wolfdrummer13

[wolfdrummer13]

The Gauntlet

Step where I have stepped, tread where I have trod, weep what I have wept and crawl where I have clawed.

Then, and only then, may you judge what I've selected - only then have you earned my yen, to abandon the gashes I've collected.

Retreat not, then, I dare you, hovel not in your early barrow. Shelter not to make it through, hide not from relentless harrow.

See your friend and charge laying there next to your door, try to bring him back from the marge, and instead see him forever on that floor.

Take your father and drive across this land, a will to live, to fight, you slowly rebuild - succeed at staying his self-sanguine hand, and a year hence, hear how he was brutally killed.

Try to focus on what you have left, to your closest kin should you hold. Then rapidly find yourself bereft, your own brother's flag, soon you fold.

Then, and only then, come back and tell me to stand, when you can well and truly ken the source of my soul's brand.

Merely half have I relayed here, the easier for you to join me - carry but one crucial bier, and know that 'one' is only the lee.

Challenge me to sally forth hence, to draw blade and hold the line. My oath against your pretense, my loss against your spine.

[wolfdrummer13]

Grave Robbing

Where has my smile run off to?

Oh, I don't pretend that it's gone entirely, that it doesn't make any appearances. But that's not the dilemma.

It doesn't stay for long, doesn't have a home here anymore - and that's what I mean to decry.

When you say that you've broken down on the side of the road, it's supposed to mean your car.

Not the wash of memories in the morning, the pressure smacking you the moment you wake, the toil of every godless-damned second.

Every day I want nothing more than rest; but it flees from the sight of me, cackling at the daily victory of its whim.

I want it back, all of it - my smile, my sleep… them.

When folks talk about grave robbers, usually they mean some nefarious men desecrating the dead, pilfering the perished.

In my case, the roles are reversed. The six, the slain, those stolen from me, while it's not their fault…

They are the thieves.

[wolfdrummer13]

Calendrical Casino

Ten.

Ten years, I've been scared, fearing the phone's ring.

Twenty.

Twenty years, I was, learning how goodbye really felt.

Thirty.

Thirty years, I reached, forty-four days ago.

Forty.

Forty, my brother was, for fifty-seven days.

That's all he got… and that feels like all for me.

I'm terrified, I'll admit. Every knock on the door, every surprise text or call, every "hey" I wasn't expecting.

Each corner hides a death, each day a loss on the table, Russian Roulette be damned. The calendar is loaded - play.

So don't call me strong. I'm petrified, and I'll face the grief, as I always have, but I won't face you.

I'm running, without shame, from contact, from laughter, from making me feel. My response, proudly, is to hide.

So call me what you will - save strong. That just reminds me - that I have received no choice.

Thirty-three percent.

A third of my life - looking over my shoulder. Which do I run out of first - fortitude, or friends?

The calendar is loaded… no choice but to play.

[wolfdrummer13]

Of Mice and Men

I am a mouse, catatonic with fear; just trying to stay still and silent, to survive.

Batted about by an indifferent cat; for him a lazy afternoon, for me an aching lifetime.

It has no idea of the torture it inflicts; no inkling of the consequences, of its area-of-effect play. (But he has a plan.)

It doesn't see the damage; the rents and tears in my flesh, the terror in my eyes. (But he loves you.)

Now this vision fades, and once more I am a man; no dream, this, merely the truth.

I see a broken spirit, my vantage from without and within; a soul missing six of its crucial parts.

Grief and rage glare as beacons from me, the turn signals on the back of my vessel; both constantly screaming "stop". (But he has a plan.)

At one moment listless, at the next wroth, the only thing whole in me, my sense of right; and this ceaseless murder of everything dear - isn't. (But he loves you.)

Take your sympathies and condolences, and cast them off the dock. Or turn them into a visit, into spending time, making new memories to dwell on.

Take your god, if indeed he is yours, your worship and your dogma. Every iota, every atom, every wisp of it, and do me a favor.

Keep that kind of shit to yourself.

(But… but you'll go to hell!)

Newsflash, friend - I'm a regular.

[wolfdrummer13]

Just One More Turn

To break a man's life down into digits, to numbers, might seem strange to you; distant, or heartless, or just odd.

But that was just our way; we'd both been dubbed 'robot' at one time or another. So that's what I'll do.

Forty years; two thousand, ninety five weeks. Fourteen thousand, six hundred and sixty seven days. Three hundred, fifty two thousand hours. Twenty one million, one hundred twenty thousand minutes.

We were each fortunate to have a share, for each one was spent in service. Some to his country, some to his ethics; some to a laugh, and all to those he loved.

His knowledge, his time, his effort - none were ever withheld or hoarded. It was yours, the moment he could give it; all you had to do was ask.

If greed means always wanting more, never saying 'plenty', never being satisfied - then today, we're all as greedy as they come. Because twenty one million is just not enough, damn it.

But no matter how great its stature, even mountains don't last forever - especially the ones that are in the shape of men.

So goodbye, Mouse. Dad, Smasher Twelve Twenty Eight, Karl von Konigsberg; Charlie.

I wish we could hit that button… for just one more turn.

[wolfdrummer13]

The Mirth of Monsters A picture appeared on my phone today, on the proverbial page I perused.

A view of an evil most vile, villainy veiled behind verve and vim.

Sadists from Auschwitz, smiling in a storm. Shoulders shrugging, to shield from the sky.

No hint of the horrors, the Holocaust they heralded. Not haunted like the humans they harrow, but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.

Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed, their cheer chills me to the core. They caused such wicked calvary, a calamity that echoes into the current century.

Yet they dare to delight, while they deal in death and dread. Their depravity so deep that they grin, as they decry virtue and destroy millions.

But what mortifies me more is, how mundane their mien.

Will we fear the next fiends fittingly, or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?

[wolfdrummer13]

Each an Epitaph

I want to run from the grief, from the crippling and the tears. But that dread is a secret thief - out to steal away the memories, the years.

I'll be damned if he'll get your names, if I'll let him make off with your stories. That's why you take up the wall with your frames - why I must ever tell of your exploits, our glories.

Every time we weep, it is revisited love, perhaps torn by loss, but nonetheless preserved. Safe from fading away and the second death thereof - from that feared fate of true oblivion, an end undeserved.

So, folks, value that pain and grip it tight, for it means only that they are still alive. Whether you sing, compose, tell, draw, or write - you are the bearer of their tales, their living archive.

[wolfdrummer13]

Please

You know, I've been keeping count.

Of the years, of the friends. Those gained and lost, the memories and the cost.

I'm not sure which has topped the weight class - the good, the laughs and the light, or the pain, the loss and that sight.

Of the headstones, the folded flags; the mothers' cries and brothers' eyes.

I know the count of them all.

Today a year goes to rest, and a new cycle begins. I beg of Life a reprieve, a chance less to grieve.

I know not what to offer, what you would take in trade - be it a life, or a soul, part of me or the whole.

Whatever it may be, however large the demand; take off this accursed gyve, and leave them alive.

[wolfdrummer13]

Life vs. Wade

We can't have a child. It's not a matter of want, of belief, of opinion. We cannot.

Every doctor says, my wife will die. The child might live, or might not, but the love of my life will not, not a guess, not a chance. Just a death.

You can give your life, for another's. Your death can stop one more, if you're a cop, a soldier, a hero, a nobody. But we can't make you do it.

There is no law for that. If a soldier lays down his life, he is awarded, praised, if he doesn't, he is not punished. Not imprisoned for living.

So why would my wife trade, at best, her life for one she will never meet? Why would I trade my love's life for a roll of the dice on another? Why should we be forced to?

For a heartbeat, a whisper of a breath, that may never make it out of the womb? For a bitter, beaten man to live alone or with the child who reminds him of loss? Why should anyone else get to say?

Why should anyone else get a choice, even if such weren't true? Why should you get to choose that she bear still heart, again and again? To satisfy your hope, not hers?

Why should you get to speak, if a woman has no voice? If she has no money for a child, no wish to birth her abuser's spawn? To please your god, not hers?

Why should you get to decide, why should you get the last word? On any life that isn't your own, any consequence not yours to bear? To save an unborn life, not hers?

You should not. It is not your choice, not your life, not your grief, your sorrow, your freedom or your death. It is only, your opinion.

There is no right to such thoughts, only control. Gather your countdowns to a week, your milestones and your markers, your intentions for the lives of strangers. Burn them, turn such vile filth into ash.

Women owe society no life. No attempt at a child, no health, no life wasted, in death or in despair, just for a chance at someone else's hope. Someone else's decision.

Why should a fetus be sacred, when the life, voice and sanctity of the woman it could become - so clearly mean nothing to you?

[wolfdrummer13]

Adamant

Bacon and sausage. Dogs and music. Whiskey and a wife's smile.

Sometimes, surely, it is just that simple.

Lately it has not been. Not in life, not in fiction, not in poetry.

One year, maybe three poems. All about grief. One imagined, yet real - a son's song for a father's tale. Two, too true and too close - a brother to the scion, a brother to the sire.

Tributes written, loss spoken, still silent the muse, on all besides - stanzas only flowing when so too the tears.

Yet, my life ended not with theirs; neither will I let my story. Not my life's, not my characters', not my verses.

Songs and stories yet remain, so too adventure and poetry. Amidst vowing not to forget the fallen, I forgot those things instead.

Fuck that.

They will see my pen fly on, for thoughts large and little, momentous and mundane. No peace comes from staying my hand.

So I will write, today, of bacon and sausage. Of dogs and music. Of whiskey and a wife's smile.

Today, if no other, it is just that simple.

[wolfdrummer13]

Hush, Crooned the Night

Here I sit on this night so still, not a rustle in the leaves nor a stirring in the grass.

No whispers intrude; naught but mine.

Ill news after days spent ill, unwelcome foreword to grief inexorable more like than not.

No answers come; naught but malign.

A thirst I can never quell, a gulp seeming to smash the silence whilst whiskey spars with the fear.

No solace is on tap; naught but fake.

A call from inside breaks the spell, an urging for sleep's cocoon next to a lover's warmth.

No closure can I find; naught but striding on.

[wolfdrummer13]

Bye for Now

A new year has rounded the corner, with grave news hard on its heels. A father's friend at kinship's dawn, a clan's family, by life's sudden dusk.

In so many respects my father's twin, he could look in a mirror and see Chuck. To say 'brother' seems not strong enough, not nearly a sufficing title for the man.

Growing up, he was simply an uncle, another sarcastic voice in the choir. Shipmate, soundboard, confidant, kin; fellow gamer, writer, musical connoisseur.

Buddy, mentor, verbal sparring partner; hilarious, caring, intelligent, smart-ass. Always a phone call or a flight away, each of these things, to each of us or to all.

Thirty years his junior - yet he asked my advice on, and I got to be present for, his first, and sadly only, tattoo.

He got to meet my wife last year, for which I am beyond thankful. He sought her counsel for his next tattoo, which will now be another of hers.

An easy man to like, with an easy smile and easier laugh, now a hard man to miss - but with good stories, of a greater man.

And for those who knew him; be grateful for having known the dead, and hold to hope that 'bye' - is only for now.

[wolfdrummer13]

Within and Without

One month.

One gone, spent on escape, on memory and on loss, one down, without you - how many more to go?

How many brothers will I bury, left behind to carry the weight? One more down, one more stolen - how many more to go?

You were first to drink, to flirt, to speak to a stranger; first to support, to laugh, to commit, utterly, to new friends.

You are first in our hearts, living in pictures on the wall; first in our thoughts, every day, your face alive in each tear fallen.

A song asks me a question, do you know where your heart is? And all I can think is, within and without.

Within my chest, within my memories; within what I hold closest. Without - in my family, on my sleeves, with you for so long, and suddenly without.

Each day, more and more I miss you, and I'm beginning to miss me too. You're the one the world stole away - so why am I the one who's the ghost?

These things grow so damned heavy - these burdens, these tears, these sorrows, these bracelets, these tattoos, these steps - how many more to go?

[wolfdrummer13]

Today’s Pledge

Cheers to the lost, the fallen and gone. Cheers, the best I can say today of that the endless, final cost. Cheers, all I have in me today after missing you another damned dawn. All that your life has come to; every lesson, every laugh, every memory and moment - to a memorial, to a toast. I have only this today, only words, and your name said forevermore. I can only hope it is enough.

[wolfdrummer13]

Still on Patrol

Can you hear the whispers brought on by the wind storming? Carried true by the harpers, the tale the howls are forming? Came a knock at the farmer's door, a mailed fist with a fate to turn. A sob, a wail, a call to war, a boy, a son, home soon to yearn. Soon a soldier strode from youth, to the beat of the king's drum. A shield his hide, a sword his tooth, his pack stood the night to come. Oh for the heroes of men, the ones who hold the line - oh for the kin behind, the ones who hold to hope. Silence broke to a thunderous horn, the battle joined with the savage horde. On a bloody tide he thus was borne, death he granted and fury he roared. Silence returned with a blade's sigh, sanguine as it was ripped away. A keen, a dirge, a mother's cry, a man, a son, home soon to lay. Oh for the heroes of men, the ones who hold the line - oh for the kin behind, the ones who hold to hope. A place to rest he was given, a peace he has not taken. To guard, to serve he is driven, his will, his resolve unshaken. So when you see a warrior's mound, shed not a tear to hear the bugle - hark rather the marching sound, for he yet walks the vigil.

[wolfdrummer13]

The Gypsy’s Rest

One big road trip around the sun, not that much time, from the long view. 2020 has taken ages and is not quite done, and a lifetime I yet want with you. One day, we swore, we would find our way back, to the places and people we'd left behind. Time and again, our whole lives we've had to pack, box it all up, new friends and chances to find. One friend, into my circle charming her way, with a joke about mana and health. Now you're in my arms at the end of every day, and there is no better form of wealth. One home I promised when you joined me here, a place to belong, no longer to roam. Here we can both rest with the other near, and each day know, at last we are home.

[wolfdrummer13]

The Bonds of September

Every year on one day in September, we bear a duty to recall.

We were afraid merely to watch that day, let alone to live through the despair. From around the corner and worlds away, we heard that fear and love go on the air.

They fought evil with what could be found, in their hands and their collective soul. They fought terror with comfort in sound, calls to home and voices to console.

Tears fell on either side of many phones, last words and hopes were sent both ways. Their stories are told in proud and choked tones, each one adding to how much the day weighs.

The pain we feel in calling it to mind, as a sliver to those who were bereaved. They have no choice in leaving it behind, so nor should we of this charge be relieved.

Ever on we must strive to remember, the day the two towers did fall.