Distant
Death and Imminent Ignorance
The heart sings a silent song,
For the soldiers far away,
A solemn tribute to the lives,
Of those that died today.
We do not feel their pain,
Or see the atrocities they saw.
It's our ignorance that justifies,
The futility that is war.
The heart cries the driest tear,
In contempt of our enemies' cause,
But I ask you would we feel the same?
If the ideals lost had been ours,
No man may look on unbiased,
On the fanatics of yesteryear,
But must the ideas we form tomorrow,
Be the source of more hatred and fear?
Carl P. Monaghan.
20/1/02
This poem is more about the ethics of war in general
than any particular conflict. Though I feel it can be more readily applied
to the more recent conflicts in the Gulf. - CPM
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Introduction by Chris
North
June, July 04.
I am a retired British Army Royal
Engineers Bomb Disposal Officer, I left the army in 97 after 20 years service,
since then I have been working in war zones around the world, clearing
mines and explosive items and teaching and supervising others.
I served in the Army from 1977 to 1997,
first as an soldier in the Royal Engineers Parachute Squadron, with this
unit I served in Northern Ireland and also the Falklands war, then most
of the rest of my career was with the Royal Engineers Bomb Disposal Regiment.
I am married to my lovely wife Janice and have two great kids, Andrew and
Denise, all of whom give me great support in my chosen career.
Both during my time as a soldier and
since as a humanitarian deminer, I have been writing poetry. Tthe main
reason for this was to act as kind of a self therapy to ease the distress
of some of the things I have seen, dealt with and heard.
Most of this work was destroyed by
me as once it had been written. Iit had served its purpose. In 1997
I was persuaded by a desk top publisher, in my home town of Dunoon on the
west coast of Scotland, to not destroy any more (one of the previous poems
had survived and he was shown this by my wife. I include this poem in this
e mail.War Trade), since then I have saved a lot of my stuff, since then
a few poor attempts at desktop publishing with a view to selling some small
poetry books to raise funds for mine clearance charities have failed. The
charity i was involved in was Handicap International. This charity
has offices world wide including UK and Lyon in France. The web site is
www.handicap-international.org.uk
I do not consider myself as a poet
although a few journalists have referred to me as the poet deminer.. A
label I dislike, the poetry I write I am sure is not technically good poetry,
but it is written for a different purpose than scholastic recognition.
All the work is either based on factual
events that I have witnessed or been told about by those affected, or based
on my feelings as a deminer and as a father and husband, working away from
the family he loves for long periods of time.
I am not sure that any of the stuff
is worthy of inclusion on your web site but you may find some of it interesting.
Chris North, QA/QC advisor, Demining
and EOD, Southern Iraq, Thuraya
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War Trade
It's quiet here amongst the hills
Not far away fresh blood spills
A mother rocks her child with a love so great
While old friends confront each other with hate
Buildings blaze and bullets fly
And every day the homeless ask why
The women folk weep for husbands and sons
Who fight their neighbours with rockets and guns
Civil war rages in Europe's back yard
When you're fighting for peace the vengeance is hard
Deep-rooted hate is set in each mind
And each act of violence is answered in kind
In a few short weeks from here we'll be gone
But the shooting and killing still rages on
We go back to our homes where war is no threat
But the fight will go on for many years yet
The death toll will rise amid rivers of blood
Another cease-fire!! Will it do any good
The young are the innocent but as they grow
Will war become the only trade they know
They inherit the battles that their fathers start
Draining the life from a country's sad heart.
The death and destruction make strong men cry
But still they fight on, the grieving ask "Why?"
Chris North
Who Knows
It's when I'm alone that it starts to bite
When I've nothing to do and it's late at night
These thoughts creep in
Evoking worry like sorrow
Will I survive the day or be killed tomorrow
Will the next landmine I touch
Be the last thing I see
Will I be killed or maimed
What will happen to me
I'm sure it won't happen but
I know that it might
These thoughts come to haunt me
Sometimes in the night
When night drifts away and
Morning seeps through
My confidence returns in the things that I do
Worries recede as the morning turns bright
I am eager again to get on with the fight
Those haunting memories
Seem like decades away
But they return at the end of each day
Confidence deserts me
The day draws to a close
Will I survive or die tomorrow
Who knows?
Chris North
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The Spuds Are Alright
In fields so recently sowed
The potatoes begin to grow
But today a child lost her life
All because she didn't know
She didn't know she wasn't allowed
To cross the field to school
How could she be expected to know?
That the farmer would be such a fool
She only took the shortcut
Because she didn't want to be late
She didn't know this shortcut
Would seal her tragic fate
Along with the rows of potatoes
The farmer sowed mines beneath
To protect his few pounds of vegetables
From succumbing to a thief
But it wasn't a thief who found the mine
So cunningly hidden from sight
A sweet innocent child so tragically slain
But the potatoes they are alright.
Chris North
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Sierra Leone,
Introduction by Mark Jones
Sierra Leone is a small, yet remarkable country. A West
African paradise in so many ways; a land of great physical beauty, abundant
in flora and fauna and rich with potential. Its inhabitants are imbued
with an extraordinary religious tolerance and a passion for learning. To
its credit it is a nation that has chosen to be free of bitterness or rancour
about the colonial era. Saloneans cherish life and are generous of spirit.
It is as if these people are inspied by the example of Bai Bureh, Thomas
Clarkson, Toussaint L'Ouverture and William Wilberforce.
Yet, the very name Sierra Leone is synonymous with
images of forced amputations, conflict diamonds and child soldiers. In
recent times a brutal war ravaged the land for just over a decade. The
effects of this salamandrine conflagration have certainly laid the country
low. The putrid stench of corruption now wafts through the corridors of
power and sadly, the judiciary seems content to wallow self obsessed in
its dotage. Issues such as child trafficking, deforestation and the blight
of Female Genital Mutilation have yet to be addressed, whilst HIV and AIDS
have begun to take their toll.
It might seem that a demi-Eden has been lost, but
my experience of Sierra Leone tells me otherswise. Whilst the people may
be materially poor, they are spiritually rich. The poems that follow are
my musings and thoughts about the dark days, that God willing, are now
at a close.
Mark T Jones.
Kingharman Road Girl
Fly-blown hopes lie caressing the curb
Her sores a nation's stigmata
Would a pye-dog lick thy wounds ?
Or skirt round you like the tide of your brothers
and sisters.
If we could pause but for a moment and prise open
your mind
We too would seek safety in cold stone
Stone far more loving than human hearts
Judgement passed, we hurry on blind, sightless, caring
not.
[The traumatised girl described in this poem had
been raped by rebel soldiers and had had her parents and elder brother
butchered before her very eyes.]
Mark T Jones
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The War Lord - a poem written to be read
by two people.
Cut, thrust, plunge
Slash, slit, stab
Starve, mame, shoot
Torch, burn, scar
The trumpets herald you with regal glory
Epaulettes glisten and medals gleam
Plunder, loot, steal
Blind, brand, rape
Curse, crush, kidnap
Smash, torture, kill
Your arrival is welcomed with carpets of steel
Ramrod backed your subjects hail you
Bind, bludgeon, bury
Garotte, impale, castrate
Order, imprison, enslave
Censor, cajole, destroy
Your scarlet cape billows as yuou sense fresh converts
Ever more shrill their praises grow.
Barren, bleak, blackened
Shattered, sterile, stricken
Torn, poisoned, defiled
Bloodied, emtombed, rotting
The prize presented on some stolen silver
A maggot riddled remnant of a once serene world.
Mark T Jones
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Bepalmed
Swaying fronds beckon
Agile men ascend to steal your sustaining source
Let nature through fermentation take its revenge
Your milky sap saps and turns heads soft.
Soon mortal thieves sway frond-like and beckon
Agile men to take them to their rest.
[The citizens of Freetown were in a celebratory mood
on 10th September 2000 for thanks to Operation Barras a maverick militia
group called the West Side Boys were defeated by British forces. As a Brit
that day there was no escaping the local palm wine - powerful stuff that
could floor an elephant!]
Mark T Jones
The Camp - Sierra Leone 2000
Did Peter Brueghel paint here ?
Bestumped innocence sears my sight
How many tears could wash away such a scene ?
Time affords us no such quantity.
Satan's flail has done its work
Limbs harvested and yet unused
Shattered lives as broken columns stand mute
A world unseen, some unseeing.
Did Hieronymous Bosch paint this ?
He surely saw it - a living charnel house writ large
Minds dislocated in the name of some perverted peace
Such a canvas leaves one dumb.
What God has given man has taken
A blasphemy of slash and burn
Pax Africana upon the altar
Seemingly little resurrectional hope for thee.
Did Edvard Munch paint here ?
He must have dreamt it-this fiendish site
Manmade, contorted out of shape and hate
These open wounds framed in guilt.
[One day I walked in to a vast camp filled with 3,500
amputees, some as young as two. The horrifying scene that confronted me
brought to mind certain works by the artists mentioned in this poem.]
Mark T Jones
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Initialdom
Where once people sang now initials stalk
Acronyms and their attendants decide our fate
Good, bad, near unfathomable
These our servants now roam free, breeding unchecked.
RUF, SLA, AK47, no music in such sounds
Do you put your faith in ECOMOG or UNAMSIL ?
Is the NCRRR or the UNHCR the real route to salvation
?
Far better that you stop and put your faith in GOD.
Mark T Jones
Independence Day - 27th April 1961
Your hast conception not an act of love but of duty
Preparations hurried, rushed and often unseemly
By the book, yet its ink still moist.
The swelling in your womb enlarged by hope
Expectation and wonder filled the air
A birth urged on, induced by the winds of change.
The delivery a public event, bunting and photographs
A ceremonial sword to sver the umbilical cord
All smiles, smart salutes, silver and gold braid.
A new world ready to suckle you on high ideals
Yet harsh realities and global indifference await
Your optimism left clutching its distended stomach.
That heralded arrival soon eclipsed and forgotten
Dissemblers wait to sell your soul and that of future
generations
Liberty's bell now hollow and the haunt of vultures.
Mark T Jones
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Protocol
"His Excellency the Minister will see you now."
I stand endeavouring to look taller
Hat firmly clasped, heat resisted.
God, how I hate these meetings.
Tawdry furnishings and even cheaper words
Our dignity must be maintained
He must be appeased, his ego massaged
A malodorous minister must be seen to glow.
His bull-necked toadies sit in ill-fitting suits
Biros recording every nuance, every hollow gesture
Whilst in the real world people strive to live
Their futures choked by the rancid fumes of protocol.
[Written in Freetown following meetings with various
Sierra Leone Government Ministers.]
Mark T Jones
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Basket Case ?
Pliny the Elder was right, if only we knew it
Instead we sit smug and self-satisfied
Spiritual pigmies who have sold what soul we have
for the here and now.
If only we could look as well as see
The Dark Continent seems to elicit predictable headlines
AIDS, atrocities, famine and the psychotic doings
of the self-annointed.
The real truth is there for all to see
An energy and desire for learning that humbles
Innovation, opness and communal joy tempered by corruption.
Africa holds up a mirror to us all
No romance in poverty, but an infusion of faith
In what we see as earthly darkness is the route to
the hereafter.
(Ex Africa semper aliquid novi - There is
always something new out of Africa - Pliny the Elder 23-79AD)
Mark T Jones
29 8 04
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8 August 04, Hal Sirowitz
writes:
Dear editor - I liked your website and am sending you
a poem in support. It's loosely structured.
I'm the
former Poet Laureate of Queens, New York.
My new book
of poems is 'Father Said' (Softskull Press).
One Long Continual War
'You're still fighting
the Vietnam War,'
father said. 'Everyone
else has forgotten it
and moved to the next one.'
'But we haven't finished it,'
I said. 'We've only moved it
to a different location. We're
repeating the same situation:
a strong nation taking advantage
of a weak one. We're like
the bully who lives on our street.'
'We only fight when we're
provoked,' he said.
'That's what the bully says,' I said.
'Maybe he's right,' he said.
'He can't be right all the time,' I said.
'You're always provoking me,'
he said, 'by telling me our
country is wrong. You have
to admit it's right sometimes.'
'Only if it's not fighting other
countries and starts helping
its own people,' I said.
'And what would we do
about our enemies?' he said.
'Just leave them alone
and watch as they grow stronger.'
'They're not our enemies if
we're not fighting them,' I said.
'That attitude caused the Roman Empire
to fall,' he said.
'Where did you get that idea?' I said.
'From watching the movie 'Ben Hur'
a few times,' he said.
'I saw it and got a completely
different opinion,' I said.
'That's what makes our country great,'
he said. 'We have the freedom to disagree.'
'We've always disagreed,' I said.
'But never on anything as important
as Hollywood,' he said.
Hal Sirowitz
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Kevin
John Skinner
I was in the army, now I am working
in Kosovo, but no longer in a military capacity. I was just trying
to put across, in a short description, the sense of coldness and detachment,
but capture all the elements that one would not perceive unless you have
been in a similar situation. I hope I manage this.
POW
Dedicated to any POW and the recent captured, prey
that they will be free in mind body and soul.
Its grey, why do I stay,
Its fear entering my ear,
In me it's all I see, I need to get some rest.
Darkened room filled with gloom,
Locked room, I'm in a tomb, my made womb,
I see the light, I just can't fight,
I sit alone, frozen to the bone,
Something not right on this darkened night,
I hear a whisper, giving my mind a roller coaster
twister,
are they words, or Chinese whispers,
My mind begins to blister.
I try to cry, but all is dry, is it time to die,
thoughts of goodbye making me fry,
I cant sleep, I hear a heart beat, I'm in to deep,
to deep to sleep.
I can't eat; I have cold feet, why can't I sleep?
I'm thinking without blinking, I feel myself sinking,
From the grey to the black, I have to watch my back,
I think I taking a panic attack, give my grey back.
I need to get some sleep,
I can't get no sleep...
Kevin John Skinner
Copyright ©2004
A Soldier
Dusk or dawn, all is still, just strange noises shrill.
I lay to hear my prey, I smell of earth, I am the
turf,
hearing sounds, my sweat the salt of dirt. Calm
composed, in my strike pose.
I meditate, thought of home numbed away. A noise!
I poise a delay so to say. Unnatural crackle did
nature tackle.
I smell the air to compare; I can tell they are
there.
I smell the guns, the oil of its used toil, that
scent makes
their foil.
I am nature, I am one, trained environment relater,
about
to be the instigator, queen and countries terminator.
I hear a whisper, the sound of a popping blister,
boots
on the ground, synthetic scuffling sound. Now in
my sight, on
this deadened night.
A flare, a glare, shadows grow, adrenaline flows.
My finger squeezes
slow, I attack, no fire back, slumped shadows, never
to see green meadows,
grounded, body bag founded.
I am a tree, you cant see me, I am a boulder, they
should
have told you, I am a soldier, from dusk to dawn.
Kevin John Skinner
2004 Kosovo
Copyright ©2004
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Colin Alcock
16 May 03
One mother's son, another's daughter
They lie together
Entwined in lovers' parody
Twisted in silent rebuke
Of their mutual destiny
Neither sought nor deserved.
His face seeks solace in the skies
Flesh ripped and folded
Exposing blood glistened white bone
One eye sightless, staring
Fixed, unfocused.
One socket eyeless
Rimmed with gore.
Jagged bone ripped through flesh
Of arms, of chest, of hip
Lower limbs strangely clean
Athletic, down to white trainers
Spattered red and brown.
Her arm in silken sleeve
Torn from embroidered bodice
Encircles in mock tenderness
A body she'd never known.
A meeting of like souls
Thrown together by chance
She a full 20 metres
From where he stood
Now draped in tortuous pose.
One foot severed, sinuously attached
Sole upwards, toes pointing back
Face buried in a stranger's shoulder
Black hair streaming down
Glinting in sharp sunlight
Heat laden, dust grimed air
Curling wisps gently upward
Caressing her rip torn body.
So is this the peace
For which the soldiers fought
So bravely, so relentlessly?
Arched and broken cadavers
Freed from torment
And crush of dictator's power.
Strewn as rubble
Amongst a broken regime
Their innocence a shattered monument
Far more telling
Than decapitated statues
Razed ministries
Or salute of rolling armour.
Two souls lost to this world
That harboured no evil
That, had they met in life,
May have celebrated amity.
What now of their families
Bereft of loved ones
Not yet knowing of their loss?
One mother's son
Another's daughter
Brushed into the dirt of war
The number of two
Added to thousands more
Civilian and military
Each having embraced
The agonising throes of death.
Or much, much worse
Dismembered, burned and mutilated
To survive in little more than name.
Tagged bodies, pallet strewn
Enduring sparse, though dedicated
care
Flies dancing on their festering wounds.
Does acrid black smoke
Hang still before our eyes
To cloud our vision?
Red sand swirl menacingly
Obliterating our senses
As we carve great swathes
Of needless death
In the name of freedom?
So we become the threat
That relishes war before democracy
Abandoning dialogue
In delusion of supremacy
Pangaea ruptured in mistrust
Firing neighbour against neighbour
In perpetual self destruction
Never learning, never winning
That peace of which we dream.
Now bundled into ragged sheets
Two lives are liberated
Only from this world.
Swept away
To make their separate departures
In rough hewn caskets
Amongst the tears and lamentations
Of those who are left
To rebuild shattered, tortured lives
From the rubble and dust
That was once their pride.
No Generals to praise them
No idolatry of fame
Only the hard soil to embrace them.
This son, this daughter of our time
Memories that fade as generations
pass
While war perpetuates its misery.
Colin Alcock
Copyright ©
Colin Alcock 2003
1 May 2003
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Found
Rusted bucket,
digs deep into hard earth,
revving engine and screeching clutch
drowning the crack of brittle bone,
whining, straining, lifting
upwards,
shards sifting from soulless steel,
blind to gnarled hands that scrabble
in the trough of desecrated humanity.
Vestiges of identity
clawed out of fading memory,
so long bereft of hope,
now once more with love enfolded,
as, black shrouded, head bowed,
war crushed remnants, tortured and
slain,
plastic bag clutched to her heart,
wailing tearfully, she takes her son
home.
Colin Alcock
Copyright ©
Colin Alcock 2003
16 May 2003
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Saga
of Sabah
Trevor Morgan
These poems relate mainly to the Indonesian Confrontation
during the time I was there, 1963-64. Some are specific to actions
at Tauau bay and Tauau Airfield in January 1963. They also relate
to emotions since then induced by those actions. Some are immune
to trauma and some are driven to suicide and some are left in an emotional
turmoil by it. Most, I think, belong to the latter. Veterans of wars
tend to know all about feelings.
The first set of verses that I wrote on the subject
of the Indonesian confrontation was called "The Pools by the Shore". Some
of those verses are incorporated within this work. I chose the fourteen
line stanza form as I thought that would consume more time. It did not.
I have not written history here. It is a set of emotional
cameos and impressions. The term "friendly fire" was not in the language
at that time. We never heard of any friendly fire incidents at that time.
We did hear men say "Oh, no, not another bloody balls up" but no doubt
that had a different meaning.
My memories of events and sequences are poor. My
memories of emotions are vivid today. It is sometimes like these things
are still about me. I was a minor cog and not particularly good at the
job I did. My head was in the clouds and not always with the task at hand.
British armed forces are good at what they do. The
following part of a stanza belongs in a work yet to be written down and
is on the theme of the logic of war:-
There is no point in war save but to win
No point in all the chaos, save that one
To kill may be a foul and awful sin
War's only worth the strife where war is won!
I cannot really finish this work as events and consequences
resulting from the "Confrontation" continue to unfold. The rain forests
of Sabah have been mutilated and desecrated by human greed and foolishness.
The populous nation of Indonesia is going through
change. The future for them can hardly be worse than the past. They are
a people who deserve some better times. Fighting against the British is
never the wisest decision. We do make a foe of considerable fortitude.
It is the hallmark of the ordinary British serviceman. I know fortitude
is seen as a virtue and obstinacy is seen as a vice. What I am never clear
about is where the one ends and the other begins. I think, maybe, not being
clear on this, is part of what it takes to be a Tommy or a Jack. Bless
them all I think of those times still sometimes over a pint. For some years
they were in my dreams but those dreams are fading now as I myself must
fade as well.
To me there are three types of war poet. Those who
have no direct experience ( eg Homer and Tennyson) Those who no direct
experience but have a real empathy for those who have (Kipling) Those who
have direct experience (Owen, Sassoon, Love and MacNally) I was a member
of a boat crew landing troops uncomfortably close to things but not that
directly involved. So I am omewhere between Kipling the war journalist
and the front line.
Trevor Morgan, Rockwell Green, 2004
© Trevor Morgan, June 2004, all rights reserved
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Dedication
To all those
who served in Borneo
Prologue
Death Drip Fed
Death has long been drip-fed
Through all our "post-war" years
And one by one the dead
Cause some to shed their tears
Yet still there are the pains
We feel beneath the scars
There were few grand campaigns
Just lots of little wars
Was any of the cost
Of every fight and raid
For those who are now lost
Worth sacrifices made?
The book is open still
For more to pay that bill.
Delight
The blood and the torment were there
The painful exquisite delight
They had shed the enemies blood
Yet lived to the end of the fight
So all along the shore a war was fought
In action after action won and lost
The forces of the Crown would stop
at nought
Determined there to win and bear the
cost
With bold moves they thrust deep and
far inland
The fight they always took right to
their foe
And mostly things would seem to be
as planned
Small blunders may be made, but who's
to know?
Reports are written up on most events
Explaining all the outcomes of each
day
In later times there may be sad laments
-
Who listens to what veterans may say?
Old men may well feel sad about back
then
For wars are won by slaying other
men
The rivers of Sabah soon rush to flood
Large trees are carried down within
their flow
Much of the shoreline there was treacle
mud
Such places aren't the safest place
to go
Mosquitoes dine on men the whole night
through
Diseases may be there in each small
bite
For all about where ever man may go
Lurked death but it was never there
in sight
There is no point in war save but
to win
No point in all the chaos save this
one
To kill may be a foul and awful sin
War's only worth the strife where
war is won
Grey haired men may feel sad about
things then
Yet wars are won by better stratagem
The men on either side had different
views
The Commonwealth brought its best
to this fight
Back home there was not much said
in the news
Nor much was thought in terms of wrong
or right
Professional men were experts at this
trade
And did this work that was their job
to do
A quiet task not driven by tirade
The fighting of each war was nothing
new
This "confrontation" was an empty
boast
The "liberation" fighters were less
skilled
Where ideals are a driving force for
most
Enthusiasm leads men to be killed
Old fools may lead their people to
defeat
But killing their young men is not
so sweet
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A Landing
The craft all lay out from the bay
Filled with men prepared for a fight
They'd stayed there all yesterday
And rode the waves most of the night
Their crews were well used to the swell
And waited for orders to come
Soldiers were feeling unwell
Seasickness had left them all dumb
The craft slewed and reared in the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Of their thoughts no one could tell
As craft lay off the far shore
When crewmen ate up their ration
Some soldiers had puked on the deck
Faces so grey and ashen
Each had his equipment to check
The diesels had thrummed through the
night
As craft lay off the far shore
Throttles were opened with might
And thrums had turned to a roar
The craft slewed and reared in the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Each in his own secret hell
And tensed for the work of the day
The craft all as one made a turn
Bow waves churned up to white crests
Their wakes made great plumes at the
stern
And their hearts beat hard in their
chests
The tracers lit up the east sky
And star shells burst over the shore
Yet none of them there asked "why?"
The diesels continued to roar
The craft slewed and reared on the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Each seemed to be in a spell
As the craft sped in to the bay
The craft careered on at full speed
Adrenaline started its flow
The fear then seemed to recede
We were there to "give a good show"
Crafts full of young men in their prime
Each checking equipment once more
This eased the passage of time
As diesels continued to roar
The craft slewed and reared on the
swell
White faces were wet with the spray
Our fate no one could foretell
As we raced on in to the bay
In the great scheme of things of course
There's nothing of worth on those
shores
Radios crackled some Morse
And bow men stood by the bow doors
As mangrove trees loomed into sight
And young hearts beat fast out of
fear
Astern dawn's eerie first light
The sounds of some gunfire seemed
near
The craft slowed and rode a slight
swell
White faces still wet with the spray
There seemed a flatulent smell
As we neared the shore of the bay
Propellers churned up a grey froth
Through mud of the marshy foreshore
The mud like flames to a moth
Stuck us fast and we moved no more
The bow doors slapped down on the mud
The first men sank in far too deep
Terror then froze in their blood
Stuck there for the reaper to reap
The small craft brought us to this
hell
Such places can trap men as prey
Their plan was to charge pell-mell
But this mud here had blocked the
way
They strained as they fought with the
ooze
A battle with men they could win
This fight with some mud they'd lose
The diesel roars made a loud din
Then tracers etched through the dawn
sky
As shells burst beyond the shore line
Minutes then slowly dragged by
In the mud, the muck and the slime
Our craft too were stuck in this hell
And the crews were trapped in the
bay
Shellfire still clattered its knell
And quagmires of mud blocked the way
As diesels churned up a grey froth
Men slithered in mud to the shore
They raged an undignified wrath
They wallowed and sweated and swore
The engines then eased to a hum
The boat crew had failed though they'd
tried
Though mud we could not overcome
We could well float free with the
tide
The craft was then stuck in that hell
And we had to get to the shore
Shellfire still clattered a knell
-
Mud beckoned beyond the bow door .
The mangroves on the shore blocked
land from view
While helicopters flew ahead in land
Boat crews knew landing troops was
hard to do
But tides and flows good seaman understand
Control of open seas gives space to
fight
Darkness of night may cover what's
to be
Sound strategies are better than bold
might
No shore is safe from men who know
the sea
To move along a shore, to pick and
choose
Where to assault and where to feint
a blow
Helps to ensure an enemy may lose
Where victory is the only thing we
know
Yet old men may feel sad now and again
About an old friend who died young
back then
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The Shore
The shoreline was muddy and flat
Trees seemed to grow out of the sea
He sniffed at the stench and he spat
This was not where he wanted to be
The strange roots all gnarled and knotted
Arched upward beneath every tree
All hope in his soul had rotted
This was not where he wanted to be
We'd squelched through the muddy foreshore
When we'd landed here from the sea
Hauled boxes and sweated and swore
This was not where he wanted to be
Crabs scurried about us right there
He'd wallowed ungainly by me
His eyes had a strange glassy stare
This was not where he wanted to be
Somewhere he lies buried near there
For too soon his soul was set free
Whilst he's not the one with the care
This is not where he wanted to be
Yet all along that shore a war was
fought
A treacherous fight where little could
be seen
Those who did not learn fast were
never taught
But fell beneath a lovely tropic scene
Upon that mud where crabs and fishes
fed
Or others "helped" them yet their
deaths were slow
But care did not stop them from ending
dead
Sometimes that is the way that things
must go
Some deaths were hapless and of no
great note
Sometimes a life was lost so other
men might live
Some floating bodies would soon swell
and bloat
In humid heat few would care to forgive
Some old man may feel sad about back
then
For wars are won by slaying many men
Retrieving a Body
We found him half under the water
Where the crabs had started to dine
It was the day after the slaughter
The weather was splendid and fine
The state of him gave us a shock
For he was so clammy and cool
We hauled him out onto a rock
And crabs ran back into the pool
Yet no one could raise to a rage
For his skin was waxy and blue
More crabs came out of his rib cage
Where the round had drilled him right
through
Yet vengeance was not mine or thine
His killers were already dead
Some lay there by that shore's tide
line
Where more crabs were now being fed
Some boat crews were like undertakers
too
The dead they ferried back out to
the ships
Upon those tropic seas so wond'rous
blue
Some prayers were said through barely
mumbling lips
As coxswains steered their boats back
out to sea
Returning back there in the clear
bright light
With what is left when each soul is
set free
From men who'd come here in the dead
of night
Now bodies soon decay in tropic heat
Their stench is carried far upon the
breeze
An odour partly sickly part quite
sweet
Its recall leaves the soul still ill
at ease
In later days an old man slit his
throat
His blood blocked out the words upon
his note
Returning a Body
The shore was to the lee
The engine's revs were low
Our progress to the sea
Was dignified and slow
He lay there on the boards
An ensign covered him
Flies gathered there in hoards
And he stank something grim
The sailors hymn was sung with reverence
sweet
As funerals at sea were carried out
Then ensigns stowed away all folded
neat
And men got on with tasks they were
about
There's little sentiment on men of
war
Assault ships are kept busy out at
sea
But funerals can't be seen as a chore
As bodies slide from boards out to
the lea
All sewn and weighted then dropped
in the deep
With reverence due but never over
done
It's not seemly when men are seen
to weep
With feelings hid close friends may
feel quite numb
Some old man may feel sad about back
then
When wars are won we always lose good
men
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Burial at Sea
There under the ensign he lay
As the prayers and sermon were said
I heard a voice inside me say
"But surely he just can't be dead"
Yet under the ensign he lay
Sewn in canvas with a large weight
The knowledge I have to this day
Still tells me it was just his fate
As we listened to the last post
The trumpeter played the last note
There off of that tropical coast
A lump seemed to choke in my throat
His mangled remains were well hid
Sewn in canvas with a large weight
Then from under the ensign he slid
Like others we had seen of late
Yet somehow things didn't seem right
I just wasn't able to weep
I saw as he sank out of sight
Sharks follow him down to the deep
Though time may pass the pain remains
the same
For some bad memories linger on and
on
And loss and shock may both then share
a name
For Trauma's there when hopes are
fled and gone
It's darkness stays like some unwanted
guest
It visits in the dark through troubled
sleep
With nightmares and mad dreams sleep-times
are "blessed"
As sometimes for no reason men may
weep
And sob about what happened long ago
Or talk to ghosts of men who are long
dead
Some secret fears some men may never
show
But who's to listen to what may be
said
Are ramblings of old sailors merely
quaint
Or symptoms of a soul that feels a
taint?
Able Seaman White (dec'd)
As the stars in the firmament gleam
In the arch of the sky of the night
There comes the repeated sad dream
Of a dead able seaman called White
I sat up with a jerk in the night
Saw a man that I'd seen long before
The ghost of the seaman called White
Who died by a rock pool by the shore
And he called me again by my name
Like he'd done many times here before
The same words he then said again
He had said before going ashore
"I must thank you for what you have
done
Because really it does mean a lot"
He'd wanted to walk in the sun
And he just didn't know he'd be shot
And his star in the firmament gleams
In the velvety darkness of night
For he still exists in my dreams
Does that dead able seaman called
White
At long distance there through a gun's
sight
He was seen as he stood by the shore
A bullet was launched on its flight
And he felt a slight jar - nothing
more
The sensation was then receding
Though all seemed like it had been
before
He wondered who could be bleeding
All that blood by the pool by the
shore
Now in life he had drawn the short
straw
There was little more of him to tell
Red coloured the pool by the shore
As he lay where he staggered and fell
Now the stars in the firmament gleam
In the inky dark blackness of night
For he's long sapped my self-esteem
Has that dead able seaman called White
Sun was bright as his day had grown
dim
When he lay there in it's bright light
As darkness closed in around him
And his day had been turned into night
I remember that man here before
How he fell from the shot of a gun
Right there by the pool by the shore
Where he died in the tropical sun
I remember the man of his name
Swapping duties with me just before
A gunner had taken his aim
Where I should have stood by the shore
And his star in the firmament gleams
As his ghost comes to visit at night
And he talks to me in my dreams
That forgotten dead seaman called
White
Yes in life he had drawn the short
straw
But his story is being retold
Red colours the pool by the shore
In the dreams of a man who's grown
old
He say's "Thank you for what you have
done
And I swear that it does mean a lot.
That I have now got me someone,
Yes - got someone - who has not forgot."
Now the night's long and sleepless
once more
All the stars in the firmament gleam
Waves lap by the pools by the shore
When not sleeping I don't have to
dream
There's chaos and confusion
Within a troubled mind
What's real seems an illusion
But old friends all seem kind
And who can find the reason
Sometimes when salt tears flow
They come in any season
But they're not put on show
An action by a bay may have been short
And may have only taken those few
days
An enemy's advance some men may thwart
In very many short and fast affrays
Repulses were repeated by that shore
Well aided by bombardments from the
sea
None asked what all of this may have
been for
It's like all this was simply meant
to be
This is the work professionals must
do
And do it well without the slightest
qualm
With sky above a lovely pastel blue
And water in the bay so wond'rous
calm
When enemy assailants were all dead
Some mud about the bay was coloured
red
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Waiting
Above us branches shattered
By bullets overhead
We lay there mud bespattered
And waited to be dead
As we cowered in the slime
There seemed an end to time
He lay there badly battered
The mud was turning red
And those crabs pitter-pattered
And waited to be fed
There lying in the slime
There was an end to time
Now the scene is always there
Though not a word is said
While older now and elsewhere
It's still there in my head
Still stuck in all that slime
The mind is trapped in time
Tauau Bay, Sabah
Tracer tracks and the stinking smell of
smoke
For it was there Faith sank without
a splash
As Hope ebbed slowly in the stink
and choke
To the sounds of fire and the distant
flash
Then Charity failed and it just had
to go
As landing craft ran round into the
bay
Helicopters whirled down and flew
in low
The action was fought out on that
fine day
With pressure on triggers so gently
squeezed
Until the gun recoils against your
grip
Death in a vicious spitting hail's
unleashed
This with the flashes from a distant
ship
And with the whine of shells erupting
fire
There came the news stories told by
a liar
Faceless and Dead
Around and around there clattered the
sound
Thuds vibrated through the ground
Ripples ran out along the mud
As terror drained the face of blood
Then stagg'ring by there in that place
A living man without a face
He writhed about there by the shore
Then quietly passed out through death's
door
Just another number and rank
And with that my weak faith then sank.
Some blunders may be made that aren't
that great
The odd stray round may not be fired
quite true
Some may see this as just the hand
of Fate
It's all a part of what some men may
do
Perhaps sometimes a dozen rounds or
more,
Some small mishap may mean their aim's
not right,
As they then rake the wrong part of
a shore
They may remove a close friend from
your sight
But this is all a part of fighting
war
A part of all the chaos of events
And after all it's what the Fates
are for
For Fates control what is the consequence
When friendly fire has left a friend
quite dead
Some mud about the bay is coloured
red
The pilots of the planes directed
in
Were trained in technocratic ways
of war
Like Cain they carried out a likewise
sin
But unlike Cain they killed so many
more
Phosphorous ignites within the flesh
of men
And burns the living waters that give
life
It's sickly stench acts as some cruel
omen
Of all the hell that comes with human
strife
But pilots never smell this stench
from flesh
Nor gunners in their turrets out at
sea
But hapless souls caught up in Satan's
mesh
May never from these horrors be quite
free
Some young men who have lost the will
to cope
May seek sweet solace swinging from
some rope
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Sorties away
Carriers turned into the wind
In distant deep wide seas
And now because some fools had sinned
The world is out of ease
And sortie after sortie went
To deal a hammer blow
With a resolve that won't relent
They're sent to cause more woe
The carrion of the deep will feed
Upon much mortal flesh
The madness will not yet recede
We're all caught in its mesh
Carriers turned back on their course
Their sorties are away
But actions done without remorse
May cause yet more dismay
In turrets of the ships far out at
sea
Men toiled to keep a constant rate
of fire
The Fates it is dictate all that's
to be
And who will end up dead in mud and
mire
And who will walk away at end of day
And who is left to weep and who to
rage
Whose trauma may not ever go away
And who's to be the poet who the sage
As shells arc upwards from each barrel's
end
Trajectories they cut across the sky
And whether they will hit a foe or
friend
The one intent's to see that men will
die
Some old man may feel sad about back
then
But wars are won by killing many men
Trudging through the mire
As we trudged through a slimy mire
We saw so far away
Flashes of some distant fire
And that would make our day
The mud erupted up in front
Some more spewed up behind
Our language then became quite blunt
God, were those gunners blind ?
We hugged the mud now stained with
blood
And waited there to die
And some of us were chose by fate
Though we still don't know why
And some of us still seethe with hate
And some of us still cry
Why had this happened to a friend?
Why did he have to go?
It was a useless pointless end
It was Fate's fickle blow
Most trudged on then from out the
mire
For most had got away
And some still hear that "friendly
fire"
In flash-backs to this day.
Though Death will come he rarely is
announced
No calling card's presented in advance
His victims know not when they have
been trounced
Their friends may see things as a
sad mischance
Like Coliseum fights in ancient tomes
Leaders may seek salutes from fighters
here
But we now live in very different
times
Few leaders here will hear a hearty
cheer
But still there are some great men
in the ranks
Who may show leadership in battle's
heat
And put themselves at risk yet get
small thanks
Yet many may well end up as dead meat
Though friends when old will feel
sad looking back
Remembering their bravery in attack
Leading from the front
A leader was found for the fray
In barracks awaiting his ship
But after not many a day
He'd come to the end of his trip
He'd gathered together those men
Available in that far place
But he was to leave us all when
The life had gone out from his face
We never knew much about him
We don't know his folk or a friend
When he died what really seemed grim
We could tell no one of his end
We knew that he was one of us
We laid him to rest in the ground
This may be the time now to fuss
For we need his folks to be found
The landings come from both the sea
and air
Yet stealth and guile are better than
brute might
With sniping by men hid within a lair
Surprise is quite an ally in a fight
When trained to shoot at targets things
go well
But when the sights are trained upon
young men
What it does to each soul no man may
tell
For conscience dwells in realms beyond
our ken
Together men may laugh; alone some
cry.
There's comfort there within each
group or corps
Together men are rarely heard to sigh
Alone some ponder what it's all been
for
Alone some men may feel so truly wan
About a man they killed who's dead
and gone
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He still sees the glint of sunlight
Those two men were clear on the height
I noted their slow stooping run
Through the sun's glint on the fore
sight
Quite calmly I aimed the bren gun
I felt the recoil in my shoulder
Heard metal sounds of the spent rounds
Chill gripped my soul and grew colder
My conscience screamed like baying
hounds
The men jerked up static and stiff
Each grunted a guttural sound
There came an end to this mischief
As folding they slumped to the ground
I still see the glint of sunlight
There on the fore sight of the gun
But an evil can't be put right
"Oh My God - Just what have I done!"
Old Soldier's Conscience
Young soldier jerked from out of sleep
A hollow thunder loud and deep
Told of the action due to start
He heard the thumping of his heart
Not a quiver in his hand
Gun was shifted on its stand
With soldiers it may be their lot
To aim a careful good clean shot
Men fall like puppets with strings
cut
When shot in chest or head or gut
Deeds like that when they are through
Rot forever within you
With a bayonet when he'd slashed
Across a throat so deeply gashed
Frothy blood gushed and bubbled
Was easy then but now he's troubled
Now there's quivers in his hand
From the memories he can't stand
All the talk of honour in deeds
Sanctioned by religions' creeds
Cover up for a long time
What conscience tells us is a crime
Yet the sweating of his brow
Says conscience is his ruler now
Old man jerks from out of slumber
Conscience raging awful thunder
From wars of long forgotten time
Where killing was not then a crime
But the quiver in his jaws
Shows he'd broken Nature's laws
There's many a tale that's told of
each near miss
And tales like wine matures as time
goes by
"There's that round that passed close
- we heard it hiss"
"The barrage was so fierce - I thought
we'd die"
In mess decks matlots tell their same
big tall tales
These "ditties" are what helps when
times are hard
When ships are locked in war or caught
by gales
They're not the boastings of some
sad braggard
They're part of long traditions of
the sea
Professionals are not all cold men
of ice
Each had free will and chose what
they would be
But not all choices lead to what is
nice
In later years the tales will be retold
By these same men when they have grown
quite old
The Meaning of "phew"
It seemed to pass me by
It passed you by too
I heard both you and I
Both quietly whisper "Phew!"
We'd lived beneath a shade
With a dismal view
Now sun may light the glade
Again we both said "Phew"
Anticipation's there
Both of gloom or light
There with a mellow aire
Or with a cloying fright
Omens of foreboding
Or sighs of relief
Stress may start coroding
With false or true belief
Change may well be strange
It might make you blue
When fate's not found its range
It's then we both say "PHEW !"
But there within harm's way some take
a hit
It matters not from whence the blow
was struck
Head injured men may froth and foam
and fit
Embracing Death as they run out of
luck
The psyche's of some man are deeply
marred
From actions not of much account in
war
The souls of such as these are easily
jarred
There comes a point when they can
take no more
In later years long after this is
done
Long after they have laid their friends
to rest
Long after all the actions fought
and won
The lives they live seem cursed with
nothing blessed
And sad grey men are seen to pass
away
Still marred by things that happened
on that day
PTSD
And late at night with dread
He lay down in his bed
But deep within his mind
There was no rest to find
For there in his deep sleep
A dreadful date he'll keep
With phantoms of the mind
And they are most unkind
Repeating on and on
Each past or dreamed of wrong
Survivors can like sheep
Be dragged down in this deep
To depths of all despair
Choked like they have no air
Writhe 'n writhe in slumber
Goes on without number
So on and on each night
They face repeated fright
Of ghostly secret dread
Of what's there in there head
No rest can they now find
When troubled in their mind
It's known to me and thee
It's called PTSD
And years after a war
It kills so many more
So torn by all the grief
Death's sought out for relief
It quietens all the dread
There, in a troubled head
And peace is finally found
When low'r'd in the ground
On Grandpa's lap he'd first heard stories
told
And then he told tall stories on our
mess
Some thought his heart was stark and
dark and cold
True feelings are so hard for each
to guess
His Mother got a letter from the Crown
So full of words about an upright
man
They sent it on that day we'd cut
him down
He'd fell as far as that short rope
had run
With face and throat there of the
darkest hue
The ventilation shaft had seen him
die
It's thing like this the traumatised
may do
While closest friends in private may
well cry
Old man may now remember this mishap
As they talk to a Grandchild on their
lap
In the future this scene might be called
friendly fire
In the past it was jus a damned mess
The reports that were filed had been
writ by a liar
So the truth's to be anyone's guess
Now the children's bodies that went
down the river
And fed the creatures in the swamp
Leave memories clear that make an old
soldier shiver
As he stands at the cenotaph - amid
all the pomp
[PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress
Disorder - formerly known as shell shock]
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Peace, Peace
Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he's
dead
Released from all the horrors in his
head
No more in sleep will gunfire rattle
him
Nor faces of the dead unsettle him
He dreams no more so must now be content
For deep and dreamless sleep is heav'n
sent
Its darkness is the sweetest kindest
balm
And in it troubled souls are free
of harm
Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he's
dead
Released from all the terror and the
dread
The dead will visit him at night no
more
No sadness from a long forgotten war
The dreams have stopped that shook
him in his bed
And tore around like thunder in his
head
The ghosts will have to find another
haunt
And find some other poor sad soul
to taunt
Peace, peace, he does not sleep, he's
dead.
Most of the time was spent at idleness
Until there were frenetic things to
do
Then things were done to cause a foe
distress
Though in all this there was not much
that's new
Virgin soldiers had done all this
before
There in Malaya not too far away
And now young men were at all this
once more
Mischief is never all that far away
Nations will strive as each one seeks
an edge
Old men make threats while young men
have to fight
Without a blush some will break each
new pledge
Power's the drug that blinds them
to what's right
"Great" men will mostly die at home
in bed
The good, the young, had stained this
shoreline red
Most gunfire was so deadly and quite
true
A foe were killed before they could
do harm
This is the trade that gunners trained
to do
And pilots too, such men of gentle
charm
Delivered death to both right place
and time
And ordinance drops so swift from
the sky
The death it brings is not deemed
as a crime
And few professional men would question
"Why?"
The job is done that they had learned
to do
Delivery systems vary in their ways
They drop swift death from out a sky
so blue
And lives are ended on sweet sunny
days
The pilots and the gunners may grow
old
But few of them have hearts that are
stone cold
The pilot released his bomb load
Some young men were happy below
They joked as they sat by the road
It was quite a quick way to go
One man only journeyed half way
His gut was spilled out in his lap
He sat for the rest of that day
Slow dying can really be crap
The pilot had gins in the mess
His sortie it's said was "well done"
That soldier had sins to confess
Then ended has pain with a gun
Beyond the reef out on the open sea
A steady swell could roll toward the
shore
Sea birds could float on thermals
rising free
In these idyllic scenes men fought
a war
In operation rooms all dark and dim
The shoreline could be seen on radar
screens
And busy men recorded much that's
grim
In lurid pale blue light that softly
sheens
Directions would be giv'n to front
line men
By those who'd trained so long in
being precise
No blood was seen on hands of these
men when
An enemy was butchered in a trice
Though some old men may like to reminisce
As wars can be quite clean when fought
like this
Inside the turret all was raging din
As mechanisms clanged and spun about
It's said that when we kill it is
a sin
But gunners do their work quite free
from doubt
Below men load and work each turret's
hoist
Each charge and shell is heaved and
thrown around
In torrid heat each brow is dripping
moist
And ears left ringing with each hellish
sound
Where gunnery control has done its
sums
Trajectories projected will fall true
Close to their target is a scene that
numbs
But in each turret this is out of
view
Old gunners at reunions laugh and
joke
Who knows the work once done by "nice
old folk"?
Dancing
Riding through the coral reef
As tracers light the sky
Planting out a minefield
So that a foe can die
This is what we trained for
& this is what we do
So won't you come & dance with
Death
He wants to dance with You
With blood upon our boots
We're running through the mud
& hiding in the tree roots
Then spilling yet more blood
From Klingklang in Kalamantan
Kuching and Tauau too
Death wants to dance with everyman
& wants to Dance with You
Bodies heaved into a pit
Or dumped far out to sea
Ah was there ever sense to it
Was it what's meant to be?
Yet this was what we trained for
And this is what we do
So won't You come and dance with Death
He wants to dance with You
Their flesh has rotted now
The bones and sinews too
There never was a sacred cow
In what we trained to do
We know until our last breath
That this was what we did
So now it's time to dance with Death
And he knows where I'm hid
Committee rooms where civil servants
sat
Reports were opened, oh, so far away
With tea and biccies men in suits
would chat
"By God there has been some good news
today"
The splattered blood on trees was
now quite dry
At first aid posts those there do
what they can
Beneath a lurid pastel tropic sky
A medic tried to patch what was a
man
"They put up quite a show to take
the field
And now much more support can be flown
in"
The joy in that room could not be
concealed
There was no chance their world could
be blown in
Old politicians get gongs from the
queen
But dried on blood removes the medal's
sheen
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IF
If you can tell big porkies and keep a
straight face
If you can be two faced and seem to
have good grace
If you can wangle a big house and
not get caught
If you can seem to be quite fair when
you've been bought
If you can be at ease amid much torrid
sleaze
And always find some way to do just
as you please
And as you do it see all blame is
never yours
And as you leave your friends and
brothers with your chores
And as you take the glory that belongs
to them
You will by then arrive at what you
have become
You will by then be a - politician
- my son
Aftermath of Action
Sweet sickly smelled the killing scene
Where so much rich red blood congealed
The scene seemed intimate, serene
As if some sacred scroll was sealed
Until all of their blood had chilled
He stood in shock and shook with grief
As violently as they'd been killed
This aftermath brought no relief
There was there now a strange bond
sealed
Between soldier and his victim
And his stained soul would hold concealed
How killing them had altered him
For really he could not see why
All these young men just had to die
The turrets on those ships far out
at sea
Reverberated to their dreadful chore
Bombarding that green coast and me
and thee
Whilst things like this may happen
more and more
Once was enough for I remember you
And how you left us 'neath a waning
moon
Next morning's dawn produced a sky
so blue
I lay there with the rest right up
'til noon
We moved inland and others tidied
there
And now that place is like it was
before
And yet there's still that tingle
in my hair
When I remember you and so much more
But I've grown old and care not now
to hope
Existing's all I do it's said "I cope"
Recoil's recollections
The recoil's still felt in the shoulder
Of an old man who once aimed a gun
A picture still stands on the mantle
Of a young man who's someone's dead
son
One of them lived to grow older
Now the other's eternally young
"Tidying Up" a battlefield
Now the memory lingers
It's still with him today
Rings removed from fingers
And storing them away
Cutting through the laces
And tearing off the boot
Not looking in their faces
Just looking for some loot
Weather's fine an'sunny
Corpses are searched through
Looking for their money
It's bad but it's not new
The booty from the dead
The best he had put by
What more can now be said
He'd sooner thieve than die
Ah, Christmas comes but only once a
year
Yet there's no rest for there was
much to do
A tot of rum cannot provide much cheer
A lousy Christmas was not something
new
There's many more before been spent
as thus
In winter far away there was some
cheer
Some sad men here were heard to spit
and cuss
They wanted to be anywhere but here
A carol should be sung about this
place
At good will's time not all men have
good will
And not all men are always touched
by Grace
Some even felt a thrill then from
a kill
In battles rage there's joy when you're
not dead
And you have killed the other man
instead
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Three Men
(Tune: I saw three ships)
1. He'd killed two men beside the bay,
beside the bay, on Christmas Day
He'd killed two men beside the bay
On Christmas Day in the morning
2. He'd shot them down right where
they stood
Beside the bay, on Christmas Day
He'd shot them down right where they
stood
On Christmas Day in the morning
3. They would have killed us if they
could
4. He'd shot them first and it felt
good
5. He saw them fall and heard them
cry
6. The young don't always question
'why?'
7. He saw them fall and watched them
die
8. He swore he'd not do it again
9. He'd cut them down they'd died in
pain
10. That's how he got the mark of Cain
The mark of Cain, the mark of Cain
That's how he'd got the mark of Cain
On Christmas Day with the mourning
Cain now slew his brother Abel
It seemed quite right to do
All of this may be a fable
But the moral rings quite true
Can of Beer
The soul of the man who came on our boat
Seemed to be torn with a terrible
grief
And he sobbed and sobbed deep down
in his throat
As our boat rode out through a gap
in the reef
We'd not drunk that beer that tasted
quite grim
A box of the cans lay near to the
side
As a gesture I just gave one can to
him
He drank and his sobs seemed to subside
The beer that to us was the worst
of the stock
To him was some sort of kindness maybe
That may have helped him through his
state of shock
Though never did he once look up at
me
What we did not want may have been
a balm
A great storm makes gales seem more
like a calm
Old Chou En Lai in China far away
Said once of past events and their
outcome
"It's all too soon to tell" about
their sway
Or all that may result from what is
done
While victories lead to changes in
events
And for some time a nation is secure
Long centuries may work through the
consequence
Though grim predictions may hold no
allure
Most men who fought there may well
have been changed
Their lives in some way altered by
all this
Then many minor things are rearranged
Though some may never now find their
own bliss
Old fighting men at last will have
their day
Then as the saying goes we'll fade
away
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Late Afternoon
Late afternoon now fades
The evening's coming in
Now dim we see some shades
And so quite soon we're gone
In morning was a storm
Noontime had seen a change
All seemed to have a form
But now it's all so strange
In early hours we played
But playtime was to end
Remember how you prayed
Each time you lost a friend
Late afternoon is warm
This twilight holds allure
Long gone now is that storm
So rest now feel secure
Trevor Morgan
End
Written in Rock Well Green
Near Wellington
Somerset
England
© Trevor Morgan, June 2004, all
rights reserved
Trevor Morgan is hereby identified
as the author of this work in accordance
with Section 77 of the Copyright,
Design and Patents Act in the year of our
Lord's incarnation 1988.
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Their
Problem Our Solution
so what is this thing
this thing we call war
what do we make of it
what is it for
can we form an opinion
can we find solid ground
can we beat the same drum
and sound the same sound
does war enter our thoughts
when we're alone by ourselves
do we think - analyse
or leave it up on the shelf
waiting to fall
to fall on our heads
as we lay safe and warm
asleep in our beds
WAKE UP
WILL YOU PLEASE
MY FRIENDS IN THIS ROOM
THIS NEEDN'T BE A TALE
OF SADNESS AND GLOOM
BUT OF POWER
AND FREEDOM
OPINION AND RIGHT
OF INTELLIGENT INTERPRETATION
NOT POLITICAL SHITE
we've all come together
through a common theme
we love living life
and we love being being
so is it just me
am i going mad
but this war with iraq
don't it feel
really bad - to you
and you
to you and you
we know what's going down
we've checked out this coup
and lets face it
whether we're
hypocritical christians
fanatical muslims
peace loving krauts
or arrogant yids
whatever we do
we leave to our kids
and i want my son
to think his dads sound
a fool to no one
and prepared to stand ground
for not just what he believes in
but what he feels to be right
could they ever be wrong
will we always sit tight
as it falls out of sight
in a political blur
to appear later on
as a wrong bloody war
so come now my friends
and lets make a pact
for the sake of our future
lets agree that we'll act
not as courageous young martyrs
who leave but their souls
but as a movement of people
pursuing like minded goals
to be shared amongst all
not bartered or sold
lets do it ok
cos soon we'll be old
and what could be worse
when we're waiting for death
to say to ourselves
If only IF.
Damian McCarthy.
November 2004
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Broadmoor Blah
We have found no weapons - no
I've said that I accept - accept
Belief has proved unfounded -
Though still it's our assumption
(quite different from our faith)
it was Saddam's intention
to continue his transgression
The facts are clearly there
or if not there somewhere
Of this I have no doubt - no doubt
As evidence is all laid bare
The circle can be spun as square.
Michael Culver
8 October 2004
Oil was discovered in Mesopotamia in about 1904.
Question: In the last I 00 years how many times
has Iraq, its government or people,
(a) bombed the U.K. or any of its dependent territories,
killing thousands and leaving behind unexploded cluster bombs and depleted uranium
which will poison the land for centuries?
(b) invaded the UK or any of its dependent territories,
killing tens of thousands of civilians and smashing the infrastructure
to pieces?
Now try swapping UK for Iraq and vice versa.
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I.P.P.* Awards
2004
Winner: Lord
Button of Brownose
Lord Button of Brownose thinks it's all jolly
fine
And the bodies they pile up inside of the shrine
Because nobody lied, even right down the line
And the bodies they pile up inside of the shrine.
Intelligence shortfalls, that's wisdom in hindsight
And infants are slaughtered as they sleep in
the night
All acted with valour, in good faith by god's
light
And infants are slaughtered as they sleep in
the night.
Lord Button of-Brownose thinks promotions are
due
And Iraq is all covered with bombs and D.U.
To those of long service for whom honours are
new!
And Iraq is all covered with bombs and D.U.
Lord Button of Brownose thinks rewards are too
few
And Iraq is quite covered with blood and D.U.
Michael Culver
21 October 2004
* Institutionalised Paranoid Psychopaths
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I kneel here, fearing for my life,
blindfolded, my captor bearing a knife,
thinking of my family, friends and all,
only came here to rebuild their wall,
as minutes, hours, turn into days,
my life changes in many ways,
a tall proud man I once stood,
unlike this coward, beneath his hood,
brainwashed, doing what he must,
in his God, he puts his trust,
and me, all I can do is sit and wait,
for others will decide my fate,
I plead with him but he will not listen,
so I stay in my cold, dirty and darkened prison,
Is this to be my very last day,
all I can do is sit and pray.
Glyn Norton
Written when hostages were taken in Iraq.
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(because I do not know any)
Soldier, Brave Soldier
be strong,
be courageous
Your enemy, how evil,
is lurking,
brings fear.
Soldier, Brave Soldier
my hero,
my friend
My prayers, to God
with you,
in battle
Service, to the Country
So brave,
So kind.
Just a kindergarten teacher from Texas, but I am praying for you!
Sincerely,
Heather Olsen
27 March 03
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