A Sadness at the Disparity; Anguish at Gettysburg

There is a sadness
in the heart of man
that binds him to the
heart of every other man;

a sadness at the disparity
and emptiness we feel
when we think of all the
wars we have marched
ourselves off into.

It is a cello playing
slowly in the morning
sunlight; the rays creeping
between wisps of smoke
rising from the fires of
biscuits and coffee. The
hours will languish,
but the strains will wear on.

Claiming the protection of the
softer and gentler nature of our
humanity, we have told ourselves
this violence we allow in the
unbridled passion of killing for
belief is to be expected.
War is a consequence of our
of our duality and our compromise.

From here it looks like
tendons and muscles all
bloodied and torn. They
tell me we must do this
or all else will fail.

And yet, this hollow and
aching presence in my center
does not feel good.
But, it ties me to all other
men: at this time and through
all time. And, I am not sure how
to honor this - this aching and
horrific sense of my participation
in something dark and ill.

And yet, and yet again
as I see them come up
and over that small bluff
with their steel
shining and glinting
in the early morning light
of day, I know that
if I long to see my dear and
helpless child again - my
lovely and fair wife -
I must drag my mixed
emotion into that battle
and kill or be killed.

How have I allowed myself
to be carted off into a land of
woe and agony - a sea of despair
and contempt for another.

How have we endorsed this madness
throughout time. We have killed the
better angels of our nature and we
stand upon their bruised and bloodied
bodies, unaware that our boots
are slowly sinking into their loving
flesh.

What have we done. Who writes this
madness into the hearts of mankind.
I do not fear the dying
as much as I fear what I have become.

And yet, there is no time
I must rise and pack my powder;
I must run, into the stream of chaos,
with an empty belly and a heart
full of memories.

I only pray I will
settle on some peaceful scene in my
heart - in my mind - if it is me
that lay a dyin' at the end of day.

I can still hear the cello staining
for a "c", straining to open my heart
as I hurry toward the glint
and shine of their steel coming over
the muddied ridge.

Brother against Brother

When I woke up
I was on the battlefield.

I can not believe for
however long I was out cold
that I had no recollection
of the war.

It took me
a moment to remember
where I was.

The bodies
and the smoke brought
it all back home to me -
QUICKLY.

It crept into every other
small crevice of my life
until - I believe - even the
hairs of my ear knew we
were at war; we were
pitted brother against brother.
So, I was startled to notice
that there was an inkling in
time - a ripple in my memory -
that did not know I was at war;
that we were at war.

Simply saying those words -
"brother against brother" -
in my own head, in my own heart
raises the taste of blood and
bitterness into my dry
and parched mouth. I feel as
if I was forced to fight them;
as if some cauldron of ire and
stamina was kicked over. In
order to avoid burning our feet
we all began a mad dance and
a hooting and a hollering that became
itself a contagion for its own
continuation - its own perpetuation.
It kept on well into the night of our
days on the raw nerve of too
much pride and embarrassment.
No one could admit to themselves
what we were doing - the base
and vile hypnotic euphoria led us
into a trance that has altered our
state of consciousness just enough
to have shifted the earth on its
access without our knowing.
Everything has changed. Nothing
has remained the same.

There are days in a man's lifetime
that he can look up to the dark and
early morning sky, and while
catching a glimpse of Ursula Major,
he can feel the gentle breath of a
few fallen snowflakes on his cheek.
Right here, right now, this
is one of those moments. But then,
I recognize that I have no legs
and that the freshness of the new
fallen snow is tainted beyond beauty
with the blood of the battlefield.

I am undone.
I am undone.