David W. Ballard: Professional Writer specializing in Web content writing, copywriting, feature writing, fiction writing, and poetry.

Guernica: In the Form of a Sestina

Hector, may death feed on you like vultures.
Your family will soon see the sun baked blood
Dried on your face. I will hide your body
From all ‘til maggots have their fill. Your fate
Is on the blade of my sword. You can cry
The names of your children to me, to the gods;

I won’t listen to ya and who needs Gawd!
None can save ya from tha circlin’ vultures.
Choke on yer words ‘cause this noose strangles cries
Like a new-born bathed in birth blood.
Gag on the umbilical cord called fate.
I’m gonna cinch the breath from yer body.

Achillus, since I left, evrabody
Tells me that whites think they’s as strong as God
And that’s why I been runnin’. Lots of fate’s
In your words and you’d leave me for vultures
Sounds like, but I just can’t run no more. Blood-
Hounds o’ yours been trackin’, I hear ‘em cry:

Jew, all you will hear now is our war cry.
We are sick of all your talk. Nobody
Will listen when you talk peace yet seek blood.
Gaza is ours according to Allah,
And we will not rest until you vultures
Are off our land. Be prepared to meet your fate!

Hamas, your false cease-fires fool fate,
But Zion will not be tricked. May sirens cry
At your death, as they did when my son died. Vultures
Surrounded his armless, dead body.
Now I pray to my God
I get the chance to avenge my own blood.

The Trojan horizon was setting blood
While two enemies prepared for fate.
Hector threw his spear but missed the half god.
When he found he had no second, he cried
And then died when the spear pierced his body.
Achilles picked at him like a vulture.

We hear blood-curdling cries on the news and see
Stone dead bodies, slaughtered by people fighting
In the name of God(s). Are we vultures?

Abandoning

He bore the nails for our sin,
And God turned His back on Him.
A father could do no worse
Than leave His Son to a curse
So we could gain in His loss.
The sight was gory and gross—
A naked man ripped apart,
His hands, feet, and bleeding heart
Masked the man, Savior of Men.
No wound would be greater than
Such separation from God,
Nor will we find that it could.
I’ll take my pains any day
To avoid hurt none can stay.

What Hurting Hearts Will Do

“Will you come and play with me?”
My toddler asked pleadingly.
The other girl smiled and said, “no.”
My baby hung her head low.
“Daddy, she doesn’t like me.”
“Then I’ll play with you, sweet pea.”
B said no and frowned at me.
Her hurting heart couldn’t see
The hint of hypocrisy.

How To Measure Your Life

We measure our lives by its years:
Seasons filled with joy, grief, or tears.
Our memories cloud in the end,
Life’s passing shade makes it unclear

Why we toiled and sweated in
Our work to be the man of men,
Or the beauty of the king’s ball.
I’ve heard, in breathing their last, men

Don’t grieve lost time at work at all.
Instead, the moments they recall—
With a tinge of grief and a pall—
Are those with their young when they’re small.

Stepping In

Slowly stepping into the pool,
I feel the waters climb me: cool
Against my hot, sweaty body.
Nearby, pool men work like nobody’s
Business. Something like a fiddle
Plays on one’s MP3. Little
Creatures scurry from the long arm
Of the net he spoons like a storm
Swirling through the waters. Poolside,
He walks back and forth making wide
Arcs with the net until he is done
Then rests in the shade from the sun.

Wedding Anniversary Poem

As our 7th year comes to a close,
We’ve seen seasons that draw tears to the eyes.
Throughout, you’ve labored and battled our foes
While standing courageously by my side.

Love is an action, it always has been.
Everyday, you labor at this and such,
And no matter it all, you don’t give in.
You silently grieve that we don’t have much.

I love you for losing that I might gain
You and all of our days that remain.

Between Need and Dreams

We came to the car shop today.
My youngest says the car is sick.
The windows are stuck, won’t obey
The touch of my finger tips.

So here I am passing the time,
Listening to ESPN.
The announcers forecast the outcome
Of the game like weathermen.

They’re just as certain who will win
As if they were reading radar.
Tomorrow, they’ll forget again
How wrong they were and often are.

Choosing words, like picking a team,
Is an assumptive business.
Here, in the shop, stuck between
Need and dreams makes me second-guess.

Providence

Everyday, we labor such
As if there is no end.
So, we rally ourselves,
In the company of friends.

But even they, in all truth
Cannot keep our confidence.
It’s just too much to bear.
So, we lean on Providence.

The Spring After the Fall

Robert, why are you grieving
That your son is leaving?
Love, the thing, not you
With your selfish pride, can you?
Ah! Your heart turns tender
For yourself and not the sender.
You lie and lie to yourself and cry
“It’s another, not I.”
You weep, yet I know why.
Now no matter the twisted name
Love covers your shame.
Though you cannot express
How love feels, nor can guess,
It is what we were born for.
Still, it is yourself you mourn for.

Savor Today

People come and go
Eating gelato.
Nearby customers,
Planning their order,
Yawn, lazy and dull.
The sluggish day lulls
Between the noon heat
And the shop’s cream treats.
Perhaps, I’ll have one
Under the bright sun
And savor today
Till it’s put away.