War is Kind?

“War is kind”, a poet once wrote. Kind to whom? Is it kind to her, laid out onto the ground, close to her loss? What do you whisper to someone who cannot hear, but yet is near? Should she share her sense of loss? After all war is kind. But what will he tell her? Would he too agree that war is kind?
She’s barefooted, like at a picnic. Or is she barefooted more like a corpse? “Why won’t the ground swallow me up?” We think we hear her say. The ground doesn’t swallow her up as much as she would want it to. She sees no union with her beloved. And so she mourns, and claws at the ground. But she is denied her wish. War is kind.
She thrashes yet again and again, but the earth stays unmoving.
“Why, why me?” she shouts in agony to the sky.
She is consumed with grief, but doesn’t understand.
After all, war is kind.
She hears that war is kind,
But yet does not hear from he who went to war.
His hand she can no longer grasp,
His lips she can no longer kiss,
His arms no longer wrapped around her.
War is kind she tells herself.
War is kind?

A Love Lost

The meanings fled
Even before the words were out.
Even earlier whatever spark they had between them
Had long extinguished.
Their flame of love
Became a cinder.
Instead of heat,
Now the cold and lost memories of love.
From sunshine to twilight,
a love that seemed enduring
ended before the break of dawn.
A darkening sky,
instead of a sunlit field.
From love to its extinction,
two lovers parting ways, each to their own solitude.
Yet once, for a special moment
It was sunshine, there was passion, and there were flames.
So how does love go from flame to ash?
What extinguishes the flame
That once burned oh so brightly?
The love didn’t end
It was consumed by its own fire.
For love to endure
It must be banked at times.

One Hand Clapping

What is the sound of one hand clapping?
Zen monks seem to hear this,
But what is the sound of one hand clapping?
Don’t you need two?
Is it sound waiting to be?
A sender without a receiver?
Is this too much Zen, or is it nonsense?
I want to know what a Zen monk really hears.
Is it a sound only for his ears?
Or can I just for a short time hear it too?
Sometimes I think I hear the sound of one hand clapping,
I call it loneliness.
But then again, I don’t know Zen.
A monk will tell me that I want answers,
But I fail to hear questions.
The sound of one hand clapping is something of the instance.
It’s something beyond hearing.
It’s something that is.
The sound of one hand clapping,
needs no complement.

Metaphor For Life Poem

Metaphor for Life Poem
The game starts before the whistle. It starts with my cleats. I take my time choosing the right shoes, after all, I have to move, and move like the wind. I attack, I send the ball to the back of the net. I send the ball outside the goalie’s reach.
It starts with my cleats. It starts with getting ready. It starts with me focusing on what I need to do. Put the ball in the back of the net, just outside the goalie’s reach. Without the cleats, I can’t move. I can’t attack the goalie’s net.
It starts with getting ready. It starts with thinking ahead and planning. It starts with wanting to win. It starts with getting ready to win. You’re careful with picking your shoes. You’re careful about picking everything. After all, that’s what the game is about.