poetryrepairs 15,02:018

JOHN HORVATH Jr : Golden Triangle Lifemate Wanted
ABIGAIL B. CALKIN : How Boys Become Men

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Golden Triangle Lifemate Wanted

Spontaneous outgoing, are you out there? Sincere lifemate is seeking true love, looking for someone down to earth sweet and pretty. Time we met. Attractive older woman, special lady, open-minded blue-eyed someone big on sincerity and honesty, are you there seeking an independent friend, searching for fun and frolic. Starving for affection; lonely, needed. Look here for secure established life's love who loves life. Warm-hearted lonesome romantic, yours truly, your long awaited. Put simply, R. S. V. P. P.S. Waiting for your warm red hair and soothing eyes, that way you tilt your head a bit in thought, the curl of your smile on the right, the straight and open way you sleep, the slimmest shadow of your walk. Your "don't you dare" when I desire that "just you and me" so special treat.

published in Arcanum Cafe
poetryrepairs #209 15,02:018

How Boys Become Men

When the soldier cries, he sheds no tears
I. Your mother thought you were a pyromaniac. A friend assured her all boys are until they turn into men who build good fires. Watch him stand before his primal flame. Home on leave, you had your 19th birthday in Iraq. You drive with an M-16 on the floor of the front seat leaning up against the passenger door. Terrifying the town But no one asks you why You stop your car to talk to me. How good it is to see you, How’s your family? You ask. How are you? I ask. I killed a 12-year-old boy. It’s good to be back. I killed a 12-year-old boy. I’m home for two weeks. I killed a 12-year-old boy. I’m going to the park. Home on leave. A week ago you were in Baghdad streets shooting at people, being shot at. You did not leave those streets when you stepped off the plane into the woods of Alaska. What do you see behind the trees in the forests you played in as a boy? You’re 19. I weep for you until you learn to weep for yourself. Till then, World, hold him in the palm of your heart. II. Your mother tells me you guard a colonel. That must be safe, I reassure her. No one’s going to let anything happen to a colonel. Home on leave, you display six photos of buddies killed. I sly a shot to your mother, mocking myself, as I slow my walk, [no break] Seeing I was dead wrong. Shot glass in front of each photo. You place the seventh glass —or is it the first— in the middle before the unit emblem. You fill each one. Down a toast for your comrades from the shot glass in the middle. Go to the first photo. Say something about him. Offer a silent prayer. Pour his shot on the ground. Down the row in one more farewell to each. I wish their families could see you honor them. I glance at my husband, a three-year two-war veteran— your mentor you say, calling your mother from Iraq for his phone number. Tears brim his eyes. I went to Russia and Ukraine a month later. Told several in both countries. Ah! The mothers nodded, That is how our soldiers honor their dead in the field and once home: Slavic tradition in a US Army platoon. Mourn the dead Bring the troops home. I do not want to see mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, brothers, fathers and sons weep Till they learn to nest their tears in the palms of their hearts.

published in Poems Niedergasse (CH)
poetryrepairs #209 15,02:018

Coming Out

Yesterday was different than all other yesterdays. I am free of the bondage of assumptions, the shackles of norms, and the pressure of conformity. I threw off the tight hetero-skin that bound my naked soul. Tight and suffocating, it only served to cover the real me, so to make me pleasing to the Male eye. I am released like a newborn baby, with no expectations or regrets; only the knowledge that, no matter what the shape, colour or equipment attached, the only thing we can truly take PRIDE in is what is under that skin. As I peel off the layers of denial and deceit I finally, for the first time in my life am PROUD of what I see!

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:018

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REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary

Abigail B. Calkin is previously published at poetryrepairs. This poem is from a prose and poetry collection titled The Wife of… Memoir of a Military Wife.

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