Men cry not for themselves,
instead selfless tears are shed
for comrades, brothers in arms,
that day would come to end.
So then very shy, in drones,
the endless suffering wander home,
that lads would stand watch in the snow,
become comrades, brothers in arms,
but their lives to are
destined away.
That day would repeat,
never to end.
written by Eric A. Harris
Eric A. Harris has a new page now with the above poem, and more.
http://www.triond.com/users/Eric+A.+Harris
Black Spring
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder
Is burning in the black of spring.
Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing
A hired cab will take you where
The town has ended, where the showers
Are louder still than ink and tears.
Where rooks, like charred pears, from the branches
In thousands break away, and sweep
Into the melting snow, instilling
Dry sadness into eyes that weep.
Beneath - the earth is black in puddles,
The wind with croaking screeches throbs,
And-the more randomly, the surer
Poems are forming out of sobs.
Original Version:
Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать! Писать о феврале навзрыд, Пока грохочущая слякоть Весною черною горит. Достать пролетку. За шесть гривен, Чрез благовест, чрез клик колес, Перенестись туда, где ливень Еще шумней чернил и слез. Где, как обугленные груши, С деревьев тысячи грачей Сорвутся в лужи и обрушат Сухую грусть на дно очей. Под ней проталины чернеют, И ветер криками изрыт, И чем случайней, тем вернее Слагаются стихи навзрыд.
written by Boris Pasternak
A Soldier
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.
written by Robert Frost
Who am I? Sometimes I wonder myself. It seems I am devoid of identity at times, as a member of the US Military. At other's I am but an identity. I think, therefore I am. So it is said.
My favorite poet is Eric A. Harris, who shares a name with one of the teen gunmen from the columbine school shooting. Well, it's his pen name. No telling his real name. He has a page mentioned above under my favorite of his poems. He is still living.
I know most of you guys don't read these, but if you do, mention it below in the comments. I'd like to know.
My little badge says 5 years, but it's actually been closer to 10. It'll get there soon enough on the official date I guess. Within the year I think. I've been absent for a few years now, and the friends I once had here are all but silent to me now. Or so far anyways. I need a friend. Or a few.
My favorite music genre's are metal and dubstep.
My favorite colors are red and purple. Don't match though.
My favorite movie so far . . . The Other Guys and Everything Must Go.
I dislike the picket church dudes or whatever. Can't remember who they are, but totally dislike their crazy fanatics, what with picketing funerals. Those gone deserve an undisturbed funeral. And gay people are not to be disrespected just because. So those of you that agree with these disrespectful people can just steer away. Or I'll picket your funeral. Totally.
Been dating for almost 5 years now. Love of my life. I'm glad we finally agreed that we should be together, and it's been the happiest depression I've ever been in, considering being away from her makes the time I spend with her that much more memorable.
I sincerely hope we can be friends . . . Vampyra
