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WA West Aug 2018
The night conspiratorial,
A certain unfriendly bite to it,
heaviness like things undone,
Autumn is television cackle mahogany scented,
one creature making sense
Of its biology,
Legs and arms and hearts and minds entangled,
Until lethargic resignation
Slipping our memories in years to come,
Like we were absent from our bodies,
Fleetingly appalled at my abandonment,
To what extent do the walls know?
WA West Aug 2018
Last night communing with the,
much more than anything,
but still not quite,
echoing in worlds beyond this one,
if it pierces,
empties out carefully
What is it that is never quite,
intact or playfully,
ask the sages to reconsider,
paths to the sun,

Wonderful it will be to reach,
apexed or transcedent,
finger tips dusty or removed,
which is the endpoint subtracted,
faces that are familiar,
but are no more,
bottle green,
they are everything but sad,
dowsed in caffeine again,
heart is drowning in,
stolen courage,
the day passes away,
lost and fragmented.
Terry Collett Apr 2018
On the retreat through
Belgium you tended to
a young soldier wounded

by machine gun fire across
his abdomen. He lay there
on a stretcher unconscious.

He needed a doctor but none
was there. You unwound the
bloodied bandages. His arm

was hanging loose and a bone
was poking through. He was
still unconscious. A fellow

soldier suggested they move
on as the Germans were not
far away. You rebandaged him.

He was pale. You got two
stretcher bearers to take him
to the nearest ambulance.

They walked off with him
across the muddy ground
to a battered ambulance

over the way. Move on the
sergeant called Jerry's on
his way. You moved into

the ambulance and off it
went. The soldier lay there
unaware of the place or time

or danger. You watched him
there without worries or care.
an ostentatious wipe
this referendum is treed
while rather bolting a humanity
so Barcelona is superfluous and has encased
but once in Granda they'll enjoin a last bit circle
and to embroil grout in their tires
as a run within this emanation
on the plain to graze again
save Girona still crankiest in bluff
Deposed  Catalonian leader is in jail fighting extradition for crime s and funding need help from this community.
Terry Collett Jun 2016
We camped down
the first night
in some old

caravan
sleeping bags
everywhere

outside Bruges
next morning
we wake up

all cramped up
and annoyed
where are our

tents meant to
be set up?
Dalya asks

the guide says
got held up
just rang them

be here soon
he tells her
have breakfast

in the bar
and wait there
so we do

8 of us
4 young males
and females

have coffee
and pancakes
and a smoke

what a joke
Dalya says
we walk out

together
walk about
the camp site

you're Benny?
She asks me
yes that's right

what a crowd
for camping
a mother

and daughter
some teacher
from Southend

some Yorkshire
girl loud mouth
and Aussie

and the guide
Dalya says
do we share

two a tent?
I ask her
same sexes

she replies
so I'm with
Yorkshire lass

I suppose
Aussie's yours
she tells me

the teacher's
with the guide
at the next

base camp place
I like her
her spirit

her tight curls
and dark hair
and small bust

we walk back
to the old
caravan

for our bags
and our stuff
keep with me

Dalya says
and we'll see
how it goes

at the next
camping site
and maybe

she whispers
we can share
a whole night.
A BOY AND GIRL CAMPING TRIP IN BELGIUM 1974
As whisker-twister pauses, tho’ journey lingers on,
Sniveling and sneaking as he darts in shadows long,

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.

No food, nor sleep, no drink and no refuge, found anywhere in France,
Nowhere to run save forests, upon which he’s forced to take a chance,

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.

Scampering in shadows, with the hunter’s distance being closed,
Rodent Ambiorix, -little mouse, is paused and panting in repose,

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.

Frightened little mouse, run, yes run away,
Frightened little mouse you’ve come to rue that day,
For frightened little mouse, -Caesar’s on his way!

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.
Historical poetry.
m i a Mar 2016
citizens are dying
mommas are crying
countries are sighing
goverments are trying
to do all they can
but they don't realize that they have to unite man to man,
so maybe all of these attacks will stop, including in pakistan,
blood is drying,
bombs are flying,
watching this on the news is horrifying,
deaths are multiplying,
this is terrifying,
my heart goes out to the lives that were lost, to the families that died, to the mothers on their knees crying, to the citizens on hospital beds slowly dying.
you did not deserve this.
praying for this whole world, im sure many are as emotionally hurt by this as i am. my prayers go out to them. <3
ConnectHook Mar 2016
So let’s consider what is meant
by rolling heads and bodies splattered…
time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered…)

Such events disturb our sleep
and force us to compose, on waking,
lullabies for drowsy sheep
as predators are overtaking.

Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
sons of Ishmael filled with rage
are coming for your wife and daughter
and yourself. You turn the page.

Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
to convert you or to smite you.

****** dhimmis would have us think
such rage is due to unemployment;
pure confusion on the brink
of funding further troop deployment.

Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
while tenured academics prattle
watching MSNBC
as soldiers die in battle.
Part of a previously posted plea for Social Justice...
Olivebird Mar 2016
Belgium, we hear you.
Our tears fall at your loss.
One day, things will be okay, and the world will turn right-side up.

It won't be tomorrow, or in my lifetime, but one day, it will.
Until then, we hear you, and stand with you against the evil in this world.

Evil exists.
It is very real.
There are monsters in the shadows, gouls under our beds, and ghosts drifting outside our windows.
We are all but children playing in the dark.

Evil, and pain, and wrongdoings, and losses, exist all around us.
And one day, when we decide, they will go away.
Until then, we hear you.
Bridget Jan 2015
They lay on Normandy.
Two hundred miles away, the empty shells of humans
Who lie below the streets
Felt the poison that lurked above.

They shuffled out of the underground,
Boarding trains and ships like corpses
And dropping bombs from miles above.

A little French boy is spared.
His brother whispers “Bon courage,”
As the rest of the family are taken out back
And shot like mad dogs.

Twenty years later, he stands on the beach
With his young wife
Watching their sons roll and play in the sand.

His tongue tastes a warm salt
That couldn't come from the ocean.
All he can taste from the ocean is blood.

I can see my grandfather clearly
With tears falling down his face
As his mother shuts the piano.
“There will be no music,” she says quietly.

She is an immigrant
And I wonder if she questions the choice
That brought her son to a country where he might lay down his life
For strangers, four thousand miles away.

I can feel him now
Hiding in the apple trees,
High above the others.
He is in Sainte-Mère-Église, and there are enemies below.

And now I take them in my arms
Cradling them like children
“Je vous embrasse, les deux,”
And I lie down on the edge of the ocean at Normandy.

I exhale and hold them close.
The sun is shining, and I do not cry;
It is nothing but salt and water to me.
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