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Bonnivier -  POETRY

WARRIOR - The Musical


JUST THREE POEMS BELOW, but much more of my poetry is featured in Our Own Voice ezine:  http://www.ourownvoiceonline.com

                                                                       (Type Bonnivier” in the search box.)

Irish Fog

(To Mrs. Joyce, in Galway, who was uneasy

     because the fog was just sitting there.)

Fog should crash and go boom

    like the waves it rough-rides into shore.

Or if it slowly--painfully slowly--rolls in,

    it should moan or creak

    or sit up suddenly and shriek.

It could sigh--for example, when it is nicely


    between two mountain peaks--

    it could sigh.

(At any rate, it should not sit there!)

And when it comes sauntering

    into the streets of our town

(and mind you, it does not miss the playgrounds)

Well, you would think for sure it would hum

    or hiss

    or maybe give a whistle.

It has never (praise be to God),

   at least so far as I know,

      it has never ever



             a woman’s kitchen


Oh, you can talk all you want to

  about how it is the nature of fog to be silent.

Snow is silent, too, even while falling.

But you can make it squeak under your boot,

  and if it becomes bothersome,

  you can shovel it out of your way.

  Try doing that with fog.

  You would be all day.

                             FOR THIS MOMENT- Homage to Whitney

                                    (from a 12-Stepper  -  February 12, 2012)

I am a Super Star.

My trophy is a plastic chip that says I’m still qualifying,

   a day, a month, six months or nine, a year, a moment.

No matter the time, I can’t leave my prize on the mantel.

My goal is never reached, my earnest performance, never done.

It is every moment forever.

You like it that I trekked in Nepal, but

You don’t know about the mountains I’m still climbing,

So much higher, so much harder than those

     at the top of the world.

I, wrongly, admired the you I created:


             needing no one

                   except for those who adore you

                   or at least never find fault.

                   And even them, you don’t need very often.

You are a strong man  in the world we call real.

My strength, the one I call upon every day, is stronger.

If I have been loved I have rarely known it, so, in a way I have lived without it.

If I have been strong, and I have, no one else has known it, so

     who I am is  anonymous.

I have guides and base camps.

Steps have been carved into the cliffs.

I’ve pushed through to the other side

     of easy toughness, so

Now and then, often, I do know myself, and

     I love what I know.

In those moments, I cling to no one and no thing

   except for that prize that I’m earning.

In those moments, I see how great I’ve become.

     So much greater than I thought I could be.

Every violation was not mine.

Neither was every innocence.

I am free.

         Read in Washington, DC

at the Dedication of the WWII Memorial 2004

             Bataan Pillars

First pillars were mahogany

lining the road

sometimes shading

as the men struggled not to fall

even as they ran forward

under shouts under clubs

under bayonets and rifle butts

under the sun, nothing at all forgiving.

It is good to forgive.

Passionate promises were made

in the heat of war,

in daily gratitudes,

even in victory.

In peace, though, there were retractions

and denials and vague references to

maybe something in the future.

It is good to forgive.

If there is no apology,

           do it in your heart.

It would be wrong to forget.

These pillars stand

some comfort under the sun.

Our passions, our memories,

durable as the trees.

We know what was broken.

Photo by Paul Tanedo, Washington, DC