startled awake

at three am

someone dreamt of me

Baby's Hands

By Tim Hudenburg

Originally published in Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors Volume 14

baby hands

shake

half a world in shadow

Magritte Magritte

what if what if

none of this

none of this

were true was true

True

was true

were true

none of this

none of this

what if what if

Magritte Magritte

Is This Not a poem? 

Wyeth

urges her

disrobe

overcomes her restraint

she removes the grey rough woolen dress

folds it carefully, almost dutifully

Helga– 

I know it is cold outside

but until we generate our own heat

my love–

we are all gooseflesh for now

still your alabaster body paints beautifully

oh lost generation

unquiet beneath gravestones in the shade of pine

families blend together

under trees

under sod

under never-the-less time

some days you hear murmurs

listen closer and make out

voices louder than one would expect

from dead overwhelming personalities

they have nothing left to lose

and continue clashing clanging with no-less-biting tongues

despite the moldering in the grave

the way a drama spectacularly unfolds

even after the curtain is drawn

in this cemetery amidst empty vodka bottles

and the latest war dead from Ukraine

stronger unbridled spirits

down they go–

matching, surpassing the others’ shared experiences

until one by one in the blur of lives

you swore you heard

Anna Karenina

speaking up at the Tolstoy reunion 

thoughts pass over to silence

because it has

(this line has been left blank intentionally)

in whose voice did you just speak

when you thought you had so much more to say

and said nothing