Poems and so
I am from dirt
by John Munnelly
I am from dirt in the kitchen
dogs barking in the hall;
I am from black and white TV
four stations that was all.
I am from a broken down car,
a child's hands on frost;
Big men looking on,
judgmentally at us.
I am from a yard of nettles
daffodils, overgrown bush;
a bomb-proof shelter with
baby-blue doors easy pushed.
I am from fish on Friday - I wish,
I am from "when is dinner time?"
I am from have you seen Mom today?
No, but we wonder what's our crimes.
I am from nuclear explosion,
I am home from the war;
I have seen the cumulonimbus change into a star.
I am the evergreen forest with the grave well hid,
I am 'the quiet one' doing as he's bid.
I am a faded picture
taken in the summer clime;
who is that child I wonder?
now and at the time.
Where is the greener pasture,
Where is the better kid?
Where is the next door neighbor,
the buried box with treasures hid.
Where is the truth in gesture
when every body lies
And at the end of all this,
John alas he dies.
© John Munnelly
The Revenant
By John MunnellyLet me be, let me be a revenant
lived too long among the exiles
shuffling in this strangers city;
eking out the odd jobs
squeezing tears, a pity.
Let me be, let me be an expat
with tall tales of giants and adventure,
treasures in the bag cast on my shoulder,
nonchalantly.
Let me be, let me be a revenant,
returned recently from the ‘thought-were-dead’,
having ‘not changed a bit’ I'm informed
with envy or kindly.
Let me be, let me be homeward bound
if such a hearth could really exist,
And throw a sod upon the fire
to raise sparks into the dark around me.
Let me be, let me be a remnant
cast adrift in some insane war,
passing through the cinders
of the burnt fields of history.
Let me be a survivor
fearfully and wonderfully clinging
to a raft of unknown origin and making,
with passage home in sight
and the smell of fresh bread baking.
Let me be the Yank
with pockets gilt and brimming,
picking out the cottage
and with the early birds a-singing.
Let me have a cure, a draught of bells a-ringing,
calling my soul home finally
to safety of a fine evening.
Let me be me, at home inside myself
after years of neglected wandering;
knowing, familiar with as the Poet said,
my place for the first time.
Let me be among my own people
no matter if they are nosy,
and be transparent like crystal
so they can drink
and see the truths right through me.
Let me be, let me be not mistaken
and sit comfortably in my own skin and castle,
with a heroes satisfaction of knowing
the demons and hassle
were well worth the price of admission.
Then to watch as the sunflowers
turn their tall golden eyes in imploration
to the only sun that bears no imitation.
And finally, stepping off with my bags,
when the bus pulls into the station.
© John Munnelly
The Great God of Battle (Lies)
by John Munnelly
You who worship the great God of Battle
and say you do it for us
- you lie.
You who do just as you’re bid
whipped the savior ‘til he bled
then say you do it for us
- another lie
you who takes hammer to the ant
kill when told, you compliant
and say you do it for us
- you lie.
you who bring death, both near and far
professionally, for star & bars
you who die as brothers
you say you do it for us
- you lie.
You who volunteer for a death
to give to others, lay waste to breath
you say you do it for us
- you lie
You who return a cripple
a blown head full of jelly pickle
without feet, no feel, no tickle
and say you did it for us
- you lie
Wounded yessir but masters fickle
you did for them who won’t spend nickel
cause they say you did it for us.
- they lie
© John Munnelly
