Marcus Holmes is a classically trained musician and often draws from his experience in musicianship when writing. His published works include, “Poems of a Spectrum-Autist”, “For All the Marbles”, and the three-part series, “How To Write Poetry: A Tutorial”. He resides in the U.S. with his tabby Solace, who refuses to take dictation and is a terrible speller anyway.
Just a Drill
“Duck and cover!” sounds like The name of a comic strip In color only on Sundays, To read before going to church, With warm early morning sunlight Drenching a spacious living-room With its tan wall-to-wall carpet, Piano near the great-grandfather clock. Turn out the lights. Close the school curtains tight To protect us from shattering glass. Knees on the floor, bent under the desk, Everyone in the class, even the teacher. Cover your heads with Little delicate hands. In case a bomb drops. 1969. A drill, what a thrill, sirens blared. No one dared to hesitate. Still reeling from the hate, the milieu Of World War Zwei, “The iron curtain”, “The Cuban missile crisis”, The assassination of J.F.K., Vietnam. Fears and tears of our parents, Shadows haunting First Grade.
Fire and Stones
Peace we had in the hot rocky land With our trees bearing fruit, Our fish and sheep abundant. A gift from the world We returned to our native land And took our place, our right destiny. We are the Anacans In this homeland for thousands of years, Commune we, Cobay, Rud and Anacan. Foreign marauders beat their drums, But the Will of the Universe cannot be stopped. We renewed the land and watched it grow. A low drum beats from every direction. The World screams and weeps. Flooded to the mountains with brotherly blood. We are partners with the Sau, Imbedded in a dangerous region, The region of our ancestors. They came through our streets like thunder. Driven from ancestral homes. Foreign Cobay Beating a rhythm of terror. Anacans threaten to undo us, We must maintain control to keep the peace. Checkpoints. Road blocks. Retaliation. We threw stones. They launched missiles. We resettled. They built walls dividing Family from family, Cutting across fields and farms. Our suffering has made us immune. Accountability, plausibility, impenetrability. In time the Anacans will be gone. We will thrive. The Cobay have our water. The Cobay have our home. Can we commune as neighbors again?