Archive for the ‘Poetry Collective’ Category

1983-02-07 Gerda’s Knife

Monday, February 7th, 1983


                           Gerda's Knife

      I watched 'Winds of War' on TV 
      and then I turned out the light
      And, on the stairs, in the dark, ascending
          I suddenly saw your father's knife as 
        it hung in your bedroom.

      Its white metal patient 
      these many years
      since another sun shown on it
          in the days of the German Reich.

      I could hear flags whipping, 
     red and black,
      against the green of trees
         and the gray of building stones

      And, for a moment, 
     I felt the eyes of countless men
      as their hands caressed 
     the handle's symbol
      reveling in the power and purpose 
     of their God given cause.

      and then, these many years later, 
     through chances too rare to say,
      I came ... and found it there in your room
         waiting patiently 
        through all the years of my childhood.

      A time machine 
     from another reality.
      A time that almost 
     changed my world.

      I look at old photos now, 
     black and white,
      and their images seem 
     so distant and unreal to me.
            
  but with your father's knife
        I could still hear the flags snapping
     in the fervent air of those years
        and I could feel the force of it all
      across the years.

                                    GALLAGHER
                                    7 Feb 83
                                    San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

1983-04-03

Sunday, April 3rd, 1983

Lying there beside her, I smell her skin, the warmth of her
I see, or imagine, in the gray light, the wrinkles
I've put there and I feel the storm of our lives

She's told me her period's wrong and that her breasts hurt.
For months we've tried to conceive
and come to this.

I put my hand on her back beneath the covers
intimate against her sleeping
I would know her skin anywhere.

I begin to feel age and our mortality.
Even now my body says I press too hard
that I cannot become what I once was.

And she who grows more precious to me each year
grows more ripe for He who reaps us all.
I touch her back and feel her breath ... in this moment.

Gallagher

3 April 83, SJC


— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

1984-06-24

Sunday, June 24th, 1984
      What will I say to them, these chest clawed veterans
what, to shock them with MY vision
to awaken those jaded of wine and muse?


They'll fall asleep if I don't tear my heart out here
and come to the bare edge of my sanity, quickly.


Sarcasm, passion, agonizing, intellectualizing
and plundering their lives for words.


What can I do against such as these,
a romantic at an existentialist's ball.


My dreams, though, are real....
Forged of pain, yes.
But the dreams, and not the pain, have endured.


I see music in children's eyes
and feel tears well up at old photographs
of people never met.


I've seen that each moment can be an act of utter
courage...if we just live it to the brim.


Gossamer curtains these,

against their screams for blood.
I'm a child, running, in a city under siege.


gallagher
24 jun 84

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —