Boom, Boom, Boom, Tick, Bang, Wallop
The soldiers prepare, prepare.
Their thoughts wear uniforms
Their memories blink in the too bright sun
Where ravens and crows play with matches
All is well as dusk comes
Stillness after the sound of guns
The memories drip, running into a stream
A stream of consciousness; drip, drip, drip
Dirty water, no taste.
Tainted air, no smell.
This is a collective poem from the Literary Potlatch, written by the participants on the day, with each of them only able to see the previous line. At present, the image accompanying it is a stock photo but we would really love someone to respond to the poem visually, as only an original image can possibly do it justice. Full credit will of course be given. Please email firstname.lastname@example.org if you’re interested in creating something special we can share. Thank you 🙂