This is the sequel to Call It Courage.  It was written years later.  As I read it, I can see the influence of college on the content. 

It was quite a serious poem at the time, but it amuses me now.  I take myself far less seriously these days.  Yet I am also void of poetry now.  Perhaps I’ll find a cure for that soon.  I wonder if Bushmills would still work for that?  If not, at least the prose still overtakes me.



a poem d.b. mcneill



It’s been years since I was whole.

  He put his finger through my soul.

I am caught beneath the wheel

  never knowing what to feel.

Still walking westward with the rain,

  I seek new ways to speak my pain.

The Earth sucks muscles down my bones.

  I suspect I’ll be alone

when I die.


All my life and lives before

  the rich could always eat the poor.

Unable to break the silence screaming,

   unable to wake the world from dreaming,

velvet here, he waits within.

  He has crawled beneath my skin.


No claws or knife can dig him out.

  So greet the dawn with strangled shout.

The howling light, the colors streaming,

  all the world will still lay dreaming.

Never having strength for peace

  A man can only seek release.

I watched the orgasm of his death,

  heard music in his dying breath

and it’s been years since I was whole.

  He put his finger through my soul.



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