Mr. Our Very Own

I have loved writing poems since I was 6. I have 323 poems. The rest: discarded. I put out ‘something’ today I had written 13 years ago. I have proof of that time gone by. I write because I have been an artist since I was born.

Sleepless I lie in the soldier’s march,

Sleepless I lie.

Leaves split under their boots,

Their gunshots resonate with the tall.

From a distance I hear the silence of a co-ordinated call,

From a distance I hear the sound of a half dark passage way.

 

I need some rain… or some black, blue, some white,

To camouflage my hidden sleeplessness.

I need some dreams to pretend,

Some hopes to die.

 

Sleepless I lie in the soldier’s march.

Two Men My Way.

They ask, “Are you Mr. Our Very Own?

Why then do u lie in this ordinary!

Why then do your eyes look suspiciously at us?

Get up Sir! They call you!”

.

In my silky fabric (intended to hide an infected organ),

 I walk, therefore.

Bewildered, yet half assured of no harm.

The boots, comfortably, behind me,

Trailing me with foreign sincerity,

Guiding My Way.

They plead, “Don’t be afraid.

We are not here to kill you!

You are Mr. Our Very Own.

Without you we lose our dignity!

Without you we are not soldiers anymore.”

“Walk this distance, Sir.”

“We are nearing the train.”

 

Uneasy seconds graduate to uneasy minutes.

Sleeplessness half lost into obscurity,

I beg them to shout my name again!

“Our Very Own Sir, Our Very Own!”

“Trust your soul.”

 

Sleepless I lie in the soldier’s march.

Today I am not going to let them take me AWAY.