I believe in being prepared for any given situation. It isn't because I'm a pessimistic person; I think it is just good common sense. Hence, I've entitled my blog "Even Nothing is Something."

This covers my butt in any event. On any given day I can feel great exaltation that I have done something grand. I can scribble fiercely when my thoughts are leaping across the meadows of my mind like a happy little colt in the month of May, or my mind and writing can be as dry and arid, as cold and without life, as the Gobi desert - because even Nothing is Something.

I want to thank all of my fellow artists who work through other means and forms and who sell their work on the wonderful artist's site "Etsy," a place to buy and sell all things handmade, along with vintage items and supplies for their craft. They are a great group of people.

Those who have links to their site on my blog represent only a few of those whom I wish to include. Just click on one of those links and join the Etsy community. It is free. They are a great group of artists who have relieved me of my money in the most delightful of ways. If it weren't for their encouragement, I would have never shared my work through this blog.

Thank you my darling friends!

Enjoy my blog - The Poet or Not - More or Less

Monday, January 25, 2010

No Man Left Behind

No Man Left Behind

You told me no stories;
not because you have none,
but because you keep
them close to your heart,
where only you can know
them. Yet, I learned of
them, as you relived many;
I discovered much about
you even though you
have been left behind,
in a hell where no young
should have ever lived.
You are a man left behind,
where you would leave no
others, but spare not yourself.
In Death Valley you are like
the plant, Xanadu, which
grows in both shade and sun,
a tropical botany growing in
darkened arbors and shadowed
entryways, where no man
was left behind. Yet, your
youth has been sequestered
there amid the mountains
and villes, when you should
have come home – no man
left behind. You live in your
private garden attended to
by death, with memories that
rain but never bless, instead
they burn and with sleep come the
dreams – the souvenirs of war.
The leaves of the jungle no
longer remember your footsteps.
The last sound in the fading
wind are the footfalls of Death,
circling for its prey, the man
who remains where no man
was to be left behind.

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