death – Page 6 – Kevin Trent Boswell

But I Am Not There

I see the blood that spills in the streets
Can practically smell the gunpowder air
Tasting the ashes, bitter on my tongue
I hear the explosions, but I am not there

I cannot claim to fathom their fear
Or say that I know the depth of their dread
I’ve not had to bear the loss of loved ones
Nor have I the need to step over the dead

I live far away from the noise of the horror
I close my eyes with no fear of sleeping
No aid raid sirens awaken me rudely
I read in peace, tea silently steeping

Pictures and articles pour in daily
Videos making me a bit more aware
I know it’s happening; I know that it’s real
But the sadness I feel does not compare

I hear children crying, and nothing stops it
I see the confusion and pain in their eyes
I smell the smoke and festering wounds
But the foulest odor is the stench of lies

A well-heeled madman’s misinformation
Distorted guile drips from his tongue
Slanderous justifications for the slaughter
Of unknown thousands, old and young

But my food is hot; my belly is full
I don’t hide underground or need to run
There are no tanks parked out on my lawn
My hands are empty; they hold no gun

I don’t have a gas mask close at all times
My roads are clear, my home is intact
The power to stop the storm is not mine
It rages on, and the sky is blacked

I cannot order the attack to halt
And to send in support is not my decision
I don’t determine the fate of anyone else
I need not defend my political vision

No sons or daughters go off to fight
Because of anything that I say or do
But war will not cease of its own accord
No moving of money makes it less true

I can say kind things and show my support
The only thing worse is not even to care
The words I say, meaningless, useless
It’s easy for me, for I am not there

If I believed it, I’d say, “Wait. Do nothing;
Or else he may set the whole world afire.”
I could say I believe to hold back is better
But were I to say it, I would be a liar

Powerless, unable to stop a mass murder
Intervention may mean the death of us all
So, we answer the cry for help by saying,
“We pray for you and hope you don’t fall.”

To cover our fears of atomic destruction
Supportive words hang on digital display
Perhaps if we allow the bully his toy
He’ll go no further after getting his way

If only it were true that a taste of victory
Made conquerors quit; one land controlled
The wanton wishes of children who know
Nothing of madmen, bloodthirsty, bold

I cannot assist in their hour of darkness
Or insist that others answer the pleading
My heart hurts for those brave defenders
But my pain is painless; I am not bleeding

I cannot say “Fight,” nor can I say “Wait.”
It’s not my problem or burden to bear
After all, it’s easy to speak in abstractions
It’s easy for me because I am not there

Photo by Алесь Усцінаў

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell — Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

my friends

good morning, all you beautiful people
you lovely, angelic folks i call friend
i want you to know that i’m thinking of you
though fiery days, together, do blend

whirling quick, down the drain of time
not seeing your faces, hearing your voices
distance and schedules demand this of us
circumstance offering no other choices

i want to take this brief opportunity
to say that you still mean a great deal to me
i’d rather that we were conversing, laughing
than where and how we happen to be

more often now, do i have these thoughts
since all appears to be coming apart
the wretched state of things all around us…
i think of you, how i miss your heart

each moment is truly a blessing, unique
neither taken for granted nor guaranteed
i’d pray for you to have happiness, joy
if i thought it helpful to request or plead

but alas, our time on the big, blue marble
ephemeral, flickering, fleeting, concise
disappears quickly, precious little warning
like a glass of sunsets, smiles and ice

tumbler, carelessly knocked from our hands
by a stupid stranger, passing by in a roar
an ignorant ogre with a love of wealth
a disdain of beauty and a love for war

beastly creatures, not one, but many
loving too much, to climb and to fall
punching holes in our collective boat
though surely it sinks and dooms us all

the cup of this world, spills over with promise
wonders of nature, so much opportunity
carelessly ruined by the madness of kings
who with stolen gold, kill with impunity

we, being lovers of kindness and good
seeing their greed, the destruction it brings
it hurts our hearts, we sigh and conclude
“i guess that we just can’t have nice things”

as we watch them ripping it all into pieces
everything beautiful, too soon to die
i want you to know how much i love you
i’d hate if the chance were to slip idly by

i want to tell you that you’re all in my heart
and in my thoughts, your memories glow
i’d not forgive myself if i wasted
the opportunity to let each of you know

just over the horizon, a banshee wails
as we near the welkin, do smile, once more
i’ll be thinking of you, as we take that step
through the long, strange and endless door

Photo by Mo

The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell — Eight poetry titles, available on Amazon

The Next Ones

I find myself weeping
But I’m not weeping for me
Not for anything I might have missed
Or anything that I had hoped to be

It’s not because of some thing I desired
But did not manage to attain
It’s not something I had that I didn’t want
Nor any of my own physical pain

It’s not for me, I had room to move
I rolled the dice and they fell as they did
But I took my chances, I took my shots
I went for it all and from life, never hid

Sure, things could have turned out better
I could have had an easier time
But I know not everyone gets to win
To the top, only a handful climb

Still, all-in-all, at the end of things,
I did OK and better than many
I had sorrows and joys, resources and gifts
I got to spend my talents, every last penny

Yet, generations are coming behind me
Emerging from the dark of the womb
Into a darker world, for which we’ve not
Prepared them, nor should we assume

That somehow, they’ll just be alright
That they’ll manage some way, to sort the mess
That some miracle solution will present itself
Or that God or good luck will bless

Nor should we think it likely the case
That hard work will see them through it all
Nor in hubris, think what stands today
Will not, tomorrow, surely fall

Least of all, we should not dare
To turn blind eyes to their plight
Out of sight is out of mind
But by no means makes it right

Having turned over each, useless stone
After turning my wheels, digging in deep
With no useful advice or answers, for them
I bury my face in my hands and weep

Main photo by Alex Green

From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible and frightening things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink too much and too often, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, Kevin Trent Boswell, poetry books — **Available on Amazon**

WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.

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The Thing About Bunkers

characters Heather and Burt Gummer,
driven up onto the roof of their bomb shelter
– from the 1990 film, ***Tremors*** (Universal Pictures)

“Food for five years, a thousand gallons of gas, air filtration, water filtration, Geiger counter, bomb shelter! Underground… Goddamn monsters.”

—Burt Gummer, from the 1990 movie, Tremors – lamenting the loss of his desert fortress, due to something he wasn’t prepared for and never could have possibly foreseen

The thing about bunkers
and hunkering down
Is they’re not supposed to be
a permanent solution
You can store up food and weapons,
safely underground
But what if it’s many
thousands of years of toxic pollution?

If nothing is left to come back to,
if you can never go outside
If the world is never livable again,
somewhere down the line
A few years in, most folks will
start committing suicide
Rather than live in a subterranean box,
after society’s decline

In a total climate collapse,
everything would come undone
It’s not like one nuclear bomb drop,
in a single place on the map
The whole of Earth, uninhabitable,
you’d never again see the sun
Any psychologist will agree,
without sunlight, people snap

A few years after a nuke,
the radiation may die down and then
People might come back up top,
from the way-down-there
That’s if there’s any kind of habitat
for plants, critters and men
But what if it’s still too hot
and you still can’t breathe the air?

There are snazzy bomb shelters,
well-thought-out, for sure
Decades worth of water, food, meds
and every type of supply
And lots of entertainment to help you
psychologically endure
But ultimately, you face the hard question;
you need a reason why

If there’s never a return to safety,
an opportunity to re-emerge
Then, no matter how well
you think you’re equipped
If nothing grows up top,
if heat and humidity constantly surge
The very best bunker in the world
is just an expensive crypt

From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell — **Available on Amazon**

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**Magus72 on Patreon** – become a patron

There Are No Words

There are no words; none suffice,
None that may cover or explain
None that express the loss of a love
Or help to heal the pain

Anything that we might say,
Anything we try to do,
It all falls short, next to the grief,
And only the grief shows through

When someone has lost someone,
A lover, family, pet, or friend,
Not single word we can speak
That will put them on the mend

No expression of condolence helps;
Our feeble efforts don’t stop the pain
The only thing that’s somehow worse
Is if we say nothing at all

In times of loss and grief, we are
Of little use to those we hold dear
It’s best that we assume as much
And say only, “I am here”

Hope not that your speech is helpful;
Know that we hold no such power
Say only “I am here with you,
In this, your darkest hour.”

The most we might do for a friend
Who is suffering from a broken heart
Is to demonstrate respect by saying,
“I don’t even know where to start”

Offer humility and say, “I can only
Imagine the terrible weight of your pain
I can do nothing but be here for you,
And for you, here, I will remain”

house of ghosts

it is a house of ghosts

every corridor
veers into shadows

creak of old hinges,
original, hardwood flooring
clanging of ancient, iron pipes

scraping, scratching
from behind the walls,
below the floors and from the attic, above

things too small to see
things that can’t be seen, at all
things that receive no mail, no visitors
things that aren’t supposed to be here
or anywhere else

quick, bright flashes
memory’s dim lenses
flecked with dust and specters

once, a place of mirth and much company
echoes of laughter, music and children,
floating through every hallway

scents of pot roast, potatoes and carrots,
cigars, perfumes, liquors,
fruit tree logs crackling in the fireplace,
roses, thyme, basil, rosemary
and lavender from the garden,
drifting in through the open windows,
freshly baked pies and cookies
all washing over the senses
of friends and neighbors

finely crafted furniture of oak and leather,
where once they sat, sipping teas and sewing,
nursing babies, reading the newspapers,
scratching the chins of kittens and puppies,
holding hands, kissing in the happy hours,
consoling each other, after some loss

all of it now covered over by tarps
draped with sheets and drop cloths
consumed by the dry rot of time
or dampness, the mildew
and stale, trapped air
which slowly made their way in

these too, desired to stay here, forever
to find a home, within these walls

anymore, only whispers
float through these rooms

no one has lived here for many years

the kitchen, bedrooms, parlor
all bare and sullen
the pantries stocked only
with cobwebs of memory

this house was the home
of more than a few hearts
a place of comfort and rest
for a great many souls

it still is

this house has
never been empty