Forgotten Friends

Awhile back, I opened my blogging e-mail account and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an e-mail from a commentor on my blog, one Sean the Blogonaut, whose blog I shamelessly admit to having read in its entirety.

You see, I commented on his blog about enjoying this little gem he created...Desert... and he sent me the remembered bits of a 5 line poem he had created in honor of a war memorial that had been spray painted by some hodlums. If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know how I love when things get me thinking.

Well the poignancy behind those 5 lines was....startling. I could imagine the torment felt by those whose loved ones were remembered there. So I tossed back an alternative form of the original 5 lines and expanded it. What followed was an incredibly wonderful experience of sharing, revising, and self-discovery as we worked together to create something new.

WOW am I glad I put up that e-mail address on my profile. What began was a very productive friendship. For he has awoken the poet/writer within me.

I've never done anything like that before. It was a remarkable experience. If you would like to read his thoughts on the experience he has blogged about it on his blog.

So here for your poetic pleasure is the first item from
Fiery Blogonaut Productions



Forgotten Friends

Urban scrawls on sacred walls.
Do they hear the cries of fear-
Sacrificed to pay the price?
Free to laugh,
Free to hate,
Even free to desecrate.

Urban Scrawls on sacred walls.
Do they see the empty shells-
Authored hell for those who fell?
Gone their friends,
Gone their love,
Gone their faith in god above.

Urban Scrawls on sacred walls.
Do they smell cold death's descent-
Left to rot and then forgot?
Laugh they might,
Who showed them ought?
The price of war is those who fought..

Urban Scrawls on sacred walls.
Do they taste the bitter bile-
Crawled the fly on those who lie?
Dumped into an endless hole,
Forgotten, fallen friend
They did not forsee this end.

Blind they are to those that died.
Deaf they are to those that cried.
And when we look to place the blame
We turn our face to hide our shame.
We plant the seed,
We tend the vine,
The blame we share
is yours and mine.

Urban scrawls on sacred walls