We tend to undervalue many of the people and things we know. We take them for granted. They seem unimportant. Yet the knowledge underpins all of a poet's writing. Without a sense of authority, the writer can't coax the reader into belief — or at least a waiver of distrust. You know many more things than you give yourself credit for.
The poem "Untitled" is a poem about grief — grief and I have a close working relationship. Grief is a silent thing; it just lies there with what times gives. When I wiped away the years I saw myself substituting my anger for my grief. After all, they are two sides of the same coin.
"In Honor Of Gold," "My Vietnam," and "Bombs Away" are poems of loss. I loved and believed in my country but my country did not love nor believe in me. I looked and discovered my spirit. A poet must put himself in the place of something apart from you. "Summer Shadows" and "Untitled" were poems written outside myself. Only after I finished writing them, did I scream out my heart. My dad always said;" People have it all wrong; you must dream with your eyes open." I love you dad! — Jack
Untitled
I take his heart in my hand
and
burn into dust
riding on a midnight wind.
I whisper his dying sounds to sleep
and
tears burn through old dreams without mornings.
My father is dead.
Endless waitings out of sightless windows
and
than
he dies alone
under a silent sky
dreaming of fate.
A lone chord moves in my ear
echoing
between the folds of time.
My father is dead.
My father always had a song to sing. He taught me "the meaning of all things." He would say, "every bird has its own words to sing. This uniqueness is the beauty of all life. In the knowing comes grace, in the showing comes love." After my father died I went to the edge of my lake and sang high his melodies, holding each note in my mouth to taste the sweetness of his life.
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Summer Shadows
She lived with me
when
I smashed the nights
into
quiet rooms without doors.
Like a voice in sleep the night called me in
and
I withstood so long
'til
there was nowhere left to go
no way to let go
where
some part of me
still
looked out
over fields
filled with black flowers.
Sometimes--
Sometimes
the shadows soften
with her scent of light
and
I would run
skimming over white petals of moonlight
coming back to us
so young,
her hand over mine
touching together
in the first time
we were life.
And
in the most quiet way
we
pushed the sunlight out of our eyes
and
it was handed back to time.
I want to tell you I love you still
always,
until the light burns away my last breath.
But
The night comes on
darkening
over fields
filled with black flowers.
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In Honor Of Gold
The
night lingers long
with
one slow breath
and
all before us
is still
yet
not at rest
beneath
the
December snow
of
rage and death.
Silent screams crawl
to the edge
of
a deep dark hole
no living to see
in a soul
lost and gone
at
Wounded Knee
where
children of sunlight
lay cold
wrapped in white snow,
of
this and all things
we drank every tear
always the same
where
nothing is left
but
to gain.
We are the they
who
let the night through
pouring out your dreams
to
clean and shine
our
Medals of Honor
no light has seen
till
the end of dreams.
I
then
your darkest of tears
only
revered
in my eyes of gold.
There were eighteen Medals of Honor awarded to members of the 7th Calvary after the "battle" at Wounded Knee, where 350 men,women,and little children were killed on December 29, 1890.
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Doors
Wings of light glide
beyond
this world
sliding through
doors of air
where
the wind tumbles over and dares not go
far
from what is here
afraid
to draw near
to
what might be there.
Yet
life draws breath though there is no air
for
what life is not
is
what we ought to be.
Just
a boy
within a flash of air
so quick
he was never there
opening doors
everywhere
to see
the flames that roar
through dreams
touched by the wind
in flight
on
wings of light.
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My
Under a black moon
Vietnam
the wind rises
from
inside the earth.
Breathing its dust into the dead
lying together
beyond
the hate and the hated.
"The soul moves in circles,"
said Plotinus.
But
I have no form,
a shadow of no shadow,
how afraid it is to be me.
I
come upon myself today.
A child shivering in my own presence,
his eyes softening the darkness
and
I'm able to see what I cannot;
ever be.
I hold him close and weep
then
let him go back
under the covers and onto a dream;
only an echo
forever arriving into a dream
that
will never come.
I have heard tell that God created all things
out of nothing
and
nothing is
when you feel no more.
The Vietnam war could be called our first war fought by adolescents. The average age of World War I I soldiers was 26 years. In contrast, the boys who left for Southeast Asia averaged 19.2 years of age. To me war is nothing but a dying whore. She tears off the heart, strips the soul, and her price -- the child living in the man. Guess the name of her pimp!!!!
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Between Yesterday's
Time has come to rest,
and
memory narrows
to
moments
curled-up under sheets of dreams
all
warm and safe
moving quietly
then
back upon themselves
to watch
the last leaf fall beyond their reach.
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Bombs Away
We dropped the bomb,
the A-bomb
on
Hiroshima
hurrah, hurrah.
Hiroshima
not there
shrouded in fate
devil-may-care
whatever
we cremate.
No morose at Los Alamos,
all made the grade
prepaid
after all
"dear"
Peter and Paul
the President lit the fireball.
Truman fondles his yen
and comes again
into being
the perfect metaphor for Thor,
wheeling thunderclaps upon the Japs
on
Nagasaki.
To hear such popularity without any morality
speaks a thought,
as to
whether the Nazi is from Germany or from Missouri.
Voices hoarse with anger scream criminality
at defeated dreams,
but
not one shout of doubt
goes out
to what Harry T. blew out;
the man who saved lives by killing them all dead.
Our soul did not die in Vietnam
it went dead
after
we said
"let's drop the damn bomb."
Even now
our soul glares back
its eyes dark and black
as it laughs
"who cares."
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Home
There is a place I go
whenever
there's no way out.
Where moments of time
let go of the past
and
then
so slowly
life comes around
to be
where I am
at the beginnings of all things;
now and forever
my spirit is mine
at last
to breathe.
"'Tis in my heart; 'tis in my head; 'tis everywhere; it rages like madness, and I must wonder how my reason holds." by: Thomas Otway
This poem is my dream. I carry too much grief and too little dignity because I suffer from PTSD. It is considered an anxiety disorder marked by a reexperiencing of the trauma. To let go of the past -- would be -- like hearing children sing.
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Jack was featured in an earlier Poet Portrait in November 2000: Poet Portrait
(Copyright 2003 - All Rights Reserved by Jack Hriniak - No reproduction without express permission from the author)Letter to the Author: Jack Hriniak at Jhlord68@aol.com