My War So Long Ago

image from the Peace Pledge Union www.ppu.org.uk 

My station built,
So many round me leading
And I not led.

My living spilt,
So many round me bleeding
And I unbled.

My sorrow's quilt,
So many round me crying,
My tears unshed.

My touch of guilt,
So many round me dying
And I not dead.

Remembrance Day

is not

about remembering.

It is being seen

remembering,

which is not the same,

especially when

formality sets in,

and ceremony rates

the display more

important than

the remembering.

I and my dead

remember

mutually

at odd times

and anniversaries,

place a flower

occasionally upon

the heart's mantelpiece

and go about our lives.

This public wallow

is for politicians

and their like,

a hoarding for

advertisement,

lying for gain.

Over The Top

His serial-numbered shell

Took out the whole platoon,

Bayonets and pipes and kilts and all.

The stifled battle-cry,

Vaguely Gaelic, burning

With the aftertaste of rum,

Voiced the ancient barbarity

Regimentally nurtured

In the 'Ladies From Hell.'

The shrieking axe bit deep,

Hacked the post-death sentience

To a sliver of awareness.

The clenched discarnate soul

Focused a consciousness

Frozen in mid-leap.

A cry of ritual aggression

Silently screaming

Down eternity.