You
*                                               can ****
                                           your own men
                                            in friendly fire
                         And toss their bodies on a funeral pyre
                            Or bury them in sand if you desire  
                                    Wrapped in barbed wire
                                              dust  to dust
                                                still man
                                                  You.

                                                    War
        ­                                         is good
                                            for business
                                       both big and small
                        Profits will rise and make inflation fall
                        But soldiers, sailors, airmen, warriors all
                                        must heed the call
                                             face fighting
                                                  even
         ­                                        Death

Dead voices in the head
of a frightened madman

starts humming like electric wires
in wild winter storms.

bursting and cracking like melting ice
in a warm spring thaw

insistent, pollen-drunk bees
buzzing round hot summer hives

grumbling and gathering
swirling eddies of autumn leaves

dancing schizophrenic death
in the breath of city streets.

© M.L.Emmett

For my brother, Martin

I'm going to sling your memory
over my shoulder
back pack you round the world

slide you on to station platforms
alongside the passing panorama of footsteps
that echo on that slice of cold cement

tuck you into airplane lockers
overhead the sleeping flyers
in that metal coffin in the ice cream clouds

nestle you among bus luggage
beneath the picture windows
and the ribbon racing road

I will unpack you in every village
every town and every city
in every land and nation

on every continent and land mass
crossing the oceans and seas
catching every wave and tide

circling the earth on winds and breezes
following sunsets and solar eclipses
and every cycle of the moon

until I find a place of resting
until I find a place of peace
until I find a place of peace

© M.L.Emmett

Since his death, Bluebell woods are black with pain
There is no comfort, nothing can be said
The silent forest shivers in the rain
Since his death, Bluebell woods are black with pain
Everyone asks if he was sick or sane
My dearest darling brother he is dead
Since his death, Bluebell woods are black with pain
There is no comfort, nothing can be said.

© M.L.Emmett
First published in The Mozzie Volume16, Issue 7, September 2008

He weaves slowly between the tables
at Buongiorno's

stooping over each diner's ear
close and intimate as a lover

He asks if they can spare a little
money for his lunch

He's gaunt each cheek shadowed hollow
his skin bleached white as bone

Each vertebrae is marked prominent
Each finger skeltonic thin

Unsocked, in shoes laced with knots of string
leather uppers baked, cracked and crazy creased

His hair is dry-straggle stalks of corn
Eyes hold a stare that fixes fast the lies

He cuts a powerful figure under that cosy awning
though some name him worthless beggar

Fearless of taunts and titles offered from shamemongers
and well-respected-men-about-town

there is no guilt in asking for your basic needs
from the latte-ccino mob who have so much to spare.

© M.L.Emmett

The scent of death
lingers for years
in a place

lodges in the soil
rots
and slowly compresses

composting down
deep down
in dirt

earth turns
seasons pass
time and space and silence

until the coiling roots
draw back again
and all that grows

from baby's tears
to blood red poppies
oaks and elms

bear testimony
to the forgotten
dead.

© M.L.Emmett