You know apart from writing poetry I design gardens for other
people just as an unpaid sideline
But come and take a look in my garden.
Rough laid brick edging round the lawn and I do mean rough
you wont see a dead straight line there
Flowers, hot oranges intermingled with reds and gold
No
Plants carefully chosen for form and texture
No
Rather a jumble of wild and cultivated plants doing their
own thing
White campion, red campion intermingle with white and yellow daisies
Scarlet poppies vie for space with rosebay willow herb
Sage and thymes in profusion
Great clumps of lemon balm mixed in with chives and lavenders
Foxgloves and hollyhocks in places they shouldnt be
Wild mallows and geraniums growing where they choose
And running wild my favourites of the flower world
nasturtiums
That then is my garden, my retreat, my oasis of calm

Just sitting in my garden
The humidity of the day washed away by a gentle breeze
Over to my right the stand of oaks
Silhouetted against the darkening evening sky
Very little noise, just the muted sounds of televisions and music
Just occasionally I run my fingers through
Lemon balm, mint and thyme
Freeing their beautiful fragrance into the night air
A few feet away my chiminea glows
The dancing flames and wood smoke almost hypnotic
I could be sat glued to the tv but then I would miss all this
Miss what?
The peace, the quiet, the tranquillity
My garden, my oasis of calm...

Yes they left as boys, not yet men
Lifes adventure had just begun
It won't be me, my life is safe
When I left you I said I'll be ok
Now I return with shattered mind
Blown apart by things I've seen and done
But!!! I return with legs no more
Blown apart in strawberry gore
But who now wants this bomb torn wreck
Who now wants this shattered piece of once was a man
Well *******
On these two legs of tempered steel
I will conquer any hill
And yes climb the mountain to
You may have lost the will to live
But with metal legs I still have so much to give
A message sent to you

What madness is taking over this world?
Why the mothers, why the children?
When I was a soldier I made a choice
I knew the risks.
I blame them all.
Taliban, Israelies, Americans even my own countrymen
Yes, all the warmongers who make money from the sale of arms
All the radicals who don't believe in democracy
All those who steal the lands and destroy the homes
of those less educated or less wealthy
I hope those responsible can sleep soundly at night
Those who fire the randomly aimed rocket and shell
can wash the blood stains from their hands.
They don't have to listen to the weeping mothers
They can close theirs eyes and ears to the anguish
of families ripped apart
They are never close enougn to smell the cloying stench
of drying blood and rotting bodies

Were it in my power to do so I would take them there
And rub their noses in it
,

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

A long haul flight from Amsterdam
that never made it to the end
NO! No the innocents died
when the pressure from the finger was applied
to that simple button
No, their lives never ended in the explosive flash
that caused that mighty plane to crash
They fell over 30,000 feet
they knew there was no hope
The shattered wreck their funeral pyre
dreams gone up in smoke
80 children died there in that war torn land
never to fulfill their destiny
their shattered remains spread over a foreign land

Yes... The innocents died... But for what?