I don't usually write introductions to my poems. I let them speak for themselves. In this case, I'll make an exception.
In 2004, I was a newspaper editor and National Guard officer with the 36th Infantry Division out of Texas, formerly the 49th Armored Division. My unit was activated late summer and we spent the rest of the year training and preparing for a mission to an unknown location. Toward the end of that training period, we were told we would be in Iraq. I spent all of 2005 at Al Taqqadum Air Base in the Al Anbar province.
Anyone familiar with the theater at that time knows that Al Anbar was the hotbed of the insurgency in 2005. Nevertheless, our unit was fortunate to be guarding high ground in the midst of this hotbed. While we encountered frequent rocket attacks, the casualties were few. My particular unit saw no combat casualties. Rather, we did see two unnecessary freak accidental deaths, one of them self-inflicted.
Let it be known: The Grim Reaper has many faces, and he walks down unusual paths.
The sonnet is not my ordinary form. In fact, I have no ordinary form as I do not see myself as a formulaic poet. However, I do experiment with new forms when I find them, and have been known to invent some. But I often write in a free verse style. In this case, this poem came to me in the middle of the night after I had returned home. I jotted down a few lines and completed the poem the next day. While keeping to the traditional style of the sonnet, I hope you'll recognize its retro tone. This is my "Ozymandias."
Image by Pexels on Pixabay.
The night is beautiful, beautiful
with the raspy breath
of live fire. Explosive. Death
tastes sweet like black cherry, a spool
of brut kisses, or crystal meth
with soda pop. Even a fool
can smell the pheromone of ferrous cool
in a coiled cloud. The smart head of Seth
sits on a pedestal of bronze
beaming like a tributary to love.
Hands of steel firm a grip on time, a glove
fit to spark a light touch of fear upon
us. In the end we're not near as mortal
as the eyes that peer back through that sad portal.
"Nocturne: Battlefield Sonnet" is a part of the Rumsfeld's Sandbox collection of poetry by yours truly.
