Wounds

I think this poem doesn’t look at where I am now, but where I was, when I wasn’t sure I could go on. It’s odd to try and get into the head of someone you were not that long ago. It feels like someone else now, but I still remember being inside their head. How many people have I been?

Fighting for Love

“What’s the point?”

The wounded soldier asks

As he clings to his wounds

To hold back the rushing blood.

“What is the point of the fight,

Holding ground,

Just To bear all these wounds

Should I stop the pressure
And just let it bleed?"

He watches the oozing mess between his fingers,

Just his hand keeping some of the life inside

He considers letting the weakness wash over him

So he won’t have to fight anymore.

Giving in to the sorrow

Hiding in the bed

Nibbling at crackers,

Enough to live, but who wants to gain your strength.

Strength brings the pain

Who wants to get up?

To walk on legs made of water

Wounds cutting so deep, they pierce to the other side, and bend 
          back again

Weaving through and through, till there is nothing left

Except the tapestry of wounds.

The red torrents spill upon the unwashed floor

Life pours away

The soldier clutches his wounds

Hold on.

For no reason, he thinks of a joke

A chuckle.

No great moment.

On a normal day of chores

Just a single laugh.

One smile long before,

And he gets the point,

Stands up

Walks out the door

And healed looks for more

Sex Negative

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Christian Nation

Christian Nation

Are we a Christian nation?

We came and conquered the land

Blood soaked small pox blankets

We gave them away

In the guise of kindness

Feining peace so we could kill

Genocide

Slaughtering the savages

Accepting their aid and

Carving turkey with the knife before we stab them

Then We look for slaves

Dragging thousands from homes to work our fields

Using the holy book for guidance,

We see we must enslave

And kill

It’s all right there

And after all

We are a Christian nation

We are,

but I wouldn’t wear that badge

With such pride

Godless Heathen

Godless Heathen

This is it

This is what we have.

No god, gods, goddesses, spirits, angels.

It’s us.

We are alone.

We are animal,

Animals have tools

Be it claw or fang,

Quills or speed.

Our tool is reason.

Our minds, our thoughts

The odds against it are a billion to one.

Which poised against the billions in the universe, means

It was pretty much a sure thing.

We had to happen somewhere.

Where there are millions of life forms, at a million to one odds,

One of them had to be us.

We are the Shakespeare typed by infinite monkeys.

We are here.

We are alone.

There is no justice above, so we must demand it now.

There is no salvation, we must save ourselves.

Life is precious, because this is all there is.

We are sacred, because there is nothing else.

No robed grandfather denizen to escort us to a great cloud.

No reward or punishment except what we provide.

We must exalt ourselves because that is all there is to exalt to.

When you pray for me you diminish me.

When you call outside the world, to that which is not there

You weaken us.

Taking time and attention from that which must be done

We are strong. We are amazing. We are alone.

We must be one being.

One strong voice to right our own wrongs,

make our own world, and be our best

Because there is nothing else to be.

The two focuses of this blog are intended to be poetry and atheism. There will be poetry that is not necessarily reflective of atheism,and info and opinions about religion, that is not poetry, but I hope to collide the two from time to time.
I went to some poetry readings, and I heard a great deal of poetry. But almost every poet keeps throwing in God language, and it threw me off. Then it occurred to, amongst my poetry blogs, and my atheist blogs, there aren't really any atheist poets.  So here I am.