I was there
in the dirty, rotten
rat infested and mud caked
trenches of Gallipoli

Fighting and wrestling
with the Turks
with shells whizzing over head
not gaining much ground

Losing my leg
coming home to the awkward
stares of strangers on the streets

Having my own battle
in my mind never
leaving the field of battle

Watching from my porch
the swarms of uniform clad young men
marching to the music of battle
with senses of patriotism
flowing through their blood

I recall climbing pecan trees
up limbs as far as I could go
cooled by a light late autumn breeze
with people standing down below.

Then like a squirrel I would shake
releasing mast into the air
( without a thought my perch might break)
in days of youth and thick brown hair.

Nuts ricocheted off their heads,
those below would dodge and scurry,
but they'd not curse, they'd laugh instead.
Their buckets filled up in a hurry.

Comes another hero from the fray,
No tall steed to ride this day.
A shield and sword are neither had,
No metal suit the blows to pad.

This other hero is of course,
Who steels the blade and shoes the horse.
Who shines the armor mirror bright,
Preparing those who are to fight.

The least among victorious bands,
And with defeat in slavery's hands.
A battle lost for shoe not nailed,
How frequently is smithy hailed?

Mapwork by RW
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Mapwork
inside my eyelids
pressed
white flash
-
traces of magnesium stars flutter
-
fireflies in May between retina and lens
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is this the stroke, where it begins
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extremities are feeling numb
-
pay to live now pay to crumble
-
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Striking laughter winds in rage
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ripping ground does it assauge?
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or is it just another reminder
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of the ants under the spyglass
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our human race
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