letters from the black box

[Jeffersons Ghost]

LETTERS CAST IN SAND
One night as pen and paper, fell freely from my hand,
I wrote our troops in finger-scrawl upon a darkened shore.
Then I heard sea-drumming; coming low, like a marching band.
As words were washing from my soul and rhyming by the score
I felt a feather flick my face and fall on salty sand
But darkness grounds all birds, to nestle near the land

I believe it fell from an angel, sailing softly past a dune,
as forceful seas of private shame, came washing in once more.
I think it was last season’s song, swirling through her tune,
while waves wept booming echoes, like a distant cannon’s roar.
I wrote my sandy prose, by the light of a blood-red moon.
All letters about dead troops arrive much too soon.

Perhaps a windy blast had blown that dove-fluff free,
as some bird sat sleeping on a fence or telephone line.
But the moonlit beach held neither fence, nor line, nor tree:
It only offers frothing waves and winds to chill the spine
I thought back to a busty barmaid, tattooed in poetry
“Gone But Not Forgotten” was near her heart for all to see.

Has peace become a shell-game for peasants on the beach;
or a perfect pearl of passion pinned to a harlot’s dress?
When will we learn that fighting puts mercy out of reach;
and ruffles foreign feathers, as sand becomes a bloody mess?
Will wartime propaganda be the only songs we teach;
while un-hatched generations pay for the lies we preach?

This morning, as the sun rose to reveal my sandy scrawl;
All the beach let me say was that my letters had washed away.
Like black parades of silence, as angels cry and fall,
grisly gulls pecking at crabs seemed to bow and pray;
to dove duets, cooing love-songs, with every calming call;
as the band loads instruments, in black boxes down the hall.

While writing letters to perfect strangers serving in battle overseas, might seem futile, it matters a great deal to our troops. Instead of tying a tired yellow ribbon to an old oak tree, find a way to send gifts or at least write letters to America’s Finest. A letter to some stranger in uniform seems like such a silly little thing. Little things matter, however, when your best friend just died in a fire-fight for foreign sand.

To A Few Friends Ya'll

[Jeffersons Ghost]

1. thanks for EVERYTHING, my friends...

I've never been More happy, More outspoken or More honored