Tony Daly

Cinq poesies

 

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Hair Trigger

 

Nightmares come with closed eyes, 

memories twisted with fear and anxiety. 

Restful sleep is but a fleeting blink 

erased in flames of startled heat.

The profanity spit with animosity 

attacks of its own twisted volition, 

a cacophonous web of adrenaline 

mixed with defense mechanisms,

cultivated in a most unholy setting,

filled with fragmentary naps 

at countless guard stations,

all bleeding together under closed eyes, 

reverberant sounds of mortar blasts, 

panicked commands of superiors, 

walls splattered with compatriot gore.

 

Yet here, on non-concurrent waves, 

out of tune with self as hushed onlooker, 

startled by malicious vitriol spit forth, 

yet unable to exact change upon action, 

to correct the wayward course of things. 

Unable to do anything but be struck dumb 

by ones own actions, or struck dead 

by one’s own self-loathing. 

 

Had to Get Out

 

The box was closed, 

the hook was set, 

when the sedan, 

riding too low 

pulled along-side, 

trapping us between 

itself, on our nine, 

a truck at six, 

a ditch at three, 

a stalled van at twelve. 

We had to get out.

 

This trap was drilled 

until reaction was automatic.

I accelerated and swerved, 

left some paint, 

vaulted the ditch.

Had to get out 

before the fuse was lit.

 

I’ve seen the aftermath, 

extinguished flames in sand, 

pulled charred parts from the wreck.

We had to get out.

 

I awoke in a crumpled can, 

accordioned against a tree, 

sirens blaring down Main Street, 

when I remembered where I was, 

not in armed conflict, 

just driving to the store, 

my wife, my child, and I.

 

Now, they’ll never get out, 

because I never did. 

 

Red

 

Red stained my hands.

Red soaked the ground.

Red blurred my vision. 

Red leaves fell, 

as I held you in my arms, 

gasping, convulsing, 

panicking as your life 

flowed away in rivers of red.

 

Amongst the Dunes

 

The sand blows through 

the charred carapace of our caravan,

washing away the stains of our passing.

Bearded Vultures take purchase 

on our Humvee’s sun-bleached remains. 

 

We are the dead, 

intruders from another land, 

believing we carried stability and safety.

Yet, here we lay, 

scattered amongst the dunes, 

finely ground into the shifting land. 

 

Zombie

 

Dead-eye’d stare

Focused on the unseen.

Clothes and face,

Pale as the dying land.

Black blood

Oozing from ears, nose

And drooling mouth.

Trapped as an undead.

Terrors of the past

Veiling the present,

Dulling the senses,

Inflaming the nerves,

Rotting the brain.

Never permitted

To live again. 

 

Tony Daly is a poet and short story writer of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and military fiction. His work has been recently published or is forthcoming with  The HorrorZine, Utopia Science Fiction, Spaceports & Spidersilk, and others. He is proud to serve as an Associate Editor with Military Experience and the Arts. For a list, that probably needs to be updated, of his published work, please visit https://aldaly13.wixsite.com/website or follow him on Twitter @aldaly18.

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