I've taken two trips in an Army helicopter, out to two remote sites in West Germany - one after the other - and then back. I was a young troop and I'd volunteered to be a Payroll Guard. It was also the only time I ever carried a .45 caliber pistol. An interesting time.
I love the last couplet. It's a profound declaration that many of us moon lovers can relate. I've seen many moons in my lifetime, yet I never miss looking up at the moon and thanking her for being there with us.
Prompt:
Take any cliche and subvert it to bring it alive again in a poem or a blog entry.
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Bag of Bones
They said, "This baby, a bag of bones!"
and rattled, "She may not even throw stones"
a bag of bones, where my shadow lies
World War II, macabre with gray skies.
But dreams I've built and spells I've cast,
I charted my course, battled the past.
Alas, today, other lines are drawn,
fears of war wail from dusk to dawn.
Although people speak in whispers low,
in death's embrace, demons can grow.
So, this bag of bones sways and waits...
as, just one click, next war dictates.
Such a shame it is, to undo the seams!
Or let's mend the world, guard our dreams?
I hold my breath and hear the moans
and warnings from all bags of bones.
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