"The Soldier"

Perfection

A certain tone of voice can make

An evening warm and loving

Which a slight inflection

Different would spoil.

Some notes of sound create a song

That two notes other ruin.

A single word can end a poem

A synonym would mar.

“The Soldier”

Of all the sacred poems Rupert Brooke

Wrote in his short life, encompassing

Lust and ecstasy and happiness

And more intelligence in any poem

Than any poet summoned up together,

The poem (this is easy to believe)

That got the most attention is “The Soldier”.

Patriotism. Let me be extinguished.

Remember nothing but the fatherland.

That's the crap that instigates a war.

For all the true sincerity of Brooke,

I doubt he meant it. Or that precious mind

Thought like bombers in a suicide.

The Nurse

Totally psychotic,

When I was quite insane,

I walked into the hospital,

But I did not remain.

Terrified to tell

The truth while Jacqui watched,

The intake interview

I absolutely botched.

Quietly I asked,

“Must I tell you more?”

The doctor hollered, “What

Do you think I'm asking for!!!”

I got no medication,

Heard nothing to repeat.

In about a week

I was on the street.

Except a single comment

(Let nobody refute!),

A nurse when she walked by

Said, “You reconstitute

Quickly.” And this angel

Not disgusted by the odd

Kept saying that to me,
Like the gentle hand of god.

Youth

I was very young – for many years -

Then I went insane -

Then I was old.

I always had a friend

Or else a lover,

But never was a member of the fold.

Poetry and music! San Francisco!

He caught me in the net of his seclusion -

Then I escaped and went to New York City.

London and Manhattan.

Then I died.

I fell apart -

But I never cried.

Then I met her -

Proserpine and Pluto -

A demon out of hell who knew the world

And understood all living creatures in it

Including me.

And now I am alone.

No. I was never young.

And now I'm old.