The War Mangled [Free Verse]

I heard the dead children,
their voices lilting on the wind.

The war-torn twice born
came crawling in under the wire,
bloody and shell-shocked,
but among the living, 

but the rest floated away:
their words
becoming both milder 
& more raucous,
never fully drowned out by
bombs or crossfire chaos.

Necropolis [Free Verse]

a city of the dead
tunneled under the living,

awaiting the flip,
a shift in who's who

-the living & the dead,
-the dead & the living
-the alive and the existent
-the living dead &
those dying alive

all jumbled together
in a sea of inhumanity,
tumbling past each other,

scrambling for humanity -
for the breath of life,
for life in a breath

the musty scent of decay
in the living city
was the first sign...

those in the necropolis 
smelled flowery scents --
clean and bright --
and found those fragrant
perfumes
as revolting as the
living found the rot stench

in the brief time it took
to become acclimated to the stink,
all found themselves in the churn,
struggling for more
of something they
didn't understand

POEM: We Are The Dead

There are those who hold marked places,
and those whose place is in the sky.
Most have long forgotten faces,
and a few never said goodbye.

There are those who rose in thick smoke,
from fires whose flames were fanned by hand
and cautiously, carefully stoked
while, to the last coal, they were manned.

There are those whose stones grew mossy -
keepers now buried at their side.
And those with headstones so glossy
who've only just finished their ride.

And all will vanish in due time,
there's only the fortunes to say
whose tales will be told at bedtimes,
and who will vanish to smoke gray.