Another year is fading
so I think I´ll stop awhile
and think about the ones we´ve lost,
change the tears into a smile.

I´ll remember all the good times
relive the laughter, drink a toast
to friendships I have treasured,
to those who meant the most.

And, as I celebrate this Christmas
with family and with friends
I´ll keep the lost ones in my thoughts,
make sure the memories never end.

My first friend was my best friend
And still is to this day,
A cousin like a brother
I would not want it any other way.

From childhood through to oldagehood
We´re still both kids at heart,
We have a bond that can´t be broken
And have done from the start.

From scruffy kids to naive teens
We laughed through life together,
From working men to retirees
The bond remains securely tethered.

1

I could see him in the doorway
looking tired clothing frayed,
I really did feel sorry for him
would probably soon be in his grave.

“Here” in voice so gruff he summoned me
to his dingy doorway home,
lying on a cardboard bed
he said “Can ya spare a pound”.

I sat down on the step beside him
and asked him “Whats your name”,
and with a twinkle in his eye
he said “I am Donald James kilbain”.

I asked him how a man so “dignified”
ended up this way,
he said “I lost me wife and children
then I lost me job and so here I am today”.

He reached into his pocket
and removed a ***** piece of rag,
slowly he unfolded it and said
“this is a photo of me Mum and Dad”.

Then he showed the other one
saying “this is....was! me wife and kids,
they all died in a fire
you see it broke me and put me on the skids”.

He then returned the pictures,
so carefully he folded up the rag
kissed it twice and told me
he would give his right arm for a ***.

As I opened up my wallet
he leant across and said “who’s that”,
I told him it’s my family
he said “lucky man, mine were just like that”.

We sat there for a moment
quiet lost in thought,
and then he said “forget the pound,
come again tomorrow, we can have another talk”.

2

Well time went by, the weeks they passed
he was always on my mind,
I´d think about his life alone
and how life can be unkind.

So I took time out to visit him
armed with the thickest fleece,
the warmest coat and of course...
a few packs of his favourite cigs.

As I approached his doorway
my heart sank to the floor,
no sign of Donald James Kilbane...
Did he not live here anymore ?

I asked around the neighbourhood
and every one I met,
but no one seemed to want to know
or were even bothered where he went.

Time went by, the weeks they passed
I was down and feeling low,
but I would not stop in my quest
I´d find the guy somehow.

His words they echoed in my mind
as the empty streets I walked, his gruff
old voice kept telling me, “Come again
tomorrow, we can have another talk”.

Time went by and more weeks passed,
and I arrived back at my start,
I sat me down upon his step
my hopes now... were fading fast.

I sat there quiet lost in thought
upon the hard cold ground,
then a voice so gruff called to me
“Hey buddy, can ya spare a pound”

I stayed face down and to myself
I smiled the biggest smile,
Donald sat down next to me and said
“Hey friend, we´ve come a fair few miles”

3

Well time went by, the years they passed
and we became the best of friends,
the clothes I gave him kept him warm
and Donald James was on the mend.

He told me of his family
how they meant the world to him,
and how he missed the Christmas´s
and all the love that they would bring.

Ten and seven when they died
his daughter and his son,
his wife died trying to save them
when fire destroyed their house of fun.

He spoke about the loneliness
and the never ending pain,
he told me things from deep within
how he nearly went insane.

So in his mind he closed the doors
and simply walked away,
the bitter cold that stung his face
somehow kept the pain at bay.

Twenty years he´d lived the streets
and each long year alone,
the freezing winters were the worst
cold and soaked through to the bone.

There was only so much I could do
to help this man get by,
he was so set in his ways you see
he would´nt even let me try.

There would be no talk of doctors
no talk of getting off the streets,
no sleeping on a matressed bed
or the feel of freshly laundered sheets.

But I worried so, his cough was worse
his breathing got so shallow,
the years outside had took their toll
his frail old body out of ammo.

4

I could see him in the doorway
as I approached him that next day,
lying motionless and quiet...
in the cold of night he´d passed away.

It hit me hard I´d lost a friend
one Donald James Kilbain,
who really did deserve a better life
a life without the hurt and pain.

I often think about him
and that twinkle in his eye,
and what his life could have been
if his loved ones had´nt died.

We had him buried with his family
and now he´s resting safe and sound,
but before they closed his coffin
in his right hand....I placed a pound.

Your eyes give it away,what saddens you,
what has stolen that sparkle from your face
that zest for life, your beauty that is true,
it saddens me, where is your charm your grace.
You´re so forlorn unlike the one I know,
could it be a lover that you have lost,
has your heart been broken by one so low,
your future now cold as the winters frost.
Or could it be you’re in too deep want out
of a love that is going nowhere fast,
a lover that you want to lose no doubt,
have you found another you think will last.
Are you playing a lovers game of lies
was that a glint I saw... in those wide eyes.

In the warm spring sunshine looking out
over the beauty that is the Mediterranean
and with a perfect view to the Balcon
through freshly trimmed and vibrant palms
we were talking my friend and I
about the use of words and of the use of rhyme.
I could see as he spoke the signs of their pain
and the enormity of their loss, a loss that I
thankfully can not comprehend.
Within those six verses of rhyme
there is no respite, only the marking of time
and their memories of Mel, in the warm spring sunshine.

We spoke of things we cherished
and told tales of deeds we’d done,
sat round a fire on the beach
we sang and watched the dying sun.

We talked of singers and their songs
discussed the meaning of their worth,
we questioned all the wrongs in life
we were at peace with mother earth.

We spoke of love of loss and greed
and of the war in Vietnam,
we sang the flower power songs
and how we hated uncle Sam.

We spoke of things we cherished
we talked of singers and their songs
we spoke of love, of loss and greed,
but we could never right the wrongs.

He played in the corn fields
with friends in the summer,
fished in the lake
and climbed every tree,
he helped with the harvest
as did his young friends
and he helped with the lambing
in those warm days of spring;
Such were his memories
of youth and of fun,
sun through the tree tops
warm on his face,
haunting new visions
have now taken their place
since he took the Kings shilling
and sailed off to France.

He saw lifeless black eyes
glazed in ashen white faces,
snow that was blood stained
and limbs that were dripping,
he shed stinging tears
for those no longer living
and he searched for the answers
that were never forth coming;
He heard screams from the dying
their lungs gas corrupted,
murmurs and mumblings
under clouds of confusion,
he heard rats in a frenzy
amid men decomposing  
and he searched for the reasons
that no one could give him.

He now bathes in warm sunshine
from a seat in the garden,
blanket hangs loose
where his legs used to be,
he knows not the faces
knows not their names,
he exists in the present
his mind knows not the past;
Not one single visitor
in all of these years,
to the staff he is Harry
the old soldier,the Dear,
they wash him, they shave him
and launder his clothes,
wheel him out in the sunshine
he loves watching the birds.

Red breasted Robin on
snow covered fence,
ducks landing and skidding
on the now frozen lake,
icicles hanging from the
branches of trees,
the beauty of winter
never failing to please.

Kids making a snowman
hands painfully cold,
white breath their laughter
as snowballs they roll,
sledging down hillsides
in snow up to their knees,
the beauty of winter,
never failing to please.

Car on the driveway
refusing to go
the windscreen is covered with
three inches of snow,
an hour late already
I´m now starting to sneeze,
the beauty of winter
never failing to please.

Tucked up in bed
nose bright red and sore
used three boxes of tissues
and still I need more,
temperature rising
coughing and sneezing,
the beauty of winter
so ****** pleasing!

"After Listening to an interview with Harry Patch (RIP)
I wrote this Tritina poem"

Painful Memories Forever

In solitude my mind drifts back to days so painful
and I recall with sadness those darkest memories
of dearest friends and comrades gone and lost forever.

Never will I forget! Their friendship is forever
although they are gone, please God long live those memories
however sad, however dark, however painful.

I sometimes smile and laugh out load at those memories
when we were young and thought that life would last forever
in the thick of battle I watched them die……..so painful,

and painful memories ´twould seem do last forever.

And when she smiles
the world lights up
with warming sunlight glow,

and when she cries
the earth is kissed
with tear drops falling slow,

and when she screams
the thunder roars
with such a frightening force
and lightning lights her angry words
as through her veins
the wrath takes course.

Whatever the mood
her beauty glows
from tenderness to rage,
impossible it is to keep
mother nature caged,

but when she smiles
the world lights up...

with a warming sunlight glow.

Where did he go?
he who was going
to take on the world and win,
according to him.

So full of life
with his boyish grin,
full head of hair
and for the rules he did not care,

where did he go?

The system got him in the end
and robbed him of his dreams,
took away his non conformity
and made him fall in line you see,

what a crime!

If he could have
his time again,
I feel sure that I
next time would win.

Recorded in sepia and framed in leather,
a good looking man,
black ink right hand bottom corner,
Nineteen fourteen,

I wonder, his name, his age, did he return
or was blood spilled
on some foreign field,

Wife and children at home?

He looks so young
in his uniform,
and now just a faded photograph
at the top of this box,

“Lot two seventy three”

Sifting through mementos,
his medals, his army pay book
letters to his wife, and look!
the telegram “Killed In Action”

Questions answered,

He had a name,
he´d lived and loved, and died,
and now they bid him goodbye;

A lonely life for his widowed wife,
this "lot" her grief and pain,
and now at last, together again.

There is an emptiness that can´t be filled
and sadness envelopes the heart,
the loss of one so dear to us
is tearing all apart.

But strength is found in memories
and forever they will last,
for me it was the garden wall
he built with bricks and broken glass.

I´ll not forget his smile that day
his grin was ear to ear,
proud he was of the wall he´d built...
"Here, Pete come and look out here".

He told me all there was to know
about this marvelous construction,
with bottle bottoms, green blue and brown
"And Pete, I never had instuctions".

We stood together side by side
in the warnth of the summers end,
that´s the moment I´ll remember
and I was proud to call him friend.


(Remembering JB)

There´s not a lot
that I can do,
feel useless in
this situation,
maybe offer help
and understanding,
comfort with
soft spoken words
of sympathy
and caring.

I´ll quietly go
and make you tea,
whilst healing time
I know can do
a better job than me,
but know I,m here
and know I care
and know you´re not alone,
there´s not a lot
that I can do...

just share the pain
with you.

And if my pen should cease
to write in rhyme
what I wonder
would I do with my time,

how dull t’ would be
for mind and eye,
the wonder of a moment
pass me by,

and if the passion
in my soul should wane
would I look on it all as
just mundane,

not see the tear, sense the fear
or feel the flame,
not record it all in metered frame,

and if it were to be this way
how sad would be
my every day.

The journey now is much akin
to barren long left towns
where tumbleweed drifts aimlessly
between the old ramshackle  homes,

with slow despondent footfalls
along deserted dusty streets,
blackened windows and boarded doors
echo all of life’s defeats,

a woebegone and broken soul
with no hope or chance to find
a way to get back what was lost
since the passing of the mind,

and with the darkness comes the cold night air
coupled with that vacant Dementia stare.

Gather round, sit down me lads
and I´ll tell to you a tale
of when forty men were lost at sea
in the mother of a gale,
the story starts at Portsmouth docks
and it ends face in the sand
so listen in don´t miss a word...
our night out never went as planned.

´twas in a pub down by the harbour
and we was throwing down the grog
we was laughing we was singing
it seemed our brains was filled with fog,
the doors they burst wide open
the press gang took us one by one
with wooden clubs they set about us
our lives at sea had just begun.

I woke up in a hammock
seemed like me head was split in two
the screams of show a leg you scurvy ****
was the start of days I´d rue,
they taught us fast to reef the main
and how to navigate by stars
they taught us not to cross the line
if we did the “cat” would leave her scars.

Six months it was we´d been at sea
and no more a motley crew
we were hardened trained professionals
who could cope when bad winds blew,
but the weather it was changing
far worse than we had ever seen
the ship she took a hammering
from pounding seas upon the beam.

The storm was unrelenting
for three weeks without a pause
we were weary sick and frightened
we were lost and way off course,
the wind it blew in from the north
force nine or maybe ten
the sky was black inducing fear
amongst us broken men.

The Captain he was sick in bed
and looking fit to die
the surgeon said he´s coughing blood
as black as that there sky,
the mast was shattered in the storm
the sails were ripped apart
´twas only us six left aboard
from forty at the start.

Fresh water kegs had washed away
the rations they were soaked
we had not eaten for three days
our hope and will was broke,
our ship she floundered in the sea
a sea that boiled with rage
a sea that would take all our lives
and no one will be saved.

´twas Davy Jones that made a pact
with strong winds from the north
that not a soul would live to see
a brighter day shine forth,
the Captains dead the surgeon said
so now we´re only five
lets pray to God that he can help
us feeble few survive.

We looked at him with knowing eyes
with eyes so filled with fear
we´re dead already said the mate
that sky is drawing near,
the wind it hit with such a force
the timbers they all split
the deck it heaved and broke apart
and splintered into bits.

The storm screamed like a witch on fire
who´s being sent to hell
and we all knew we´d join her soon
none left the tale to tell,
a giant wave then hit me
and washed me out to sea
all went dark and icy cold
and I thought it was the end for me.

When I awoke face in the sand
I thought I must be dead
with nightmares of the past few weeks
running through my head,
so now you have your answer
to why I sit here by the wall
splicing ropes to earn a crust
but that my lads not all,
I´ll tell you this my trusty friends
and I´ll tell you this for free
never will this man, I promise you,
sail again the seven seas.

In my Morris Minor
back in those early days
when the sun it shone forever
and we was free about our ways,
I´d drive it down to Cornwall
and I´d drive it to the coast
I´d drive it up to Scotland
but the drive I liked the most
was driving round the corner
to the cafe for tea and toast;

I used to clean the spark plugs
and then reset the gap
with my trusty feeler gauges
in me boiler suit and cap,
I´d change the points and bleed the clutch
I´d bleed the brakes an all
I´d change the filters drain the sump
and change the ***** oil,
then every Sunday morning
I´d clean it inside out
then take it for a nice long drive,
Cos that´s what it was all about.

Co-Lab with Maggie Magnolia.



On a cold Christmas morn long years ago
lay a soft fresh dusting of pure white snow,
covering the trenches and no man’s land
turning signs of a war to a place so grand,
somehow this beauty affected all men
the cold winter silence broken and then,
a single voice singing O Silent Night
sung so beautifully putting things right.

Everyone joined in from every side
then Stille Nacht stopped all men in their stride,
and with every line the voices just grew
all men sang Schlaf in himmlicher ruh,
they laid down their arms and walked unafraid
meeting the enemy on this Christmas day,
showing their photos of loved ones back home
friendships were formed and a hate for war grown.

Each man and young boy were afraid on that day
but good actors they were, all their fears hid away,
grasping that moment of peace in their hands
they thought of their loved ones and dared to make plans,
alas all was lost as new shots reigned clear
in place of their hopes was a fresh feeling of fear,
nothing has changed as we march forward to war
this Christmas we ask: What was it all for?

On this cold Christmas morn stood in the snow
are millions of crosses row after row,
each bearing a number, unit and name
reminding us all that war´s not just a game,
and yet they played football in no man’s land
forgetting for a moment wars evil plan,
the spirit of Christmas had won over the day
the soldiers became friends to the generals dismay.

They carried him in to Vivaldi´s spring
as we sat there so quiet and sombre,
suffering pain that this service would bring
on this freezing cold day in November.

We spoke of his life, sang psalm twenty three
and offered up prayers whilst down on our knees,
fought back the tears that were wanting to flow
in this old grey church with soft candle glow.

Puccini played as they carried him out
to the grave that was dug on that morning,
Pavarotti sang, we followed the route
the effect of our loss was now dawning.

Lowered him into his bed of cold earth,
his darkness eternal, same as our love*.

I will tell you this, my learned friend,
of worldly words I know not,
but common sense now there’s a thing
you will not learn from all your well read books.

I see that you are of hard cold heart
and your body lacks a bone that cares,
but a helping hand now there’s a thing
that you will never understand.

I can see you are a selfish man
and that your time is solely yours,
thoughts for others you would not spare,
and you turn your nose up at the poor.

I will tell you this as you look down
from your self appointed pedestal,
you are no better than the other man,
so be careful, it’s a long long way to fall*.

I’ll stand my ground
not be dragooned
into modern ways of mediocrity,

Steadfast and relentless
I shall be
maintaining the standards
that used to be,

I’ll offer up a seat for you
hold open wide the door,
I will be the perfect gentleman
for now and evermore.

But when the waiter
comes with the bill
"that’s the bit I don’t like much"
I really would not mind my love
if we were going Dutch*.

There is a tapping at the window
and a rustling at the door,
there is a creaking on the staircase
like I´ve never heard before,
there is scratching in the attic
and there is banging from the shed,
me thinks, I´d better do a runner
or I´ll be ending up quite dead.

Something! doesn’t want me here
that´s what I suppose,
something weird and scary
is a lurking in this house,
there´s a shadow floats across the hall
that glows a greenish yellow,
I´m sinking lower in my chair...
I am one real frightened fellow.

Soot is falling from the chimney
and slates are rattling up on high,
the door starts opening slowly
and my nerves begin to fry,
I turn and look towards the door
and my eyes I can´t believe,
it´s coming from the shadows
and it is coming straight at me.

It was yellow, green and purple
and it smelled of ***** socks,
it floated in real scary like
and it was something not to mock,
its fangs were long and pointed
its eyes they shined bright red,
its breath was grey and icy cold
Oh! I knew I should have fled.

It must have stood nine feet or more
a sight to scare the bravest men,
its hair was white, made of wire
and on each hand its fingers numbered ten,
the finger nails looked razor sharp
they were pointed, they were long,
its hands were blue the veins were black
and it was out to do me wrong.

My throat was dry I couldn´t scream
I was shaking head to toe,
my limbs were frozen, I could not move
as it came towards me really slow,
three feet away it held its ground
its red eyes stared right into mine,
it pointed down at me and said
for you my friend it´s now the time.

With one swift move it grabbed my throat
and dug its nails in deep,
I could feel my life was draining
and down my neck I felt the warm blood seep,
it lifted me from out my chair
and flung me at the wall,
then it kicked me all around the room
and out into the hall.

That´s when I heard the door bell ring.
Could it be “trick or treat” kids come to call?
I´ll **** them all, it screamed at me
and left me writhing  in deaths thrall,
with green saliva spilling from its mouth
this odious creature headed to the door,
I feared so for the children
but laid so helpless on the floor.

It paused and turned then snarled at me
I´ll be back to eat your spleen,
If you´ve last words speak them now...
I said “Wish Facebook friends a scary Halloween,
It was a vicious beast to say the least
but this story is not true,
you see I used the poets licence
to write this shocker just for you*.

Every lounger taken
buckets spades and boards
families doing what families do
on sandy beaches in their hoards,
lashing on the lotion
for protection from the sun
lunches in the chiringuitos
a respite from the fun,
then it´s back to cheering, laughing, screaming,
bats and ***** and floats
splashing in the breaking waves
with plastic rings and rubber boats,
but now the shadows lengthen
the burning sun sinks to the sea
everyone is packing up
and heading back for tea,
the sunset shining glorious
the beach lit up with amber glow
saffron skies as the evening tires
and the pace begins to slow,
the beach is now deserted
as I stroll along the shore
beneath my feet the cooling sand
to my left the oceans roar,
a silver moon lights up the sky
and shines a path across the sea
a tranquil way to close the day
just a summer breeze and me,
come the morn it´s back to the norm
for the holidaying hoards
some lying bronzing in the sun
others surfing multi coloured boards,
every lounger will be taken
as another day unfolds
tomorrow on their flights back home
their holidaying stories will be told*.


Note : Chiringuito = Beach Bar/Restaurant.

I can still recall those day´s
of long hot summers
when mothers would call us in
on dry and dusty red sky evenings
after our long day at play.

We would tell our tales of
battles won and of the
den we built hidden deep
in nearby woods whilst
gobbling up our well earned tea.

I´d  head the stairs to take the bath
mum had run for me and I´d sit
and scrub and with flannel rub
at mud caked bleeding knees.

Wooden swords stood against
back doors ready for the morrow.

I can still recall those days when
we of saucepan helmets and of
dustbin lid shields ruled the world,
albeit with a melancholy feeling
for lost days never to return*.

I have flown on the wings of elation
and sunk to the depths of despair,
I have loved with a passion undying
and I have lost without even a care.

I have climbed to the heights of glory
and fallen from grace like a fool,
I have ventured through all emotions
and learned that life is so very cruel.

Now I scale the walls of uncertainty
and I am positive in all things I do,
I attempt feats of impossibility
and I leave nothing in my life to rue*.

Whilst walking on a mountain path
on a red hot fiery day,
I came across a small stone cross
and to myself I say,
I wonder who is buried here
and I wonder what´s his name,
Did he die a peaceful death?
or did he die in pain.

I sat me on the soft green grass
and examined close the cross,
to see if there were any clues
as to the reason for this loss;
I scraped away the undergrowth
from the lichen covered stone,
and there I found these words were caved,
“I lie in peace but not alone”.

I sat a while and pondered this
whilst taking in the scene,
a breath taking view to say the least
so tranquil and serene,
a perfect place to be laid to rest
I told the occupant out loud,
lying here with natures best
beneath the sunshine and the cloud.

I cleared away the bracken
then I wiped away the dirt
and at its base more words were caved
and it was these that really hurt,
“Here lies a dog, a faithful friend,
who did not leave his masters side,
he stayed with him for many weeks
until he too had sadly died”

I travel back here now and then
to tidy up and clear the mess,
I sit and chat about this and that
to my new pal that I´ve named Jess;
The reason I keep coming back
cleaning round this cross of stone,  
is so that Jess (just like his master)
Is not abandoned, left alone*.

The look of despair is in his eyes
a broken man stands where his child now lies,
the service is over the mourners depart,
the pain of this loss just tears at his heart.

Her name etched in brass burns through to his soul,
drops to his knees as the tears start to roll,
alone in the graveyard this broken man dies,
looking for reasons he looks up to the skies…….
Nothing!

He sat on a rock by the banks of a stream
he was armed with some paper and pen,
he jotted down thoughts that came in his head
his first poem was formed there and then.

He wrote of the music the water composed
as it danced its way round all the stones,
he wrote down the words of the water birds song
and he wrote of her colours and tones.

He wrote of the warmth from the mid summer sun
how it shimmered and hazed over fields,
he wrote of the dust a tractor kicked up
and his poem was starting to build.

He wrote about clouds in the Robin egg sky
their fluffiness, whiteness and grace,
he painted his picture on paper with pen
and the warm summer sun on his face.

He wrote of the calm that came in the air
as the afternoon started to tire,
he wrote of the orange and red glowing hues
of a sky that was blazing with fire.

He wrote of the Martins that took to the skies
the aerobatics and speed of their flight,
he wrote of a day that was second to none
the smells, his feelings, the colours, the sights.

And as the day darkened he put down his pen
and his paper he folded with care,
he rose to his feet bid farewell to the moon
and tipped his hat to all he´d seen there*.

Here in the midst of lake and fell
where lake-land poets once did dwell,
penned their words in romantic style
I too will sit and dream a while.

Sat at the edge of mountain tarn
looking back over field and farm,
watching Merlin and Goshawks fly
on thermal winds high in the sky.

The scent of pine from forest deep
red squirrels search for nuts to keep,
native to this Cumbrian land
to watch them scurry, really grand.

So tranquil here midst lake and fell
where reds and poets do still dwell,
the only sound is natures song
this is the place that I belong.

Swirls of colour
mingled into
what can only be described
as a meaningless mess,

every shade blended
into the next
forming the mother
of all cleaning jobs...
Such is the artists pallet;

But oh! what a different story
his canvass has to tell*.

A few clouds drift lazily across a pure blue sky
and a scorching sun sends sleeping dogs in search
of shaded bed-spaces somewhere under the trees.

Washing long dried hangs limp on the garden lines
waiting to be taken in by mothers who are sitting in
the cool indoors shucking peas into a bowl.

The local tradesmen have been and gone, having
delivered their orders of milk bread and groceries all
is now quiet in our sleepy midday Hampshire home.

The dusty lane that goes through the village is only
a bike ride down to the creek, saddle bags crammed
with sandwiches towels and swimming trunks.

The afternoon´s are spent swinging from a rope which
had been tied high in a tree over hanging the creek
letting go and splashing into the cool clear water below.

The excited screams and laughter ring out loudly across
golden fields of corn throughout the long hot summer,
a million miles and fifty-five years from where I am now*.

On ill fated winds
came the sound of Guns,

Guns that took millions
of lives so Young,

Young were the boys
fresh from mother’s Arms,

Arms that now yearn
for a million lost Sons,

Sons who will never
live till they´re Old,

Old... as those ill fated winds.

If you follow a fool
you are a bigger fool
than the fool you follow...

Through the mist I caught his eye
a majestic beast was he,
stood firm and proud his head held high
his fearless stance for all to see.

I dared not move just held his gaze,
held my breath for fear he´d run,
with staring eyes he stood unfazed
in this stand-off he knew he´d won.

As I backed up he turned away
slowly fading from my sight,
was it a dream or real that day
in the misty morning light*.

As soon as they used
the morphine word
I knew the end was near,
and yet…

I never said the things
I should have said
to my father dear,

and when I think
about him now
I can clearly hear him say

you did not have to say it son,
I knew………..along the way*.

I´m nothing but a common man
never graced a table fit for kings
nor have I worn the finest cloth...
I do not speak with learned tongue;

But when I see the troops parading
and when the band begins to play
my soul steps out to join them...
because that is the soldiers way;

For many years I served my country
and many years I served my queen
for these two things I´d fight and die...
a soldiers heart the reason why;

I may have come from humble stock
but the values I have learned
of comradeship, esprit de corps...
and undying love for my homeland.

In the old cottage garden
it´s as though the flora has run riot,
stone walls covered thick with ivy
every plant bush and shrub is overgrown.

The rusted metal and rotting wood handle
of an old garden roller is only just visible
in the long grass, in one dark corner a
wooden shed appears to have been eaten
by this un kept jungle, the door forced ajar
by the crazed growth of Russian vine.

The years of neglect have taken their toll
on this once quaint and beautiful home.

A Robin pops over the fence and perches
herself on the top of a garden *****, making
sure its safe before flying into an old metal
kettle which she has used for her nest.

The silence is broken by the four squawking
chicks she has to feed, each with their wide
open yellow beak fighting for the right
to a regurgitated worm.

When I was young and in my prime
a lad of seventeen
they sent me off to foreign climes
to serve my country and my King.

A fresh faced kid without a clue
naive to say the least,
lined up with comrades brave and true
to be the cannons feast.

They told us keep yer rifles clean
and keep yer powder dry
and when we charge don´t be afraid
just look em in the eye.

I can still recall that mournful sound
of the whistle blown at dawn,
it was up and over and into hell,
that´s where we went that morn.

All around us bodies fell
as we pushed on through the smoke,
bullet and shell were rained on us
and the stench of cordite made us choke.

A grenade explodes can´t hear a thing
body burning, shrapnel stings,
fell face down in the mud and gore
not wanting to die in this futile war.

So I´m on my feet and charging blind
to the sound of machine gun fire,
body disjointed from the mind
**** the sound of machine gun fire.

Another shell, this time it´s gas
and another fifty fall,
so far away from the marching bands
where we answered to the call.

Coughing and spewing from the cloud
that´s burning my insides,
lying in mud that is stained with blood
and there is no place to hide.

The screams and pleas from fallen men
being riddled with enemy fire,
slowly fade and drift away
from this field, this burning pyre.

I see the flash from the enemy’s gun
and I know it must be stopped,
I throw a grenade as I scale the mound
and in their trench I watched it drop.

The explosion loud lit up the sky
and showered all with dirt and stone,
the firing ceased the smoke it cleared
and I found myself alone.

This haunting place, this field of death,
this place that no young man should be,
amongst the bodies of his friends
this sight will always stay with me.

How I survived I´ll never know
but I do know this for sure,
the way to peace I'm telling you
is not through some ****** war.

Now in my armchair next the fire
with haunting memories by the score
and a (thank you for your service)
worthless medal in the drawer.

1

I journeyed through valleys and over hills
I travelled my whole life searching for thrills.

I walked through forests and followed the star
from my humble doorstep I’ve wandered far.

I‘ve seen sunsets on fire that light the sky
white sand beaches where the palms grow so high.

I’ve seen the wild stag in dawn’s early light
dew covered flora magnificent sight.

I’ve crossed over deserts in scorching heat
sailed the world’s oceans and would not be beat.

Climbed snow covered mountains pack on my back
lived off the land there was nothing I lacked.

I followed the rivers and followed streams
the journey I’ve taken fulfilled my dreams.


2

The valleys were battlefields soaked in blood
nothing but horror souls drowned in the mud.

The forest was burning smoke filled the sky
I couldn’t see stars to be guided by.

My home is now rubble raised to the ground
I wander searching but peace can´t be found.

Red sunsets replaced with smoke blackened skies
war ravaged beaches where young men just die.

Oceans and deserts, just warships and tanks
guns on the high ground fire down on the ranks.

Rivers polluted fish dead from disease
they’ve killed all the wildlife cut down the trees.

This journey’s a nightmare of blood and screams,
War! So evil, it’s for peace that I dream.


3

I cast my eyes back from their autumn days
journey is over but memories stay.

I retrace and relive the sights I’ve seen
back through the forest as though in a dream.

Back to my home where I wish I had stayed
back to the junction where my choice was made.

Back with nature embraced in her splendour
choosing a path without any detour.

We all have a choice which path should we choose
we all choose the one with nothing to lose.

I chose goodwill, love and peace for mankind
t’was not the easiest path I could find.

The other path showed me what would have been
this second path war-torn, and so obscene.