliance while claiming his soul has nothing to give
he causes me to write poetry
a revolution to my mind
i wrote this poem
for a man a world away
i wrote this poem for a man
who is aptly named
how he wishes for me to punctuate
this is my exclamation
i wrote this poem
for ira lightman