Dry crying
with your mistless tongue
gacking and clatting
(a toy tapping out the winding
in its clockwork mockery)
Dry crying your devotions
and gloved family
into nothing more than vented memory
Your pores pelt vapor
You treaten thinner
stern thing
true to your wood
Dry to make your soldier state
Link rank with your troop mate
Crop your mind foreign of frills
Pay attention with your brothers in drill

Indeed, it is lifeless
But it gives life to her hopes.
It is a witness;
Witness of her all time pains.
It is her friend whom
She shares her thoughts with.
She looks into a distance
Upto the place her eyes can see,
Tears flow down vigourously.
Yet, hope remains deep down the heart.
It shines;
Along with it shine her faiths,
Her faiths would have died a long ago
If it did not exist.
She gazes into its light,
It says to her,"your wait is not wasted."
She strengthens...
She grows stronger with the words.
When everything faded away,
When darkness covered the dawn of life,
When there was shadow all over,
It had helped her fight;
Fight with the pessimism of life.
To the rest of the world,
It was just a piece of mud.
But to her,
It was 'THE DIYO'
Her courage, her belief and her faith
Whose never ending light
Would provide her
A reason to fight and survive.

In Memory of My Beginning
We of fitter gun were harassed in our youth by the file, the use of which is an art. It’s not just rubbing the file back and forth. Every stroke should count and move you one step closer to a smooth, polished finish without gouges or abrasion marks. Just like growing up really; like life. Hence:

At Arborfield, remember where we learned to use a file
On a wicked lump of mild steel they gave us for our own?
Reduce its size they told us, and that without a smile.
So we set-to with hands that ached, stiff fingers and a groan.
Two inches square it had to be within a 'thou' or two.
Push fitted through an aperture, eight differing ways all told.
And by miracle (craft) that metal was transformed by me and you
With a Four Inch smooth and lots of chalk, and even though now old
I recall as though I were still there, bent over at the bench, and still
Unsure of what my life might be, what even I should dare
With this feeler gauge and set square, scraper, tap and drill,
The which to shape this wicked lump into the perfect square.
The perfect square, what a hope; that shape for which we then aspired.
Compelled, it's true reluctantly at times but which by none the less
Were laid foundations for the lives we've subsequently had;
And the which by some admired.

At Day’s End

Beneath the jungle canopy all is quiet, and very still.
The heat it prickles up and down my back, beneath the sweat.
And the faces that I see from where I crouch, look tired and ill,
And the cam-cream smeared theatrically about my face,
feels not quite wet.

And I carefully check the rear-sight of my rifle once again,
Trial the muzzle back and forth, from side to side.
For the thousandth time I wish that it would hurry up and rain,
And I wonder, were I him, where I would hide.

And I hear them scraping track-plans and that worries me a bit.
The harbour though should shortly settle down.
Then Frank will come and take me back to man my weapon-pit,
**** give out the evening o-group with his usual, surly frown.

Then as the barking deer call forth the fresh, cool, restful night,
We'll stand-to, listening quietly 'til there's no more light to see.
'Tis now, oft-times, we hear the noise of someone else's fight;
(queer, how those distant, violent sounds, engender peace in me)

And at the last, when darkness comes, each boot I shall unlace,
And these sweat-soaked, dirt-encrusted socks, place in my shirt to dry and keep.
With webbing spread beside me and my rifle, cleaned and in its place,
I can lie at length to rub my toes in peace,
Then go to sleep.

I’m no longer a fighter,
At least not the one you once knew;
The world isn't getting brighter;
Just a little bit darker.
Friends seem farther,
Demons just a little bit closer.
With my thinking,
There’s never closure;
I can’t ever find my way.
For in the dark of night,
I seek the light of day.
Gone down the wrong road,
I'm not a prince, just a toad;
Buried beneath,
Stuck in Morse code.
Thought I could go god mode;
Super strength, all-powerful.
I thought I was incredible,
But I'm no Bruce Banner.
I thought I was invincible,
But I'm no Iron Man.
More like the Metal Man,
Meddling in affairs.
‘Cept life's not fair.

Already placed in battle,
Rifle running rattle,
I’m training like a soldier;
Thoughts crowding like cattle,
Thought I could hold her;
She's all I can think about.
Can't get her out of my head.
Used to feel alive,
Now, I'm feeling dead.
This one-sided attraction,
Self-doubt, large fraction,
Chemical chain reaction;
Rejection, hit like a wall,
Made me fall;
Like first king, Saul,
Can't stand tall.
Am I a man?
Can't hold her hand.
It's like Wendy and Peter Pan,
Lost in Neverland.
I feel paralyzed,
No vice vision;
Fast forward,
Rewind.
No direction,
I'm blind.
This is my body.
This is my mind.
Muscle-memory mimicry,
Chained down,
I thought that I was free.
Guard up,  
I thought that I could be me.

You see,
I used to be a fighter.
But I'm tired of fighting.
I should've enlisted,  
Here, I never existed.
This story's end,
Happily never after;
This decade's end,
Turning twenty-one;
My match has ended.
And I still haven't won.
Fire's been extinguished.
Fuel tank's empty.
No more will in me.
The pressure's killing me.
Bout to go off,
Time's ticking to two;
These gloves, I'm hanging up,
I'm finally through.
Points don't matter,
The price ain't right.
I ain't a Mad Hatter,
I’m down, no flight.
Insanity isn't my vanity;
I feel like I've lost my humanity,
I'm not trying to be a tragedy,
In all actuality,
I've reached my capacity;
Anxiety caused a calamity,
And, now, this is my reality.

A fighter no more,
I lost the war.
Yeah, I ain't Thor;
I may have lost my roar,
But my legacy leaves a lore.
Unworthy of the hammer,
I feel like I'm in the slammer.
Outcast like the Martian from Mars,
Stone walls and iron bars;
They say that I should  
Reach for the stars.
You’ll reach Jupiter in no time,
Just get on the grind, and climb.
They say that my writing's good;
But good was never enough.
Just gotta act tough, and
You'll get through the rough stuff.

Although I've served near thirty years,
Achieving rank high as can be.
I still remember first parade,
And sergeant starting feud with me.

We'd shuffled on parade in line,
Still yet to learn to dress our ranks;
Each nervous with anticipation,
While sergeant to the Lord gives thanks.

But now the time for first inspection,
Worried corporal standing nigh,
As sergeant moves on down our line,
Will he, won't he, pass me by?

In those days when just fifteen years
Yet five feet nine and very thin;
Cocky, full of verve and vim,
But not yet having shaved my chin.

So sense my fright when this grown man
With medal ribbons from the War,
Intent it seems on finding fault
Stops, stoops, then gives a roar.

I freeze with horror, sudden shock.
The corporal runs up with his book.
Do you see this? screams sergeant's voice.
A hairy chin, come take a look.

And they do, heads close together.
Both now peering at my chin.
Take his name the Sergeant murmurs,
Thus, I'm noted down for sin.

Black book closes, sergeant passes
And I think 'alright for some'.
But now he's shouting at another;
'Just you wait, I'll tell my mum'.