Man of Few Words
This introspective soldier
Whose praise for living has him plunging
The depths of his soul-
Fully prepared to meet his maker,
Placing his life on the line
That cuts through
The mania and the melancholy,
While he remains trailblazing
Through life in contemplation of our existence.
This brave warrior of mankind
Who fought for us and secured our liberty,
Defiant in the face of oppression,
Ought to be remembered
Close to eternity.
The door was opened
Allowing light to tread the air with an extract of expiration
Capturing its place accordingly
Everything exact and significant
In pristine condition
As if consistently brand new
Yet everything that resided within
Was antiquated to say the most
Nothing modern abided here
Technology very much in its adolescence
Within these mature surroundings
Telephones remained reliant upon wires
Radios resembled their former selves
All corners of the room occupied by the space where the television would be received
The table set for nobody in particular
The ornaments not so much ornamental as ornate
The pictures hung completely aligned
Bearing portraits of an external personality
Where they may have counseled for mirrors
Reflecting the occupant from angles of time
An observation of a life celebrated for a lifetime
That didn’t have stories to tell but a story that needed to be told
He was certainly no ordinary man
He’d embraced life as life had embraced him.
This was a habitat rather than a home
The home of an idealist who didn’t dwell there
But inhabited its very being
It was apparent nobody had lived here for some considerable time
Yet this house remained full of life
A life incarcerated by its own expression
Intact and in its entirety
It was a mausoleum,
Where the living held its breath
While the inanimate remained breathing.
What is intelligence?
Is it a measure of memory?
A reflex of remembrance?
Are we merited by our mental agility;
Our ability to recall information in an instant?
Must we keep up in understanding,
Less we get left behind?
We who are slow,
Who are not quick to the chase.
Who must consider ourselves dumb
Against those who don’t need to think.
Is there anybody there?
Caught out by his reflection,
Sensing a presence persuasive enough to be felt,
Seeing something congealed in the darkness,
Hearing sounds concealed in silence.
Is it just my imagination?
He asked himself
Apparently searching for what he thought was nothing.
Having cast off the conspiracy of our diurnal business
We enclose ourselves within cocoons
In the hope of spreading our wings
To become alluring through personal expression-
Feel comfortable in our own skin
With an audience
Observing us in ignorance,
All intrigued by our movements-
Their intentions benign or malignant
While they crave to get to gnaw you.
Do we actually grow into ourselves:
Fill out the space left open for ambition
So that we fit snugly into our skins?
Or do our ambitions rather shrink
Until they’re more our own size?
The Novel Writer
It began with a sentence
That incarcerated him for a number of years
Feeling the pressure build up inside
Confined from the world
Locked within his cell
Embalmed with spirit
To preserve the thoughts captured by his imagination
That dripped from the ebony pool of consciousness
In order to turn into words what would secure his release.
Anthony Ward has been writing in his spare time for a number of years. He has been published in a number of literary magazines including Enhance, Word Gumbo, Drunk
Monkeys, Speech Therapy, Thousand Shades of Grey, Ginger Piglet, Torrid Literature Journal and vox poetica amongst others.