Memorial Day—The 30th of May

Memorial Day—The 30th of May

and Other Poems

William F. Carlson

Acknowledgments

The poem “Memorial Day – The 30th Of May” is reprinted from the Spring 2006 issue of Iambs and Trochees.

All other poems are reprinted from No Sun, No Shadow (Brooklyn, New York: Somers Rocks Press, 1998).

Cover art: The Fifer by Edouard Manet


Copyright © 2006 by William F. Carlson


Published by The New Formalist Press


XHTML & CSS design by Leo Yankevich

The Orifice

It sits below the nose, above the chin,
And manufactures both the pout and grin.
The thespian growls with it to show true grit
Or feigns timidity if he sees fit.
The preacher uses it to warn of sin
And tell us where to send donations in.
The politician has great need of it
To cover up bad deeds with charm and wit.
A child’s can blow and make a pinwheel spin
Or send soap bubbles flying in the wind.
The baseball player uses it to spit
While telling buddies how he got that hit.
Magnanimous it is, as you can see,
It works for all and does not charge a fee.

There Are None So Blind

Spring will return to Bosnia this year.
The crocuses will find a way to bloom
And branches of the tree will come to leaf.
The mare will drop her foal, the cow will calf,
And in the streams refreshed by winter’s snow,
The roe will soon become the trout and bass.
Crickets will sing on a coverlet of green
That shrouds a blood-stained field where corpses rest.

In villages there will be other sounds:
The midwife’s gentle slap, the infant’s cry.
But everywhere this symphony of birth
Will vie with rifle shot and missile’s roar,
For the cooing of the dove will be unheard.
The branches of the olive tree unseen.

The Dayton Accords

The cage is built, inside the tamer stands
With cracking whip, a pistol on his hip.
Three lions sit attending his commands
And wait with focused eyes for just one slip.

Conversation With Shakespeare

Ten syllables you say are what I need.
First short, then long, iambic it must be.
And four of these together it’s agreed
Shall rhyme a certain way, A-B, A-B.
Then still two more quatrains I have to find,
C-D, C-D, E-F, E-F the rhyme;
And these must ask a question from my mind,
In language both poetic and sublime?
You then demand the question that I ask
Be answered in two lines with rhyme G-G?
Who has the discipline for such a task
Today? How could you ask this task of me?
    If I did that I’d have to think too hard
    And God forbid, I might be called a bard.

The Visit

He wore a ruptured duck in his lapel.
His eyes were sad, the orators of hell.
He took a glass of whiskey from the bar
And gulped it down to soothe an unhealed scar.
Just down the street were stairs he had to climb,
Alone, not as it was another time,
When death was far away and unperceived,
And no one knew whose life would be reprieved.
The solace of the drink no longer here,
His brow held beads of sweat that showed his fear.
With all his strength he tried to pull away,
His mirrored image beckoned him to stay.
He lit a cigarette then crushed it out
And turned so not to hear his image shout,
“Forget his mother living with her grief.
You met her once, the meeting only brief.
You have no obligation to the dead.
Do not look back. Your life now lies ahead.”

He hurried from the bar and to that door,
The last one they walked through to go to war.
His buddy’s mother came, Death at her side.
She showed no grief. Her hate she could not hide.
Her screaming words came vicious in attack,
“They killed my baby. Why have you come back?
Why couldn’t they take you in my son’s place?
Get out. I look at you and see his face.”

He saw Death smile and gently kiss her hand,
Then left and prayed one day he’d understand.

Sic Transit

I feel the breath of winter on my neck
And see the trees undressed prepared for sleep.
I watch a starling in frustration peck
The barren earth in search of worm or seed,
Then spread its wings to fly above it all
And circle—free to find a kinder place.
But I must stay and weather winter’s pall
With only dreams of spring and fruitful Mays.
Would I had wings to soar beyond this cold
Landscape, where life lies dormant in the ground,
To friendlier domains where I might hold
A rose again and hear earth’s birthing sound.
    But I cannot escape this gravity
    That grips my soul. There are no wings for me.

The Magic Of Love

I knew you’d come. I waited through the day.
At last in sunset’s glow I saw your face.
I watched you stumble, try to turn away,
Then took your hand and helped you to a place
Where you’d find comfort for a battered heart
For wasn’t that the reason why you came?
Had you not searched the world in every part
For love until you heard me call your name?
Rest, while I kiss the scars upon your feet;
Each wound you suffered from a false caress.
And yet you cry because you say we meet
Too late, the birds already in their nests?
    Come. Look. Our love has pushed away the night.
    Aurora stands in radiant robes of white.

Remember, America

You called us at a time of life for dreams,
When love and knowledge should have been our thought
Or things like mountain paths and fishing streams.
We came, unmindful of what we’d be taught.

They showed us how to rain death from the sky;
The way to maim and kill without mistake;
To hit the target with a marksman’s eye;
To hide and move in silence like a snake.

And when they sent us off with all these skills
We used them well and many died—all bled,
For men are scarred forever once they kill,
Can never cross that river running red.
    We gave our youth. There was no more to give.
    And now you leave us with no place to live.

Christmas Eve

The yule log burns. Its fire throws no light
And joyful songs of Christmas bring a tear,
For I’m alone and long for you this night.

The star atop the tree shines low then bright
And shadows dance then quickly disappear.
The yule log burns. Its fire throws no light.

The sounds of children squealing in delight
Are raucous and disturbing to my ear,
For I’m alone and long for you this night.

The neighbors come. I try to be polite,
Then send them off with just one cup of cheer.
The yule log burns. Its fire throws no light.

What once was beautiful to me seems trite
And heartfelt Christmas wishes insincere,
For I’m alone and long for you this night.

I think of Ebenezer Scrooge’s plight
And wait for Christmas Future filled with fear.
The yule log burns. Its fire throws no light,
For I’m alone and long for you this night.

Memorial Day–The 30th Of May

This day we honor those who raised their hands
And swore they would defend our nation’s shores;
Their names inscribed on marble slabs in fields
From Arlington to Gettysburg. They rest
In Normandy, each cross reminding us
That freedom only comes with sacrifice.

A light first lit at Lexington, passed on
In eighteen twelve, was kept alive by those
Who’d keep us one—at Shiloh and Bull Run.

Their blood was spilled on foreign soil, that light
Refreshed to burn in other lands and so
To shine more brightly in their own. The flag
They loved still flies above our capitol
Because they lived the oath they swore—their blood
In its red stripes and honor in the white.

About the author

William F. Carlson is a native New Yorker who resides in Brooklyn. He attended Erasmus Hall High School and Hunter College, C.U.N.Y. He has published a novel that takes place during the Second World War titled No Souvenirs To Remind Me, and a book of poetry, No Sun, No Shadow (Somers Rocks Press, 1998). He is the editor and publisher of the poetry magazine Iambs & Trochees.