Poetry Monday | 4 | An Old Collaboration

The Greatest Good
co-written by my good friend Tom.

Greenery and pastures brush my leg,

grass grown with my very hands.

I feed the cattle with vodka.

I learned the ways from our fathers,

who taught to me the greatest good.

It did not take long, only thirty years or so,

but in that time I have grown old.

Now, too late, I have taken up my father's ways.

Sow the seed, grow the hops,

torch the families mark on bovinian skin.

Children rhymes, playing games in the road,

turn to endless study, for a number never more than four;

then to the old ways. I'm torn apart like paper.

I feed the cattle with vodka.

I rest my head on the gate,

staring across acres, growing with every generation.

A night passes, a woman passes.

Despite the laws of my fathers, I leave my bed, for another.

I feed the cattle with vodka.

Vodka pouring down, every night, a new bosom, I caress.

My father looks down and cries purple darkness,

the sun sets upon his land, looking east, I see

greenery and pastures, that brush my leg.

Here, as said by law, must be the greatest good.

What is it? What is this good?

I feed the cattle with vodka.

I look to the drink and watch the flies buzz,

drunk, the sun sets on their backs, too drunk.

What is it? What is this good?

Fire! The feild of my lover is ablaze.

I race against the river,

too late, my lover gone, I have only my love. I cannot cry.

The words of my father, "One" echo.

His law, the greatest good. One bosom at night.

The cattle go hungry this night.

The green pasture yellows, as a new acre is sprung,

grass, grown with my very hands.

Sun rises on one end of the family farm, near me, dusk.

I dig a hole in the ground and bury my troubles.

Is this it? Is this the greatest good?

The words of my father sound different today.

The cattle are dead, my pasture is brown, a last bit of light.

I pack my bags and walk away.

Against the law, I turn west, the sun no longer moves.

A dandelion catches my heel, I stare and think of

my love, my kin, my cattle, my pasture. I look back, smile,

and realize what is the greatest good.

Poetry Monday | Another Old One

We Lie Dieing On the Battlefield
(Yet the Cavalry Never Arrives)

We lie dieing on the battlefield
Yet the Cavalry never arrives.
One would assume that measures,
(as rare as they normally may be)
Would be deliberately taken,
To assure the survival of our Cavalry.

The hills are now immortal forts,
The smoking plains, so deep, entrenched,

The valleys run thick with Europe's blood,

The battle is lost, as God can see.

Yet, unknown to the men of this war,

Are the whereabouts of our Cavalry

O, where are they, our flaming scouts,
Who ride, so gallant, with rapiers drawn,

Upon the noblest steeds of line,

To cause even the Huns to flee.

Where are they, those proud lion-hearts

Who call themselves the Cavalry.

Perhaps this mud of mechanical war
Has slowly drowned our splendid last resort,

Perhaps they fell and choked on death,

Those men who ride so valiantly.

O, where are they, our warrior gods,

The ones we call the Cavalry.

Poetry Monday.

Fight (For) You
A poem I wrote, I think it's an explanation.

When I feel I’m falling from warmer climes,

The ones you made out of loving words.
It’s all I can do to keep myself afloat
When I feel like I’m about to go insane.

I can’t see you like I did,
I can’t feel your beating heart,
I can’t see your glowing eyes,
I think I left a bit of me behind.

When we are bolder than a minute ago,
I swear your voice comes alive in my...
This is all I can do to stay afloat.
I just can’t feel anymore.

I can’t see you anymore,
I don’t feel your beating heart,
I don’t remember your glowing eyes,
I think I left it all behind.

I can’t help but hit the keys a little harder.
The words that form are all for you
And every time you come back it’s so cold,
But cold is better than to be without you.

When we go louder than the hour before,
I feed on anger as though it were a drug.
At least I can hear you once again my dear.
At least it feels like you are here.

I want to see you again,
I want to feel your breaking heart,
I miss those lovely morning eyes,
I wish I had come along for the ride.

Now I’m stuck holding on by a thread,
A suicidal serpent - eating its own tail.
I feel closer when I’m fighting with you.