Jim78
Probationary
I wrote this poem when I was 17 which would have been 19 years before I started remembering past lives. I always believed my poetry came from something deeper than I was aware of. Many of my poems from that period resonated with me recently because they reflected what I am going through now as an adult, but this poem seems to reflect my past life:
GLORY
On the hailing of a grey armoury,
to our wartorn heartbeats
we break moist bread,
where at those murky places
we wreak placid revenge.
Do we understand?
To wrap that machine gun
around cold, steeled shoulders,
to feel that barrel,
that chastened power
is a sweet haven
to a martian heaven.
That rattling and piercing
to not ballot the living,
to shatter tranquility
among gunnery pinning.
Do we understand?
A body rises and falls
to give up the living,
it's blood ripples,
a pool of unnerving sin.
Simple,
it's just a trigger.
And to a life
the final thought,
to panic in anger and warfare burning
where lips redden among deafening gurning
and an eye stares
within a tunnel.
The speed of the bullet
to speed from the living
and the soldier will lay
dead from our troubles.
Do we understand?
////
You can see with the moist bread phrase I was referring to war and Catholicism. The second two versus pretty much describe an ambush. The last section describes a soldier dying a messy death. Thats why I called the poem Glory, because soldiers killing and dying is anything but glorious.
This is my death from my immediate previous life that I remember:
I didn't post a website link because I doubt anyone would want to read a long essay on the ambush but thats basically it. I was shot in an ambush in my past life.
GLORY
On the hailing of a grey armoury,
to our wartorn heartbeats
we break moist bread,
where at those murky places
we wreak placid revenge.
Do we understand?
To wrap that machine gun
around cold, steeled shoulders,
to feel that barrel,
that chastened power
is a sweet haven
to a martian heaven.
That rattling and piercing
to not ballot the living,
to shatter tranquility
among gunnery pinning.
Do we understand?
A body rises and falls
to give up the living,
it's blood ripples,
a pool of unnerving sin.
Simple,
it's just a trigger.
And to a life
the final thought,
to panic in anger and warfare burning
where lips redden among deafening gurning
and an eye stares
within a tunnel.
The speed of the bullet
to speed from the living
and the soldier will lay
dead from our troubles.
Do we understand?
////
You can see with the moist bread phrase I was referring to war and Catholicism. The second two versus pretty much describe an ambush. The last section describes a soldier dying a messy death. Thats why I called the poem Glory, because soldiers killing and dying is anything but glorious.
This is my death from my immediate previous life that I remember:
I didn't post a website link because I doubt anyone would want to read a long essay on the ambush but thats basically it. I was shot in an ambush in my past life.
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