Sunday, September 26, 2004

After the Fall

Some frightening events spark very strange responses. In my case, surviving an ambush in Mogadishu, Somalia led to writing a poem, about the only way to express the wide-open shock that someone wanting to kill you inspires.




After The Fall


Rind, orange and curled
dusted by sand, on
bloody pine boards,
under a lidless
African sun.

We dream of rest,
oil bores,
lock and load.
We dream of the
darkness,
after the fall,
when sleep is prayer.



This is probably the only piece of creative writing I have done that I actually like. I learned to write fast, though not well, by playing in on-line poetry slams. I am fairly good-natured about sucking as a poet, I was in it for the fun and comraderie.

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