The Sandbox

(and other poems)

By Allen Taylor

the poems
Cigar Carcass Music Old Goth Life The Old Shows The Armor Dims 20 Acres The Sandbox

Cigar
Drawn out deep, like the upward concerns of an intern. Captains delight in late night fatties, blue skies dressed in vanilla, and starcrossed lips ladled with love stains. Free soil built this land. Death may dance in the sun but Im taxed. Hand me a bill of sale, this whore has the whole damned country by the balls. The king may know his legacy, but where does he hang his clothes? The Right Wing spins a new face while the Party reminisces and the world is made safe. For democracy is a costly business, liberty a puff of smoke in a courtroom. Battlefield worms like us seek security in slow-poppin cherries and close calls, rockets red glaring past our bedtimes. Im fed the hell up with Hillians casting lots, forgetting to shed light on this years stale, burned-out two-party topic.

Carcass
He lies lifeless, worthless as a goldfinch. The blood map of his young life trickles down his face. You see the sharp exit wound of happiness in his crown, a testament to the stupidness of war. The bird in her cage sings the afterlife and you wonder if, when you enter heaven, she will have confessed your sins for you before you get there. Sometimes the enemy taunts you through your own fears, your failures, your desires, and comes back through the mirror of the other man. The void of his countenance yells at you through the eyelids of the future, becomes the visage of your own losses, your gullible hopes, and the sacred part you would play in their demise. Then you hear through sobbing gasps for breath the words that will ring in your heart forever, lingering like a sad rain: Its time to call for backup, sir. The camp is not secure.

Music
When Satchmo played In the early days Of a time thats lost its youth The rhythm of Our God above Shone bright as a golden tooth The harpsichords And ivory boards In hearts harmony did play With the six-stringed lass The brazen brass And a chorus from Calais Tis sweet the Muse Who lights the fuse Of a melody made from tears And on that note Id like to quote A man wise beyond his years Most folks go Where nothing grows With the music still inside They never change Or extend the range And their song in silence hide When Elvis played In halcyon days When refrains had lost their jazz We did the twist Held stiff our wrists And danced like a razzmatazz

Old Goth
Thigh-high boots glow with kiwi. At eighty five, she still wears black from toe to pale neck. Sagging bags pull beneath her eyes, dragging them down like the chains hooked and dropping from her ears, dipping, dangling, drooping, all beagled out. Her lips puff, powdered blue with punk, purse, flesh out dull cheeks like biscuits in a fry pan. Plunges forward her walker with the gusto of a tired farmer plowing his field at the end of the sun and when she reaches the edge of the churchyard, stops! clutches her hat, her heart, freezes stiff as the cancer stick bursting from her calloused, cracked knuckles, then stands like a garden gnome till the caretaker comes to take her home.

Life
When the sadness of death comes knocking And the people move to their rooms, When the dry rapt of laughter Fills their minds with tombs, Crypts for the common man to keep At his bedside, And when the tears of joy Fall on children Staring dull-faced into the future As far as the eye can see, When February casts its pall Of false hope on August or December, Youll see the light. Youll see it flicker and burn, Burn and glow; glow, enflame, then burn, And youll know; Yes, you will know That life is what you really need. It is. There. Take it.

The Old Shows

I love those old shows: The Waltons, Little House On The Prairie, Bonanza. They make me nostalgic For a tougher time When the lessons of life Meant pain, like a cold, hard Slap in the face. These days I need coffee to get that Kind of zing. Like the time When Jim Bob thought He didnt look like a Walton And John Boy took him To the county courthouse. A startling discovery, To be sure, that the twin Who didnt live was as much A member of the family As Elizabeth or Mrs. Walton. In childhood, questions abound And the values of a more innocent Time remind us of our long dead Relatives who loved us more Than we can imagine. And if it takes A little heartache to get to the joy Then I guess well all have to suffer A little loss along the way. In the end, Its not about the joy, the pain, the loss Or even the lessons that we learn But its all about the triumph And the next great peace of mind After the credits have run.

The Armor Dims

Chivalry fights to the last breath, gasps on Chivas to bury ripost upon ripost, cries like widows restrained by their own sad impulse. Death dawns, dearth and drawn in upon itself, the poor still swill of liquor in the mouth as it kills the miming will. And the prenatal murders, the blast of powder and keg while young boys scream out to the loves who will never know them. The men whose bondage descends from the stairwell of civilization feast upon the scraps of their own brown brothers; electric chairs, ropes burned crisp with fresh flesh, inner cities full of needles and fields of fire. Weve searched hard for the tarnish of blade or blood steeped in stool, aiming to save one man from the loss of another trembling strain. But in vain. Weve wrapped ourselves tight in fear and doubt, dying to climb out, spread our weakening wings like a blazing banner in harrowing heat.

Then I know, in the cusp of my grave need, no knight stands without sacrifice. This is the culture of death.

20 Acres
My grandson likes to play in the snow. He doesnt know I have a book To write, so he walks Like Sunday all over this old farm Chasing the creek, searching For Lewis or Clark, plops down To make a body print, tosses handfuls Of himself in the air like confetti. I guess I let myself forget What it was to be three, to be Concerned with now more than What could be. I stick to the old white Fence as if protecting thoughts, Wait on the future while words Go neglected. Through the fog and sunlight I hear Poppy! Poppy! but my mind Has wandered so far and this poem Has reached its end because even though There are no tears Ive run out of metaphors.

The Sandbox
I 3 a.m. 0300 Army time. Id been home from the war for more than a year. I sought a thing or two to do, so the wife had left me to weep upon her pillow I stepped outside. Some old cuss across the street said hed host poker, pucker?, no, poker, night. Hed invited me, but I declined. Later, inclined upon my desire to be right, I chose to go. His offer sliced through my mind like hot oil through H20. The world stood still, and time, b a c ,devom drawk though I knew Id chance to win it back. Said Rummy was his name. Thumb upon side, followed by spine-slide, toggled my nerves for days. Was in the other war, so he said. The year four

kids at Kent saw their final test put down. Sworn to defend, the Guard spread lead through the Commons, breaking necks and wounding knees. Oh, how protests hung unheard! The wife had mowed the lawn the day before, trimmed our hedges, bets rolled in as I walked inside, admired it all through the window. Across the street I saw lights flicker, the party going on without me. Movement. I ducked, took a step to go. But, no. Not this time. A few minutes passed and I ran ran! to the door, caught a whiff of the wifes perfume as I tore at a dead reckoning over the patchwork of grass at my feet and stood dead center of the street. I strained mine eyes to steal a view of faint sketches, fragments of bodies moving thru the ease; the trees beckoned me, being the tease. And out of the corner of an eye, down the crook of my too long nose, caught glimpses of SUVs lining a paved drive. Id arrived. Rummys full house spawned voices, strange noises, and I racked up the pace till I met with his porch, ambled upon a patio lit by a solitaire sconce and gazed like a gibbon upon a wood plank hanging just above my head on the door; like a law, it read: HVN, Enter In Be ye poor I rapped upon the weathered door, rapped until my knuckles nearly bled, and just when I thought there'd be no answer, turned to go hard swing in! fast,

I thought It might come un h i n g e d . Ah, how the mighty door swung in; before me stood a dirty blond bombshell half my age, angling in the middle of the door frame like a portrait eager to be hung, her fem white locks falling, falling like drops of rain on pale shoulders strapped with lace, peaking over cryptic crests like dirt roads dying in the dark; Those eyes Those eyes like dice shooting boxcars face down (pillowed, feathered, full, of fair form) breasts ate like beasts, grazed silk blouse, soft as plums; prim pair of lilies they appeared

to be. Back: a mystery, buried the moon, and more. My heart cracked till I thought it spayed. Blushing, I stepped to leave. A whispered demand hammered my ears and for a moment I felt half-cocked. I shot a dizzy gaze at my host, flush red as a Persian strait, standing naked at the bar, navel open wide as a turret, flagging me in. Marching on. Followed pink of tush, teddy, thong, ass. Tomahawk tattooed to shoulder blade, guns aimed at my knees. Rummy fingered a bottle of Crown Royal, his flesh full of velvet cool, then met me between the kitchen and the den at a table where sat four stolid old men. An elephant lay sleeping in a corner like a tragic dragon. In a ballistic rage of vitriol Rummy knuckle punched the tabletop, liquid pleasures bounced like the barrel of a hot machine gun. And I did all I could not to run. His sanguine smile made me shake like a Quaker as he stretched out his hand for salvation.

His voice quivered as he spoke and he growled like the demons in the seventh level of Hell, Play a little five card, Stud?! I felt my tongue go limp, tossed a stiff leg over the chair at my front in an awkward straddle, slid up and in like a man in a saddle, leaned the depression in my hairless chest on the concave face of the chairs iron back. Rummy then made his introductions: Ace: To my right, yellow jacket and tie, baseball bat clasp and a Dixie cup between the knees, spittle dribble on the chin, and a thin little grin. Next: Further right, a bearded buck hunkered like a calm cool clam, tattooed and freckled, knuckles shouting aims L-O-V-E H-8 Two-fingered and thumbed

Rummy choked: Meet Jack King. Off center-left, a baggy-eyed old gent bent on a stogie, smirked like a chimp. Man No. 4 stood broad as a door as he stared me square in the eye, Said, Im Joe Kerr and I know where they buried the body of Loki. I nearly fell on my fractalled face,

his words rifled into my brain and for five kindled seconds all I could see or smell or hear was blood fused with galloping rain. Beside Mr. Kerr sat a pistol, a silver-barreled 9 mil, within arms reach and stout as a missile; every few minutes Id peak to see if he might reach to cop a feel. Plainly, he loved his steel. Snap! snap! snap! went the clappity clap of fingers folding into hands. To Rummys side bounced the cute little blond, slipping her hips under his arms like a hilt into leather sheath. And this, he hissed, is Bethesda, but I just call her Bet. And I thought that was the best name yet. Over his shoulder my host tossed a wild bean at the beast slumbering there, its trunk curled like a coil up to its lips: He said, Liberty there is fair and keen with five tons of spunk from tusk to burdened hips. I glanced at Joe tapping his guns oily grip and quoting verses from the Holy Bible; his friend Jack puffed hard on a selfrolled smoke and sang low in contralto distortions the harsh letter V: Peace via Victory!

H 8 p p er er pet pet UAL UAL WAR WAR FOR PERPETUAL PEACE PERPETUAL PEACE PERPETUAL WAR FOR PERPETUAL PEACE & WAR PERPETUAL PEACE WAR P And thus the party began. II Silence. Out of the momentary lapse of reason That held me locked in, a prisoner of my own mind, I found a nugget of gold sure to mature in due season. They say pearls lie in wait like treasures at sea, but to find The oyster is to pluck a feather from an owl, wisdom Got by theft; and the pirate ship sails into the east wind. If I speak now I will be charged with holy treason. So I sit, wait, bide my time, ride the tidal wave bare skinned And hope this tsunami of fear and shame leads to freedom. I have my doubts. But I dont speak them. Ive been dealt my hand. III Alone in my thoughts, I cogitated like an old codger on the cards upon the table, the doctrines of St. Augustine and Cicero warring within my mind. The laws of Grotius filtered through my nerves like salt from a shaker. The kiss of eyes

formed upon the backs of the cards Id been dealt, lying face down and waiting for scratch of fingers upon naked wax. I relaxed. And studied the faces of the men disguised as friends, picked up my cards and lost. Then won. Then lost again. Ten down, I plunged on. Hard as it was to admit defeat, I succumbed to the call of the game. For hours I played and played some more, lost dollars upon dollars, time upon time. The night wore on and at the break of dawn the heaviness dropped the lids of my eyes as if lead-filled and bagged with weights. But you just cant win with a hand full of sixes and eights. Bet returned from the kitchen with a drink. An evening dress caressed her neck, V-shaped crest upon her breasts, and long enough to cover the knees. She set a glass full of crushed ice at arms reach then scurried off to take her place in the corner. An artillery shell she brought to me and one I hadnt ordered, but it only took one swallow to kill down like a switch. And the volume volcanoed to a fevered pitch: IV When I thought my eyes would close and open nevermore, the elephant named Liberty raised its trunk and roared. Chained by her ankle to a bolt upon the wall, the whole earth rattled and I watched it fall as she cranked her hoof and pulled it like a lever. Down came the ceiling, showered dust just like a river! The ruckus caused a stir not unlike a daft circus; chaos ruled beyond the law like a springtime crocus. Rummy tilted forward, reached his hand below the table

to foist his digits upon an object, but his labile state and surrounding cast buffooned out of control and from behind I heard a blast three kinds of colors climbed a pole before me. I hit the floor. Gazed right; caught a glimpse of plasma screened upon the wall, cacophony of voices blaring through it. Glanced left, found Rummy, remote in sweat-oiled hand, gripped like a weapon aimed at my head, I threw myself into slow low crawl toward the center of the room. Stomp! Stomp Stomp! Stomp went elephant hooves! I crawled and crawled till out of breath, sweating like humid air. Paused: no sound but exhale inhale, exhale, a wail from the TV, a gunshot, an anchorman yelling at the camera fragging my ears: Marine captured terror Roadside bomb injured Discharge hostage report I crawled. Liberty stomped. I crawled. Rummy chafed his hands upon the table. Green Zone Baghdad humvee

Attack dead security Soldiers saved I looked over my shoulder, caught Rummy running, no, sprinting, toward the front door, slamming it shut to kill a draft. The back door flew open. An army of little people filed in wearing fatigues and flak jackets: Gnomes, dwarfs, half-sized midgets, big children, little children, Lilliputians of every color and size. I crawled General warned investigation President press Private company I crawled till near enough to see the beast's expanding belly, her trunk raised high like an Abrams cock, stiff and pointing to the sky. A vague image along the length of it caught my eye and I forced myself closer, and closer, closer still until I could catch a better look. And there, there, from the moist lips of this historic beast to the tip of its snout, was the image, the brazen image, of a man, a man on a cross, crowned by thorns from which streams of red bled, and a puncture wound in his rib. And who else might this savior, this carrier of all man be? Who else but His Purple Majesty, the Love of God Almighty? Who else but the one, the wonderful wise counselor, the venerable Adam Smith? To finish reading The Sandbox, visit Rumsfeld's Sandbox.

First Appearances
I am grateful to the following publications for honoring me with the first public appearance of these poems. Cigar- The New Verse News (online) Carcass - VoiceInWartime.org Old Goth - The Hanover Evening Sun (in print, then online) Life - Small Brushes (in print) The Old Shows - Pennsylvania Poetry Society newsletter (in print) The Armor Dims - decomP Magazine (online) 20 Acres - The Hanover Evening Sun (in print) All poems are copyright 2005-2011 by Allen Taylor. All rights reserved. For reprint consideration, please contact this author at [email protected]. You may free distribute this e-book as long as you do not change or alter the contents. Visit http://rumsfeldssandbox.com

Who am I?
My name is Allen Taylor. I spent 2005 as a Battle Captain with the 56th BCT, 36th Infantry division in Iraq. I have been writing poetry for more than 20 years. I am the webmaster at http://www.world-class-poetry.com and spend most of my time ghostwriting content for small businesses. I live in Pennsylvania with my wife and sometimes my three grandchildren. I'd be honored if you'd visit Rumsfeld's Sandbox and read more of my poetry.