Pillage
by Alfred A. Yuson
Stones. We had to deprive them of stones.
Clearing the paths to the village, we sent
the old men and the children home. Flowers.
No one could ever raise a yard of color.
Our machetes went to work. The women wept
when they saw how sweat beaded our brows.
The river flowed, now as fast as stories told
of loss of face. How could they smile toothily
at one another, even when mornings promised
our departure? How can they look one another
in the eye, thump breasts and shoulders, suckle
from mothers? Their mountains were as forlorn.
Without stones, without flowers. But that is how
wars are won and dark souls are remembered.
So said our generals, who always knew better.
We had to suck away their spirit, leave no chance
for rebirth of courage. We took away all their stones,
the polish of their dreams. We buried the love
that made them strong. We burned all buds and flowers.
Now there are no heroes even in their bravest songs.
Showing posts with label Alfred A. Yuson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alfred A. Yuson. Show all posts
A Good Cry by Alfred A. Yuson (Poem)
A Good Cry
by Alfred A. Yuson
Not an eye was dry
when I told them my story.
How at 55 I suffered
from longevity.
Only whiskey makes me well.
Yet nights I drink I cry.
Boyhood seems so long ago,
apparently of yore, another planet.
Tired of serial arguments
with this world; wired; flamed.
Gods are gone, loves alone.
No real friends but the kids.
More than half of what
scares me shitless lies beyond.
The photo albums remain
undone, I scratch my head
half the time.
Half the time
I search for a joke. Only
the clock hangs there, very
funny. Its hands move but
imperceptibly. Wish my heart
and mind were at 10:10.
by Alfred A. Yuson
Not an eye was dry
when I told them my story.
How at 55 I suffered
from longevity.
Only whiskey makes me well.
Yet nights I drink I cry.
Boyhood seems so long ago,
apparently of yore, another planet.
Tired of serial arguments
with this world; wired; flamed.
Gods are gone, loves alone.
No real friends but the kids.
More than half of what
scares me shitless lies beyond.
The photo albums remain
undone, I scratch my head
half the time.
Half the time
I search for a joke. Only
the clock hangs there, very
funny. Its hands move but
imperceptibly. Wish my heart
and mind were at 10:10.
Dream of Knives by Alfred A. Yuson (Poem)
Dream of Knives
by Alfred A. Yuson
Last night I dreamt of a knife
I had bought for my son. Of rare design.
It went cheaply for its worth—short dagger
with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath
which miraculously revealed other miniature blades.
Oh how pleased he would be upon my return
from this journey, I thought. What rapture
will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face
when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering
pleasure will most certainly be unleashed.
When I woke, there was no return, no journey,
no gift and no son beside me. Where do I search
for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw
happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so
from such sharp points of dreams?
by Alfred A. Yuson
Last night I dreamt of a knife
I had bought for my son. Of rare design.
It went cheaply for its worth—short dagger
with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath
which miraculously revealed other miniature blades.
Oh how pleased he would be upon my return
from this journey, I thought. What rapture
will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face
when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering
pleasure will most certainly be unleashed.
When I woke, there was no return, no journey,
no gift and no son beside me. Where do I search
for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw
happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so
from such sharp points of dreams?
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