Night of the Radioman – Hawk Hill

Night of the Radioman   Hawk Hill prose poem

Up here, the indecipherable universe
Unfolds into a trillion starry mysteries
Spreading light-years above
The crowded frequencies of Earth
Crackling in the atmosphere
Transmitting to ten thousand towers of Babel
Scattered across the hills like spores of static
And the humming of the radio
Probing the polar ends
Of the collective subconscious mind
As I receive the undistorted song
Of crickets rising from the ruins of a village
At the foot of the hill
Awash in the white ash waste of moonlight
In a wilderness of weeds springing from the scars
Of napalm and craters of artillery
Where the weary heirs of war have drawn
The warm moist earth across their faces
Closing their dead-tired eyes with dirt to sleep
To smooth their gaping wounds
And broken limbs into the soil
The flesh dissolving from their souls
Releasing them into the dewy darkness
To rest forever at the verge of birth
Perpetually changing forms
Whispering their terrible secrets in my ear

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 4.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of Bill Peeler

Bill Peeler

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
My wife, Noy and I are Protestant missionaries in Cambodia. We met in a border refugee camp in Thailand back in 1979 while I was a refugee relief worker. She was a refugee. I lived and worked in Mairut Refugee Camp for three years. We have three grown kids. I was drafted into the Army in 1969, served in Vietnam from 1970 to 1971 and honorably discharged at the end of my military obligation. Writing prose and poetry is how I document the life I'm living and how I map out the mental landscape inside my head.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

2 Comments on "Night of the Radioman – Hawk Hill"

Notify of
avatar
Sort by:   newest | oldest
Preeti
Member

A radioman’s routine told as a beautiful tale …amazing!

wpDiscuz

Next Night

Next Night short poem

I hate the self-immolation of orange sex. Weather was leaving blue strings on the skin. Redemption was incomplete by sharing the legs Lips will not knead the ears. Like wakng in darkness for a passage to grief. Black moon will

Is This How You Love?

Is This How You Love? short poem

You have no problem leaving me behind. You can easily put me out of your mind. It’s like my presence puts you in a bind. I bet every time you see me you wish you were blind. You told me

The Prince, The King And The Master

The Prince, The King And The Master long poem

The shrine of Madonna stood tall, The high king’s rapier fell down, not anymore was he the young prince, for he was devoid of all feelings. The shrine of Madonna stood strong, The high king’s blood washed the ivory pedestal,

Who Was Me?

Who Was Me? short poem

A misbelief breaks into rags. Still I dream of some gods on black pages piecing together the words of light. The rains come in the cage of tears, voicelessly. Striated muscles of splintered faith go to cramps birthing the avatar

*depression

*depression short poem

There was thunder in the hut teeth clattered under the ground. Handcuffed you walk in inequality to qualify for hanging till dead. I may not tell myself what was happening to me. Moving in opposite direction the bird was able