The Blues I've Used

The Blues I’ve Used

(“Our warriors have fallen in the heat of battle.” 2 Samuel 1:25a)

Take these words with you, pass them up the ladder,
carry them paper-flight beyond the roofs, along the arch
helium balloons take unaided by the wind.

Find another chapter to write, quickly lay down the think in ink,
comment on disorderly, wrestle with logicality that
death comes dying to the young to the young who
we thought would battle in the sun in the sun
until they came back home, our very own,
our warriors, our victors, our daughters and sons.

Mama died too early, Father could not face too soon,
too soon perhaps as well.
Me, I’m left writing like I did in school,
leaving off rhyming, limping odd timing,
trying to start out bright and yellow until
the sunny hues are stewed in an instant and
words revert to the blues I’ve used over and over
and never learned to play very well.

Sis is on the mountain, and Sis is in the heat,
Brother is waiting in the windy city,
and I never miss a beat of wondering why
I put off reunions for one more year for cost.

No one dies early, some die barely alive,
No one dies early, we all die on time.
But the battle takes the much too young,
the battle takes the prime and elite,
and I still write like I did in school
pouring ink on the fibers instead of tears,
looking for subscribers to apprehend my fears,
(not of dying, or dying too soon,
but of living too cautiously, venturing only
a day or two from the womb).