Metal Memories (prosimetrum)



Standing on the beach, the man’s eyes are fixed on the horizon. The ocean wind roars mists of grief.

oftentimes the high tide and the ebb
bring up secrets from the sea bottom
to the sand

The man wants to be alone, zigzag memories weighing heavy on his heart. 

the two shrapnels are still out there
one was operated from his chest in Raleigh
expertly done sterile conditions
the other stuck out in the shoulder
of a bearded savage long dead
and the man used his bayonet
to remove it for memento

The man keeps going back to the beach every evening; the pieces might wash ashore.

the waves always bring plenty
but the two metals remain
deformed and content where they are
amnesiac resting carefree
forgotten are the cries of the wounded
many never made it home

Then one evening an old fisherman tells the man, you are quiet, sir, seem disturbed inside.

once true belief overcomes sorrow
dark memories fade
the soul is freed
and you’ll open to the world
again

Quite a philosopher, the man thinks, or Sunday school teacher. Might have a point, though.

the man walks back to his car
the night sets in
the moon takes over the sky
and the yoke is lifted

Back home, the man takes stock.

he did the right thing
when he hurled the shrapnels in the Atlantic
and now both stay put there
brine cleanses all stains

Two shrapnels; two savages. One savage fought on the wrong side, the other savage fought on the other wrong side.


Published in Dissident Voice, October 12, 2025




What Matters Most


don’t waste time
brawling with hungry lion cubs
arguing with derelict soothsayers
arrogant loud and wrong

you’ll need all your mettle
to fight the good fight
to save yourself and others

with every minute wait
you’re another minute late
having been planted deep
in the quicksand of disbelief

Published in Dissident Voice, on September 28, 2025



The Old Clock


widow Liz Mary is lithe and bright
working two jobs
always scrimping
still penniless always

she raises her children in a house where
the rooms have to be rearranged daily
out of necessity
not for fun

she has an old grandfather clock
it shows random hours not proper time
to teach the kids the certainty of unpredictability

all in all
it would still be a good life
if not for endless cacophony outside
the world’s spinning left and right

Möbius strip concepts are stomped on
tossed aside then brought back
to show the government’s hell bent on
spreading the democracy thing abroad
defending the Constitution thing back home
no matter what it takes

Published in Dissident Voice, September 7, 2025




Echo in a Bottle

 
on a Carolina beach I slogged into the labyrinth of history, or at least a lost man’s story.

old glass in the gray sand
gleamed a round bottle’s narrow neck
probably made in Europe long time back
a note was inside the message faded
someone’s last hope in a frigid flask
a longing goodbye letter sent
the ocean was foe and his only friend

I was curious what had been penned on the yellowed papyrus but there was little chance finding out; the ink had deteriorated to a sigh by the years and relentless sun.

days later odd thoughts crop up
reverie’s trans blinds and ideas roam
marooned on an island was the man
struggling dawn to dusk and then
died alone far from his country
far from his home

reduced to a perpetual hermit, what was going on in his mind? Does belief separate from the body when no one else is around? If yes, did the two have bitter quarrels?

narrow’s the land the water is wide
as the Moon travels so does the tide
the bottle floats away the man remains
marooned on the island all his days

weeks later I still can’t make out the words but have come to recall, I wrote the message


A short version of this poem was published in Friday Flash Fiction, August 4, 2025.