alan-mc-kenna - Hello Poetry

A Lebanon winter Sunday morning , i am orderly cook first up braving the mountain wind in my face, head shrugging into my shoulders hunched, shiver . I say hello to the kitchen , turn on the lights open the fridge . Blast the warm gas flame somehow reminds me of a turf ad on t.v back home I lower the flame and fry some eggs . The bacon spits and crinkles when up the hill a hairy frenzy brakes . I step outside and peer , red tracer rounds race and rake Dangerous, no Chinese feast this . Darkness grabs the kitchen The first mortar hits . I turn the lambent flames off . Shrill siren groundhog . Bedlam , flak jackets , helmets , casualties the kitchen is now a bunker. Roache and O'Flaherty from County Clare two big genuine men. O'Flaherty hands crossed the outside door threshold with a flop as he collapsed, the lads drag him inside . Roache now bleeds on the kitchen floor blood spurts from his thigh. I do my best to help breath deep yet worry We are all U.N , defenceless can't hit back .I hear shells whistle and impact the building and our state of mind ? is this my last moment ? we wait we cope. We even manage to slag ,laugh and then mortars boom. The Israelis want to kill us but we have a T-wall called luck . Pat our medic plays a stormer , fair play I see young soldiers sitting on the floor shaking with fear , cant stand , do i see tears ? Medivac , stretchers lift Roache & O'Flaherty Six men to lift big John . Noel is calm , shrapnel is his thigh & a kitchen knife his ad-hoc splint for his thumb. Eventually relief its all over now . My heart pumps , what should i feel ? How can i analyse this ? Can i have a cup of tea Alan ? I put on the kettle as people are now reaching for normal . I get down on my hands & knees wiping blood of the floor . Visceral inner fight. i then light up the gas and i fry some eggs .

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Oct 25, 2018

Oct 25, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC

alan-mc-kenna

And I fried some Eggs, army cook

A Lebanon winter Sunday morning , i am orderly cook first up braving the mountain wind in my face, head shrugging into my shoulders hunched, shiver . I say hello to the kitchen , turn on the lights open the fridge . Blast the warm gas flame somehow reminds me of a turf ad on t.v back home I lower the flame and fry some eggs . The bacon spits and crinkles when up the hill a hairy frenzy brakes . I step outside and peer , red tracer rounds race and rake Dangerous, no Chinese feast this . Darkness grabs the kitchen The first mortar hits . I turn the lambent flames off . Shrill siren groundhog . Bedlam , flak jackets , helmets , casualties the kitchen is now a bunker. Roache and O'Flaherty from County Clare two big genuine men. O'Flaherty hands crossed the outside door threshold with a flop as he collapsed, the lads drag him inside . Roache now bleeds on the kitchen floor blood spurts from his thigh. I do my best to help breath deep yet worry We are all U.N , defenceless can't hit back .I hear shells whistle and impact the building and our state of mind ? is this my last moment ? we wait we cope. We even manage to slag ,laugh and then mortars boom. The Israelis want to kill us but we have a T-wall called luck . Pat our medic plays a stormer , fair play I see young soldiers sitting on the floor shaking with fear , cant stand , do i see tears ? Medivac , stretchers lift Roache & O'Flaherty Six men to lift big John . Noel is calm , shrapnel is his thigh & a kitchen knife his ad-hoc splint for his thumb. Eventually relief its all over now . My heart pumps , what should i feel ? How can i analyse this ? Can i have a cup of tea Alan ? I put on the kettle as people are now reaching for normal . I get down on my hands & knees wiping blood of the floor . Visceral inner fight. i then light up the gas and i fry some eggs .

58

My heart has drained of tequila. Lemon bitter juice dry now, just peel left. Salt licked until wound exhausted effort. Love doesn't die. Greedily consumed it loses it's taste. I need water , a rest and her refill. Wake me up when it's all over. I hate this gradual instant. Punish me forever without truth. Why ? I still love the Mexican.

0

Oct 25, 2018

Oct 25, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC

alan-mc-kenna

The Mexican

My heart has drained of tequila. Lemon bitter juice dry now, just peel left. Salt licked until wound exhausted effort. Love doesn't die. Greedily consumed it loses it's taste. I need water , a rest and her refill. Wake me up when it's all over. I hate this gradual instant. Punish me forever without truth. Why ? I still love the Mexican.

11

Mists collude mysteriously watching jungle canopy tops. Irish soldiers In their base on a verdant mountain side. By the pebble track and the graveyard, Our tents erected inside a village school ruins. Paths built from river rock, gullies and drainage dug around strong tents. Hard work, determined grit. Water supplies and rations flown in by Chilean helicopter pilots. Existence eked normality a chore. I gaze at their barefoot black feet kicking an empty plastic bottle. Make believe goals erected in the slanting field. Two ad-hoc teams and a game of sorts. I compare it to my schooldays. Red windsock unfurls east to west also proud Tricolour in a firm wind. Behind the game, dappled horses graze, branded cattle munch wild grass. Water buffalo lull lazily, comforting mud pool shielding sun, Clint Eastwood stares. Don't mess with them. Coffee in my hand I survey all from the outside wooden table. Some lads jog the road; duty sentry at the ****** Backdrop tropical trees and fauna. By cicadas bleat, generator grinds. Sport during my youth built character I was told. But of what horrors these infant minds were exposed. Collage murder, rape, humiliation, Bad auguries which corollaries their future ideals. They have no ball or boots no posts to shoot at and no nets to burst. I hear their innocent delightful cries and wish, just once, I had the power to take them out of this mire. Just a mere glimpse could perhaps do it. Or maybe take them all up in an aeroplane to my world and just once maybe hope they could have the time of their lives .To touch Cornucopia? Supermarket shelves packed with food and sweets. Fast motorcars in beautiful cities with Walt Disney theme parks. Shoe shops, football boots, new cloths. Hot showers in things they call hotels! How they would laugh at Bugs Bunny And awe at a cinema screen. But it gets chilly now and my coffee is gone. Twilight assembles the children up the road home. 'Botarde' they shout to me, big Wave and smiles. And I realise in my realistic heart of hearts, that probably they have just had the time of their lives.

0

Oct 25, 2018

Oct 25, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC

alan-mc-kenna

Time of their lives.(East Timor 2000)

Mists collude mysteriously watching jungle canopy tops. Irish soldiers In their base on a verdant mountain side. By the pebble track and the graveyard, Our tents erected inside a village school ruins. Paths built from river rock, gullies and drainage dug around strong tents. Hard work, determined grit. Water supplies and rations flown in by Chilean helicopter pilots. Existence eked normality a chore. I gaze at their barefoot black feet kicking an empty plastic bottle. Make believe goals erected in the slanting field. Two ad-hoc teams and a game of sorts. I compare it to my schooldays. Red windsock unfurls east to west also proud Tricolour in a firm wind. Behind the game, dappled horses graze, branded cattle munch wild grass. Water buffalo lull lazily, comforting mud pool shielding sun, Clint Eastwood stares. Don't mess with them. Coffee in my hand I survey all from the outside wooden table. Some lads jog the road; duty sentry at the ****** Backdrop tropical trees and fauna. By cicadas bleat, generator grinds. Sport during my youth built character I was told. But of what horrors these infant minds were exposed. Collage murder, rape, humiliation, Bad auguries which corollaries their future ideals. They have no ball or boots no posts to shoot at and no nets to burst. I hear their innocent delightful cries and wish, just once, I had the power to take them out of this mire. Just a mere glimpse could perhaps do it. Or maybe take them all up in an aeroplane to my world and just once maybe hope they could have the time of their lives .To touch Cornucopia? Supermarket shelves packed with food and sweets. Fast motorcars in beautiful cities with Walt Disney theme parks. Shoe shops, football boots, new cloths. Hot showers in things they call hotels! How they would laugh at Bugs Bunny And awe at a cinema screen. But it gets chilly now and my coffee is gone. Twilight assembles the children up the road home. 'Botarde' they shout to me, big Wave and smiles. And I realise in my realistic heart of hearts, that probably they have just had the time of their lives.

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