I’d get a call over the walkie-talkie, write down what parts were needed, find them in the parts’ warehouse tent, load ’em up, and deliver them to the job site. It was pretty easygoing. In between orders I’d just sit in the air-conditioned truck, listening to Howard Stern and napping here and there. When I could. After a month, they hired another guy to be my partner. He was a computer programming geek, married with kids, and he had these stupid cartoon tattoos all over his arms. Japanese anime **** and Hanna-Barbara characters. The guy really got on my nerves, one of those know-it-all nerds.
Our boss was the biggest Native I’d ever seen. Looked like a Navajo Andre the Giant, only he had a big, black, handlebar mustache. Which as surprising, because, I was under the impression Navajo’s couldn’t grow ****** hair. He stood at nearly 6’6” with long skinny legs, a barrel chest covered in silver and turquoise jewelry. When he got angry, his eyes went wild, like fire raging out of control. Like the time I got the flatbed truck stuck on an embankment and the back axle snapped off. “******* JUNIOR!” he shouted. My old man was one of the foremen there, so everyone just called me Junior. Oh yes, my boss, Darren, was a scary guy to say the least. So me and my delivery partner were making a run to the jobsite one day, the radio blaring “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, just getting into the fast final part of the song. The good part. Right in the middle of the guitar solo, my partner changed the station to Nickleback, of all things. I quickly switched it back to the Skynyrd.
“What’s wrong with you? Don’t change it in the middle of “Free Bird,” I said.
My partner rolled his eyes and switched it back to Nicklecrap.
“Come on, get with the times, man. This is the new ****.”
“Yeah, **** is right.”
I switched it back AGAIN, but the song was ending.
“You made me miss the song, ya’ ******’ *****.’
“Why don’t ya’ just cry about it then?”
“*******.”
We delivered the parts and parked the truck back inside the parts’ warehouse tent. With no calls coming in over the radio, we cranked the a/c and dozed off to Howard Stern talking about an “**** ring toss” game they were going to play. I woke up an hour later to Darren’s angry voice coming in over the radio. “Where the **** are you guys? *******, we got parts that gotta go out. I’m headed to the tent …”
I looked over to my partner, snoring away in the driver’s seat. For a second, I contemplated waking him up. Then I remembered the Lynard Skynyrd/Nickleback incident, and I left him sleeping in the truck. I walked out of the tent, to the Port-John to take a squirt. When I returned to the tent, Darren was staring at my partner, who was still asleep in the truck. Darren’s eyes were big and crazy; he was furious. He turned to me.
“What the ****, Junior?”
“I’ve been trying to get him up, but he just won’t budge. I’m having to do all this work myself!”
“******* …” Darren said, with a heavy sigh, before pounding on the driver’s side window.
“Andy! Wake the **** up, *******! Junior’s carrying all the weight here!”
Andy did wake up. He glared at me, and I smiled back with a ****-eating grin.
You don’t ever interrupt The Free Bird. I don't care what your name is.

So there’s a girl across the street
A girl to whom he’s grown accrete
A girl he’s just to scared to greet
But yet still he sits and hopes

You see she’s in love with Darren
However Darren’s in love with Karen
And Karen sits and stares at Bob, who’s probably gay, probably not,
But still he drools over Linda,
Who’s stare is blank and barren,
Pointed at the anti-nerd, football loving, guru Darren.

Yes it’s really that simple,
Forget love triangle, more love enneadecagon,
Gone,
That reminds him, as it hits his head like a hadron,
Gone,
Are his hopes of him and the girl across the street.

Her features to him, were long developed similes,
They came to his brain, seamlessly, chemically,
Of course he’s never express these feelings formally,
But to him they acted as a soothing love remedy.

Her eyes were golden like caramelised sugar,
Or the enticing qualities of slowly melting butter,
Each eye, a galaxy waiting to be discovered,
And yes he means the chocolate bar.

Her hair is crimson like strawberry laces,
Which reminds him of the disadvantages of having braces,
But he braces himself as though it’s his duty,
Braces himself for an overwhelming amount of beauty.

She talks to him about all the awful things that guys do,
She then says she wishes that more guys were like you,
She says she wants that guy to show up this year,
But what she doesn’t see, is that that he’s standing right here.

So there’s a guy across the street
A guy to whom she’s grown accrete
A guy she’s just to scared to greet
But yet still she sits and hopes

You see he’s in love with her neighbour,
A chore that she knows can be a labour,
Yet she knows she can be the saviour,
Because she is even greater

So one day to no surprise, he’s looking out with eager eyes, they lock eyes, butterflies, quite surprised, more butterflies, they remain like that til sunrise, emotions start to normalise, then fluctuate because of those **** butterflies.

So there’s a girl across the street
A girl to whom he’s grown accrete
A girl he wasn’t scared to meet
And now they live and bond

Because that girls in love with Darren,
However Darren’s in love with Karen,
But who cares,
They have each other for the rest of their days

And beyond.

It was a glorious night for a moonlit flight
On Barry my Big Berkshire Boar
Huffing and puffing like flying was nothing
Over the treetops we’d soar

Well I never knew, that other pigs flew
As Darren came circling down
Sat proud on top his Gloucester Old Spot
Wow! What a wonderful sow

I’m sure I can claim that Darren was the same
As his jaw nearly dropped to the ground
For Darren and I, had pigs that could fly
And you don’t really see that around

“Hey your pig flies!” Darren wailed with surprise
“And we only just met for a drink”
“I didn't know you, had a flying pig too
  Just what would the other guys think!?”

So we soon made a pact, with our secret intact
Everything worked out just fine
Now we’re both out at night, when the weather is right
Racing our rare flying swine!

The loudest sounds most kids hear on a school day
are lockers slamming, or maybe the late bell tone
I hear all of those, but the loudest sounds by far
are those created by the lacrosse team
when they beat the **** out of me
every day,
after 8th hour, at the intersection of nerd street and **** avenue

The attacks were formulaic, more complex than Pythagoras
but simpler than Newton’s Binomial Theorem;
Two would tackle me, one would pin me down,
and the rest would kick me around as if it were soccer tryouts
and I was nothing more than a ball
and regardless of whether you derived or integrated this equation
you always got the same solution
me ******, and them ****** happy

I would go home bawling; so would they
but instead of tears they dropped floaters
And I had a rep as the kid with a concussion before the season even began

I was born five pounds tops, with no biceps whatsoever
and as I grew my arms didn’t follow
making me as clear a target as a corpsman in World War 2
To my doc’s urging I drank milk religiously
but that didn’t do **** when I tangled with Darren Shields and his Air Jordans on 4th and eternity
Instead of my ankles however, he broke my ribs; 6 of em’
Told me he’d **** me if I ratted
So I told the mother I fell off my skateboard
Because I didn’t want a rematch with Muhammad Ollie

I considered hitting the off switch on my life
at least three times a week
but I didn’t know how to tie a noose,
didn’t know where my dad’s shotgun was
and I wasn’t ballsy enough to try a steak knife
Which is ironic because if I was brave enough for that
none of this may have happened
I’ll even admit I liked to daydream about building
and bringing a bomb to school by backpack
getting revenge by leaving a crater
where my class was at

And though the bible said suicide was cowardly
I was too cowardly for suicide
So I reasoned that if I got into college out of state
it would be worth a couple more years
of broken bones, ***** dousings, and concussions
So I did nothing


Fast forward eight years
I gained two feet in height
Armanis replace my Reeboks
a multinational corporation, my 4.0’s
I’ve made the covers of Fortune and GQ,
my speed-dial list comprises of more celebrities than actual friends
my annual salary consists of two significant numbers
followed by double-digit zeroes

When I’m not working overtime I spend my days
pulling beautiful women and enjoying the pleasures
that God gave us
Every time I yank my shirt off, each girl gives me the
same wide-eyed expression and unspoken question
regarding the cruel scars all over my body,
to the point where I resort to answering every time with,
“I played lacrosse in high school.”

And I have never forgotten about high school
But Darren Shields has, and fate has him working several floors down
He HAS forgotten
He has forgotten me, my face, my voice when I pleaded for mercy
But I have not forgotten him
Nor have I forgotten my hatred
Nor my fear

I could hurt him
I could fire him with contempt
or disgrace him publicly
or to the very least, remind him of the good old days
and make him feel like the **** he was
But I don’t; I won’t

He must wonder why I struggle
to look him in the eye
or shudder when he cheerfully claps me
on the shoulder every morning  
As I am still haunted by them old days

And despite how I now spend my life in a huge office
surrounded by wealth, women,
and mostly absolute silence
I can still hear the sounds of lockers slamming,
of late bell tones
But loudest of all, I hear the sound of my body breaking
Thanks to Darren Shields on 4th and eternity

It was sticky hot and humid in Ferguson that Saturday.
Just another weekend where the little leagues would play.
I was riding unit 25 looking out for petty crime.
My units' radio sputtered to life: "shots fired on Canfield drive."
" Officer in need of assistance"

We just didn't arrive in time.

I recognized the body, my colleague and close friend.
Darren Wilson was shot six times, the last time in the head.
His service piece was missing. The shooter had fled the scene.
I called for a bus and backup and radioed what I had seen.
We then secured the crime scene as it drew a silent crowd.
Detectives looked for any clues and canvased the homes around.
No witness would come forward, either out of fear or dread.
"His new wife is now a widow." my disgusted partner said.
Darren face was badly bruised as he lay there in the sun.
I surmised he'd been assaulted in the struggle for his gun.
The coroner sighed and shook his head at the body on the gurney.
He'd perform an autopsy on my friend before his final journey.

The score was one dead man in blue, his murderer still free.
The streets that night were quiet, as I suspected they would be.
There was no public outcry at the killing that was done.
Blue lives never matter to a town like Ferguson.

(This poem doesn't belong to me. The rightful owner is the author Darren Shan who wrote the Demonata and the Cirque du Freak book series. This poem is from his first book of the Demonata book series: Lord Loss.)

Lord loss sows all the sorrows of the world, lord loss seeds the grief starched trees

In the center  of the web lowly lord loss bows his head

Mangled hands, naked eyes
Fanged snakes his soul line
Curled inside like texture sin
****** curdle sheets for skin

In the center of the web vile lord loss torments the dead
Over strands of red, lord loss crawls
Dispensing pain, despising all
Shuns friends, nurtures foes
Ravages hope, breeds woe
Drinks moons, devours suns
Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes

In the center of the web Lush Lord Loss is all that is left.

Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the persistence of oppression
is precluding my life’s zest.

The dark before sunrise
of a dawn that just won't break,
suppressed by a thirst for my soul
that only sorrow can now slake.

The wisps that you are weaving
are clouding my damp eyes,
a cold and cloying shroud
that’s covering all that I desire.

A void, with sides so steeply etched
and burning with cold dread,
I’m trembling now with fragile fear
and wondering if I dare tread.

Your shadow wraps me in its arms
to hold me once again,
a old familiar friend
that’s feeding fast upon my pain.

A symbiotic succor
and reluctant shield of sighs
from the turmoil of a life
that turned to tears before my eyes.

And the sleep within my veins
now washes over silent souls,
a mind numbing response
to a desperate, lonely call.

I’m crying out from within the prison
of this decaying fragile frame
and I hide my face behind a smile
from relentless passionate pain.

Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the darkness you are dealing
leaves my soul with little rest.

Now your fog has engulfed me
to the edges of my world,
I hope and pray that one day soon,
my wings will be unfurled.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd June 2014.
Revised 20th August 2015.
©2014 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Have you ever heard the tale
about the hedgehog with no spikes,
such a sweet little boy
who all the other’s didn’t like?

A case of alopecia,
there was nothing they could do,
such a sad little hedgehog
who cried and cried, “Boo-Hoo”.

But soon the lad grew older,
he wanted to look more lush
so onto his back he tied himself
a little scrubbing brush.

His friends, well they just laughed at him
and bullied him all the more,
until one day, he'd had enough
and walked out through the door.

For years not much was heard of him,
his mother, she did fret
for she’d heard about the busy roads
and trouble, in which, he could get.

But life had turned out fine for him
and soon he’d found a place
where he could earn a little living
and put smiles on many a face.

Within the railway station
with his brush upon his back,
a jumping and a jiggling till
the queue would start to clap.

People travelled from miles around
just to come and watch the show,
their trips no longer boring
they would leave with faces aglow.

But what’s the hedgehog doing
to make the people come to see?
What makes them laugh and cheer
and fills their hearts with so much glee?

You've never seen a shoe shine stall
with such a special knack,
for the owner was a dancing hedgehog
with a brush upon his back!


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 3rd January 2014
Revised 26th August 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

You'll often see them running
and chasing across the plains,
a rabbit skipping and laughing
at an eagle, in great pains.

But why's the eagle running,
surely he can fly?
Sadly he’s afraid of heights
and frightened he may die.

An eagle that can't fly,
well surely that's not right,
it's just like having an owl
who won't come out at night.

But then one day the rabbit stopped
and said, “I've had enough”,
he waited for the eagle
who by now was out of puff.

“Why can you not fly my friend,
there must be a better way,
all this running so doing you in,
especially twice a day”.

“I will not fly and I'll tell you why”,
the eagle had stopped for a rest,
“I have a horrible fear of heights,
since I fell from my mother’s nest”.

“It’s ok for you just sitting there,
chewing on your carrot
but just you try catching
a pigeon or a parrot!”

“Well why don't you just change your food;
try veggies for a while?”
The eagle replied, “Are you serious?”
and couldn't help but smile.

“It’s not as daft as you may think;
it's clever, if I may say,
it'll save you all the running around,
veggies can't run away!”

The eagle thought and with a grin
ran off as fast as fast as he could.
“Where are you going?” the rabbit called.
“I’m off to find some spuds!”


Written by Darren Scanlon, 4th January 2014.
Revised 18th July 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Liturgy in Time of War

I will go to the altar of God
To God who gives joy to my youth

ENTRANCE ANTIPHON

The dawn (evening) is coming, another hot, filthy, wet dawn (evening).  Let us arise, soaked in sweat, exhausted, to speak with sour, saliva-caked mouths, to meet the deaths of this day (night).

GREETING

In the name of Peace in Our Time,
For the Hearts and Minds of The People,
For the Land of the Big PX
For round eye and white (black) (brown) thigh,
I greet you, brothers.

PENITENTIAL RITE

All:

I confess to almighty God
And to you my brothers
That I have sinned through my fault
In my thoughts and in my words
In what I have done
And in what I have failed to do,
And I ask Blessed Mary…

But how can I ask Her anything now?

My brothers,
Pray for me to…

But how?
Priest: (But there is no priest)

KYRIE

Lord, have mercy
Christ, have mercy
Lord, Lord, have mercy on us now

Have mercy, Lord, on a generation
That sits smugly in college lecture halls
And protests endlessly in coffee shops
The war they hear, see, on T.V., for free
Justice and peace by the semester hour
Like, y’know, peace, love, Amerika sux
Play the guitar, ****, apply to law school

Have mercy on us
Who crouch behind sand bags
And clean our weapons
And protest nothing
And **** in the heat
And die in the hear
And throw ham and lima beans away

GLORIA

Glory to God in the highest
how many bodies yesterday?
And peace to His people on earth
Vietnamese? Or us?
Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father
ham and lima beans?
We worship you, we give you thanks, we praise you for your glory
Doc, I can’t go home to my wife with this clap
Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father
cigarette, canteen cup of instant coffee
Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world
******* magazine
Have mercy on us
relief behind the sand bags
You are seated at the right hand of the Father
i rot
Receive our prayer
i want to be clean and dry
For You alone are the Holy One
clean and dry.  just once.
You alone are the Lord
why do they chew that?
You alone are the most high
you mean the betel nut?
Jesus Christ, with the Holy Spirit, in the glory of God the Father
incoming!
Amen


PRAYER

A

Father, you make this day holy.
Let us be thankful for
The many little joys of
This day, for life, for
The chance to worship
You.  In the end, bring
Us to you, so that we
May be cleansed of mud
And sweat and filth and
Guilt, and live with you
In peace forever.

B

Father, just get me through
Another day of this mess.

LITURGY OF THE WORD –

FIRST READING

From the Intensive Care Unit, NSA DaNang

A twilight world
Of neither peace nor battle
And of both

A man world
Embracing life and the grim death
Both

Peering into infected wounds
Night building shiver
Down from the black sky flares float

Broken bodies from the war somewhere
Eyes of a shattered nineteen-year-old Marine
Staring at the door to Yokosuka

PSALM

A Song of Descents

I cast down my eyes
Into the mud
Into the blood
It seems cleaner than death and drugs and casual ***
Drink Coca-Cola

I turned my eyes away from you, O Lord
And made this
Build this
Came to this
Samantha and Darren on Bewitched

Have mercy on…but how can we ask?  How dare we ask?

SECOND READING

Old Man, Viet Nam

Old man, a dog is barking at your heels
Old man, with the tired, weathered face
Are you afraid to turn around and deal
This dog a kick, to put him in his place?

Or is it, old man, that you’re just too tired?
Just too tired to turn and show anger
Just too tired to have your temper fired
Beaten by years of contempt and danger

Where are you going, trudging so slowly?
What are you thinking, behind those tired eyes?

Probably not about ham and lima beans

GOSPEL

In the Cold White Mist

After an all-night run on the river
Our boats arrive in the village at dawn
Dawn is never cold along that rive
Along that steaming, green, hell-hot river
But the mist is cold, the grey-green dawn mist
And after the engines are cut – stillness
Foul brown water laps at the mudding bank
Sloshing softly with fertile, smelly death

In the cold white mist

The boats are secured, and watches posted
We step off the boats and onto wet land
And follow the track into the deep mist
It becomes the street of a little town
A dairy lane along which cows slopped home
And where dogs and chickens and children
      played
Bounded by carefully swept little yards
And little wooden houses with tin roofs

In the cold white mist

But some of the houses are burnt.  The smoke
Still hangs heavily in the whitening mist
The lane is littered with debris.  A lump
Resolves itself into a torn, dead child
Across a smaller lump, a smaller child
Their pup has been flung against the fence, its
Guts early morning breakfast for the morning
      flies
We smoke cigarettes against the death-smells

In the cold white mist

Beneath a farm tractor rots a dead man.
When they – they – had come at sunset
He had hidden there.  And they shot him there
A man with bare feet and work-calloused
      hands
His hair is black; his teeth need cleaning
They shot him beneath the village tractor
His blackening blood clots into the mud
And our lungs choke in the white mist of death

In the cold white mist

White mist.  The path disappears into it
Smoky skeletons of little houses
In which there will be no tea this morning
No breakfasts of hot tea and steaming rice
No old widows to smile in betel-nut
No children to mock-march alongside us
Pointing at our ******* boots, and laughing
At us, for wearing shoes in the summer

In the cold white mist

They are dead and rotting in the white mist
On the edge of the jungle on the edge
Of the world, here along the Vam Co Tay
And the people pour out of their houses
To greet us on the fine summer morning
A corpse across a doorway, another
******-doubled across a window sill
Still another strewn down the garden path

In the cold white mist

The other patrol doubles back to us
And they tell us that the Ruff-Puff outpost
Must have been overrun the night before
He had heard their radioed pleas, and had
Run the river at night to get to them
And the ARVNs had fled through the village
And the VC had stormed in behind them
And it was knife-and-gun-club night in town

In the cold white mist

A little girl is the lone survivor
She looks may six.  Cute, except for the
Bubbling, *******, bayoneted chest wound
We patch her, and tube her, and use suction
Sort of like fixing a bicycle tire
And in the wet, gasping heat take her back
With us downriver, where a charity
Hospital leaves her on the steps to die

In the cold white mist

It will be our turn again tomorrow
Not a one of us died today.  Today.
But a village is gone, burnt and rotting,
Soon to disappear into the jungle
Along the green Cambodian border
Up some obscure river.  Up there.  Somewhere.
A few hundred people.  Their ancestors’ graves
Will fade with them untended, forgotten

In the cold white mist

Radio Hanoi might blame it on us.
But maybe not.  We made our report and
Nobody really noticed; no one cared
The talk is of the VC battalion
And where it has gone, and where it might go –
Maybe into death under an air strike
“And you guys better get in some sack time,”
Says the C.O. as he turns to his maps.

In the cold white mist

HOMILY

I’m scared, and I want to go home.  I don’t care any more about justice or fighting Communism or winning the hearts and minds of the people.  I can’t think about all that right now, because I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I don’t care about truth or loyalty or bravery or honor.  If Miss March were here she wouldn’t get cold, but she sure would get sunburnt.  And in a few days her skin would start rotting.  Then nobody would want to see her in the **** anymore.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
Up the Vam Co Tay, everyone is scared, everyone is tired, everyone is sick, everyone could die: sailor, soldier, officer, priest, farmer, fisherman.  Everyone rots in the wet heat.  The skin bubbles and flakes and peels, and is pink again, to bubble and flake and peel again.  
I’m scared, and I want to go home.
I’m Doc.  I’m a scared, stupid kid with an aid bag and a few months’ training.  But I’m Doc.  I’ve got to fake it.  I’ve got to be cool and calm because this other kid with his guts hanging out will probably make it if I don’t ***** up and if the dust-off from Saigon can get out here now.
I have an old dog at home, and my folks write and tell me she sleeps outside my window at night, waiting for me to come home.  Someday we’re going to run and play in the woods and fields again.  She’ll bark and run wide circles, and dare me to catch her.  I will laugh under the autumn leaves.  But now my nights are glaring darkness, fits of sweat-soaked half-sleep, then sirens and falling glares and falling mortars, and then the Godawful racket of all our engines of destruction.  There isn’t any use in all this.
I’m scared, and I want to go home.

And I don’t want any ham and lima beans.

CREED

We believe in the Land of the Big PX
In presidents in suits, and generals,
In makers of economic strategies
We believe in flak jackets and .45s and peace

We believe in swing ships and dust-offs, yes
In the dark, green omnipresent Huey
Eternally begotten of technology
Blades to rotor, windscreen to machine guns
Made, not begotten, one in being with us
Through it all things are transported to us
For us men and our hunger and our hope
It comes down from the skies
By the high power of technology
It was born of the long assembly line

For whose sake are we crucified today?
Who suffers, and who dies and is baggied?
And on the third will arrive back home
To be neatly packaged in stainless steel

But not in ham and lima beans

LITURGY OF THE EUCHARIST

Preparation of the Gifts

Celebrant:

Blessed are you, Lord, God of all creation.
Through your goodness we have this cheap Algerian wine to offer,
Fruit of the vine and work of human hands.
It will become anaesthesia for our souls.

People:

Blessed be…we just don’t know

Celebrant:

Pray, brothers, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father, to somebody.  Maybe.

People:

May the Lord, or the baggies, accept the sacrifice we offer with
our own burnt hands
For the praise and glory of…of what?
For our good, and the good of all His Church.

PRAYER OVER THE GITS

Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Little green cans, and I don’t care
Air cover’s gone away.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

Preface for the Monsoon Season:

Father, all-powerful
And ever-living God,
We do well always and everywhere
To give You thanks
Through Jesus God our Lord
Even with diarrhea
thanks
When the mail doesn’t come
thanks
When we rot
thanks
When the heat ***** at our brains
thanks
When the mud ***** at our boots
thanks
When the horror ***** at our souls
thanks
We’re alive
thanks

SANCTUS

Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might
The bunkers are full of blood and death.
Hosanna in the mud.  Blessed is he who comes with the mail.  Hosanna in the mud.

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER

The Kien Tuong Province Canon:

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
Along a steamy river
Mostly helmet and flak jacket
Above dark plastic gunwales

The sailor has lost his New Testament
But there’s a ******* around somewhere
Naked, willing women –
Miss March wants to be an actress

He also carries an old plastic Rosary
To touch occasionally
While whispering a hurried Hail Mary
He hopes She understands

Those who in bell-bottoms and head-bands
Fight Fascism
In Sociology 201
Will never forgive him

A sailor is silhouetted against the dawn
This day he is to be elevated
His body broken and his blood shed
For you and for all men

OUR FATHER

Our Father, who art in Heaven
this ain’t it
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
this ain’t it
On earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day…
not ham and lima beans
And forgive us our trespasses
as we shoot them that trespass against us
And lead us not into ambush
But deliver us from evil

SIGN OF PEACE

Peace on you.

AGNUS DEI

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy on us.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: have mercy….

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace.

Priest:

(But there is no priest)

People:  

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,
But only say the word and I shall be killed.

COMMUNION ANTIPHON

They ate, and were not satisfied
They killed, and were not without fear.

PRAYER AFTER COMMUNION

Lord,
If we do not get out of this
Make some sense of it to those who remain
May we go home.  Home.  Or if not,
Take us unto you, in mercy.
Home.  Where you reign, for you are Lord
Forever and ever.  Amen

BLESSING

May you walk on grass that does not explode
May you sleep without rot
Without fear
May you never see or smell ham and lima beans again.
May you live
May you play with puppies
May you find forgetfulness
May you find peace
In the Name of Him who took your death for you

DISMISSAL

This is to certify that____is Honorably Discharged from the____on theday of____.  This certificate is awarded as a testimonial of Honest and Faithful Service.

CLOSING HYMN

Old men, smoking in the sunshine
Exiled outside the doors of life
Old uniforms, old pajamas
The chrome of wheelchairs, shiny, bright

Inside, polished wooden handrails
Line the hot, polished passages
Something to cling to on the way
To the lab, to x-ray, to death

And more old men, shuffling along
In a querulous route-step march
From Normandy, from The Cho-sen,
From the Vam Co Tay, from the deserts,
Past the A.I.D.S. ward and the union signs
On waxed floors to eternity

Portions previous published:

“Closing Hymn” is from “Outpatient Surgery – Veterans’ Hospital,” Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1993

“In the Cold White Mist” is a Juried Award, Houston Poetry Fest 1991

“Old Man, Viet-Nam,” was published in Pulse, Lamar University, 1982

Somewhere in between
the waking and the dream,
I can feel you close to me.

Just before times hands
reshape the desert sands,
I can feel you reach for me.

In the blink of tear stained eyes,
watching weary to the skies,
I can see you cry for me.

In the breaking of the dawn,
in the dew upon the lawn,
I can see you smile for me.

In the bright rays of the sun,
in the new day just begun,
I can feel you warming me.

In the beating of my heart,
that once was torn apart,
I can feel you healing me.

In the shadow of the past,
from the dawn unto the last,
I can hear you call for me.

As I take my last deep breath,
as I fear the grip of death,
will you please just wait for me?


Written by Darren Scanlon, April 2013.
This revised version written 15th March 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

The money and the power
fit like hand in glove,
manipulating our lives
with hands soaked in blood.

Like pawns on a chessboard
we follow their commands,
cleverly manipulated
by cold corporate minds.

They reap a tainted harvest
bought with sleeping souls,
their purses bulging
as they play out their roles.

Prancing about in their
huge stately homes,
costumes adorned
with skulls and bones.

Masonic handshakes
get you into their halls,
where horrors unfold
amidst terrified calls.

And way down here
on the creaking boards,
another pawn is lost
to the bloodthirsty hoard.

Their veils are returned
as they cover the loss.

Another family bereft,
must recover the cost.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd march 2015.
Revised 2nd October 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Catwalk creations and cutting-edge designers will be turning the North East into a glamorous showcase this week to delight the most dedicated followers of fashion.

NE1’s Fashion Futures will make its debut at Baltic in Gateshead on the day that also sees student collections unveiled there in Northumbria University Graduate Fashion Show.

Wednesday marks the start of NE1’s two-day fashion-steeped extravaganza of shows, talks and panel discussions and the event, a first for the region, is attracting big names in the fashion world such as British Vogue editor Alexandra Shulman, top designer Henry Holland and home-grown designer-to-the-stars Scott Henshall.

It is born from local business champion NE1’s Newcastle Fashion Week which ran for four years.

The idea is to bring the best aspects of that together to shape a whole new-look affair which will culminate in a Fashion Front Row event on the Thursday evening.

As well as highlighting the mark the region has made on the fashion industry, with North East-trained designers on the guest list, the event promises a perfect opportunity for anyone keen to learn how to follow in their successful footsteps.

High profile brands Mercedes Benz of Newcastle and international footwear designer Terry de Havilland are sponsors of NE1’s Fashion Futures which is organised by marketing and events manager Sandra Tang.

She said: “The event and its contributors highlight the strength of the region’s fashion industry, will help us celebrate the city’s fashion academic heritage and hopefully encourage a new generation to enter the fashion industry.”

This year’s Northumbria University Graduate Fashion Show, called FASHION, will be held at Baltic during the first day and the catwalk show is set to attract buyers and industry figures from around the world.

Then Thursday will see the main programme of free Fashion Talks run from 1pm to 3pm, aimed at young people interested in a career in the fashion industry.

There will be plenty tips to be had from the likes of Henry Holland who is known for his eye-catching designs and fun style.

He will be in conversation with fashion journalist Laura Weir and giving an insight into his life as one of the UK’s leading fashion designers. He has dressed famous celebrities, won international acclaim for his collections and sold designs in glamorous outlets such as Liberty.

Alexandra Shulman will also take to the stage to talk about her own life and work and give advice to any aspiring designers as well as style journalists.

And there will be a panel discussion with fashion experts including former Northumbria University students Michelle Taylor, founder of luxury lingerie brand Tallulah Love; Charis Younger, a menswear designer at All Saints; and Kate Ablett, a senior designer at Berghaus.

Joining them will be Terry De Havilland’s managing director Darren Spurling.

That evening’s Fashion Front Row event - a popular feature of NE1’s former Newcastle Fashion Week - will then showcase the best of the North East designer talent.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

The stains upon the bar
tell of many sad tales
of love, loss and tragic lives;
and drink to drown out the wails.

Another washed out soul
seeks the solace of the glass,
to wash away the memory
of another broken pass.

Another wheeler-dealer,
another gambling god,
another weary player
bet his life upon the sod.

The rings around his eyes
mark the toll of tell tale signs,
the vacant stare, unshaven chin,
you read between the lines.

Just one more shot to dull the sting
of a life that’s breaking down,
another drink to hide the lines
of another washed out frown.

He staggers out
onto harsh lit streets,
head gently spinning
on unsteady feet.

He knows that it's near,
he can hear the call,
just over the road
and down past the mall.

Shuffling along
with an unsteady gait,
cell phone ringing,
who cares, it can wait.

Eyes now blind
behind stinging tears
but it's not enough
to allay his fears.

And there it is
in a hazy dream,
a small footbridge
over a lazy stream.

He grips the rails
with trembling hands,
there’s no point telling her,
she won't understand.

Then just for a moment
he catches a glimpse
in the soft flowing waters
and it makes him wince,
for the wretch that he sees
is not the man that he knows;
there’s a stranger staring back
from dark waters below.

With a shuddering sigh
and with tears streaming down,
he's leaning over;
feet leaving the ground.

For a moment he's flying,
so alive and so free,
he’s no longer afraid,
just a strange kind of glee.

He doesn't feel the water
as it closes overhead,
he doesn't feel the chill
for his soul has already fled.



Written by Darren Scanlon, 25th November 2013.
Revised 12th July 2015.
© 2013 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

(If Mother Earth could speak...)

I’m the first light of dawn setting fire to the skies,
the awe that ends with a soft, sated sigh.
I’m the slow, gentle sway of ancient, lofty trees,
branches of life filled with wonders to be.

I am sands and seas; a warm summer breeze
blowing soft, whispered tunes over ever-changing dunes.
I am stars in the heavens sailing high overhead,
the sun and the moon on their tireless threads.

I’m the love of life; the pulse your heart,
the strength of will in a lovers fine art.
I’m the beaming smile on the fearless face
of a victorious child at the end of a race.


“And what are they doing now...

Waves of hate
washing wasted fields,
decimating all
as they reap tainted yields.”


You’re the time and motion in an open frown,
a smirk beneath the paint of a terrified clown.
You’re the only solution to a worlds desperate cries,
swollen cheeks scarred by too many lies.

You’re a baby’s cry in a cold, stagnant pond;
all it could have been, had it lived much beyond
the cull of the clan or the whaler’s call,
so many lonely roads, at the back of every mall.

You are every grain of sand escaping clutching hands
of every grieving parent in war-torn lands,
carried aloft upon the jet-streams breath,
washed up on beaches that have seen too much death.


“And what are they doing now...

Can’t they see beyond
their selfish greed;
their lascivious needs?

Can’t they be stopped
before the frenzy grows
too fearsome to feed?”


I am the here and now since the dawning of time,
crying confusion at a wasted design.
The questioning gaze on so many tired faces,
a distant rumble felt beneath shallow graces.

I’m the giver of life, each equal to another,
taker of too many wasted sisters and brothers.
Another broken heart from a loss felt too soon,
a cold wretched cry from across a crowded room.

I am the heavens roar on a wild, stormy night,
torrential vengeance of a thunderhead’s might.
A raging wrath you don’t ever wish to wake,
I am nature’s grace that you choose to forsake.


“And what are they doing now...

Sending to the fields
of fruitless death,
their sacrificial sons
breathing borrowed breaths

Unleashing desolation
from way up high;
A tempest of hate-filled
and remorseless fires.”

I’m the molten rock spewing from natures wounds,
the ear-piercing shriek of her decimating winds.

I’m the Tsunami washing away the filth of your deeds,
the quaking earth to halt your murderous greed.

I’m the tornados teeth, tearing lives apart,
the landslide burying your empty hearts.

I’m the freezing avalanche covering all in its path,
the raging storm unleashing thunderous wrath.

I am the flood; the torrent; destroyer of all,
the deluge of death at the reapers call.


“And what are they doing now...

Beseeching the heavens
with open hands
in the wasted remnants
of once rich lands?”
                      


Written by Darren Scanlon, 31st December 2014
Revised 20th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Darren this is a poem IV wrote for you, to let you know everyone misses and wishers the best for you.



We know it’s not the best of times and you are allowed to cry, but don’t worry mate because everything will be alright. 



We love that smile your family and friends are there to hold you tight, and bring you cuddles all day and every night. 



Make sure this memory turns out to be something nice; we all wish the best for you if ever u needs to chat we always hear for you. 



As time passes by and minutes go by please don’t worry because everything will be alright.



Hope you get well soon just to let you know we always hear for you. 




Jidos Reality for Darren’s cancer charity 6.3.10

The Black Queen of
The Hacker Scene
Blood Goth Style
And Silent Screams

Her Coding Skills
Were yet Unseen
Many were 'pwned'
By her Data Schemes

'Til she tried to crack
The Encrytion on the
Pentagons firewall
It was Her Down Fall

She got the Option
Prison Time or
Work for them
Fighting this crime

She ended up meeting
Darren who was her
Carmel Candy Joy
Their chats dripped with Cloy

She started with the FBI BAU
Cracking info and Flirts with Darren
She tracked signals world wide
Till the IP was Enprisoned

Cracking Data to Criminal Minds
What ever they ask she can find
And she's anticipated like a digital
Reader of Minds, A Fashion Fatale'

Bright pink Pigtails and
Blue Cats Eyed Glasses
With Glitter Lashes
She's a Digital Data Diva


All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

To hold you up
if you start to fall
and fly to your side
whenever you call.

To hold you close
when dark closes in,
I’ll feed your heart
and beat from within.

To feel your warmth
and the glow of your smile,
when the clouds are parted
we can see for miles.

To hold your hand
through life's testing times,
to shield and protect
on those slippery climbs

And once the crest
has again been achieved,
to watch you sleep,
see you smile; be relieved.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 15th December 2013.
Revised 16th July 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com

Gaze into a persons eyes,
far beyond the mask
and wonder at the questions
that you’re too afraid to ask.

Gloriously gazing
into depths of deep emotion,
currents running deep
within a cool and placid ocean.

Dive into the loving soul
of one who gives their all
and marvel at the feelings
that are waiting for the call.

Deliberately diving
into strong rolling waves
risking all you have to give
for a lover, to save.

Drift along on the gentle flow
of loves deep warming spring,
exulting at the warm embrace
that begs your soul to sing.

Dreamily drifting
in waters that refresh
you feel its teasing touch
upon your warm and tender flesh.

Swim far out to distant pools
and reach the hearts horizon,
wells of clear compassion
and a strength that’s so surprising.

Sensuously swimming
and content for evermore,
at peace with the heart and soul
of the one that you adore.

...

Melt into a soul-mates sweet
and tender smiling eyes,
never again will you feel the need
to wonder how or why.

All you see within those pools,
is all you could desire,
together let your souls fly free
and set the breeze on fire.

Let your hearts set the rhythm,
beating beneath the sun,
as songs of love and joy ring out,
new life has just begun.



*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 23rd June 2014.
Revised 11th August 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Memories of old,
flooding fast through my mind,
some tinged with sadness
and some, sweet sublime.

A fireside reverie shared
with eyes so bright,
an audience of innocence
and excited delight.

The crackling logs  
on the fires of time,
the little rapt faces as
you feed them a line.

Of thunder, lightning,
and rain as we run!
Football, toy-fighting,
such laughter and fun.

Flying a kite that
you made on your own
out of bin bags and tape
and canes tied and bowed.

A dam in the brook,
fighting flowing water
with rocks, wood
and uncontrolled laughter.

Till finally plugged,
the waters rise
deeper and wider
before delighted eyes.

Then comes the challenge,
“Who can burst the dam?”
No touching allowed,
just throw what you can.

Bricks and sticks
and boulders and all,
sploshing and splashing
they uselessly fall.

But the water's still rising
and there's panic in our eyes,
it'll soon reach the road,
“Better run for our lives!”

But wait, what’s this,
could this do the trick?
As long as a gate post
and three times as thick.

We wrestle and heave
and drag it uphill,
pushing and pulling
and testing our will.

Till finally atop and
we let out a sigh,
this might just work,
“We'll give it a try”.

Straining and grunting
and chuckling with glee
as we swing it between us,
one...two...three!

With a whoosh and a crack
our dam is no more
as the post breaks its back
and we’re laughing on the floor.

Such innocent times,
that can still make me grin,
they live in the mind
of the sweet child within.



Written by Darren Scanlon, March 2011.
This revised version written, 17th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

My friend Terrence
was a little happy sole,
he didn't need a kennel,
nor a house or a hole.

His home was a shell
that he carried on his back,
so that all he had to do
was drop down on the track.

Then he'd pull his head inside,
followed by his legs and feet
and he’d look inside the fridge
for something tasty to eat.

If it started raining
or got too chilly cold,
his friends would run for shelter
beneath trees or in their holes.

But not our little friend,
because he'd climb inside his shell
and have a cup of tea
until the sun chased off the chill.

Wherever he did travel,
he would walk so nice and slow,
well there's no need to rush,
you might trip or stub your toe!

“And all the good things
come to those that wait”,
or so his mother told him
as he headed through the gate.

“If you’re rushing all the time
and your feet don’t want to stop
then you’ll end up getting dizzy
like a whizzing spinning top”.

His mother, how she loved him
and he loved her lots, right back
with her funny little sayings
she would help him stay on track.

So there my tale has ended,
for all you girls and boys,
and now you've met my little friend,
Terence the Tortoise.



*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 25th February 2014.
Revised, 30th August 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Trembling hands grasping bow,
Flowers laid on ground below,
Candles burnt and tears flow,
Balloons in hand, we let them go,

Glass remains amongst the tree,
Bark stripped back, in memory,
Stories shared for all to see,
High emotion, running free,

The sun descends in golden sky,
I feel your presence walking by,
Fading son caught my eye,
Waving back, he said Good bye.

By Darren Wall

In the deep dark woods
lived a great brown bear,
he was seven feet tall
but the townsfolk didn’t care
for although the bear was huge
and had fangs and long sharp claws,
all the people would make fun of him
and point out his big flaw.


Have you ever met a bear
who had nothing much to say,
who couldn’t even growl
when he came outside to play?
Well, Bob was his name
and no matter how he tried,
when he opened his big mouth
all he managed was a sigh.


Now in a nearby village
lived a little girl called Sal,
she liked the big old bear
and they’d grown to be good pals.
She was never afraid of Bob
for she loved him well and true,
she was sure he’d never hurt her,
he was gentle through and through.


“I going to stop them laughing”,
decided Sal one sunny day,
“They're no longer making fun
of my dear friend that way!”

So she came up with a plan
that was certain to succeed
and when the crowd arrived,
she sneaked up into a tree.


When poor old Bob stood up tall
and he raised his great big paws,
showing to all the people
he had long and dangerous claws,
little Sal gave the loudest roar
from the top of her tiny lungs
as he opened his enormous mouth
showing them fierce looking fangs.



The people jumped and screamed
and then ran for their dear lives,
falling over wooden fences
and some buzzing bee hives.
The bees came out and cried,
“What a terrible thing to do!”
and they chased them even further
with the threat of a sting or two.


Bob and Sal just laughed and laughed
as she dropped down from the tree

landing right upon his back,
how they giggled with such glee.
“I bet they'll all be hiding now
and wondering with a scowl,
where on earth did that silly bear
get his loud and fearsome growl?”


Sal gave Bob a last big hug
and bade her friend goodnight.
“Didn't we both give them
such a terrible old fright?
Lets do it again tomorrow
and watch them scream and run
from a poor old sighing bear,
who is really such good fun”.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 27th May 2014.
Revised 1st September 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

To feel her warm and gentle hand
upon your smiling face,
her tender loving caress is like
a sweet and soothing grace.

Teasing, as your fingers
trace a tantalizing trek
along her silken stockings
as you tenderly kiss her neck.

Gazing into enchanting eyes
so deep with dark desire,
whirling pools of life and lust,
dancing in dangerous fires.

A hint of honey on lips so full
and a warm and willing sigh,
a teasing tongue slips slowly across
crimson curves, daring to defy.

Inhaling her sweet
and succulent scent,
as she moans and leans in close,
so delicately sweet;
so soft and gentle,
a shimmering summer rose.

The susurrant sound
of her breathless voice
as she whispers into your ear,
her words so soft
and suggestively sweet,
yet unmistakably clear.

She rises slowly
and takes your hand
with a beckoning
tilt of her head,
leading you away
to the far off lands
waiting warmly
within her soft bed.

Wherever she leads
with her sultry smile,
you will willingly
welcome the chase,
just to feel her warmth
and wallow within
misty moments,
of a lovers embrace.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 1st March 2015.
Revised 25th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

She’s the one we could rely on
when things were sorely scarce,
to always find a way to get by
when it went from bad to worse.

She’s the one true matriarch,
the gel at the center of all,
never too far away from us;
never more than a call.

Sacrificing all she had,
for us, her flesh and blood,
always standing second place
to the family’s common good.

She’s the one who bore the pain
and then kept us safe and warm,
to make it through the cold and rain,
protecting us from harm.

She held our hands so tightly
through all the scary times;
our first days at nursery school,
stood in terrified lines.

And at the end of every day
when we'd really had enough,
she'd be stood at the door waiting
with a heart so full of love.

...

When illness struck
me down so hard;
laid up and oh, so low,

I had the comfort
of knowing she
would never let me go.

Yet on that long
and lonely night
so many years ago,

when deaths dark door
stood slightly ajar,
beckoning me to go,

my overriding memory;
much more than
my own fears,

was the lost and mournful sound
of her beseeching,
terrified tears.

...

As we go about our daily lives,
through times so thick and thin,
through pure and innocent laughter
and such pain from deep within.

From days of sunshine and flowers,
to wind and driving snow,
there is one thing sure and for certain;
one thing that we always know.

She is the bedrock of our lives
and the one above all others,
the one we can always turn to;
she’s our sweet and loving Mother.



Written by Darren Scanlon, May 2013.
Revised 4th August 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

If you see a distant star
in the evening sky
and you shiver from the chill night air,
yet you feel a warmth
in the depth of your heart,
then you know that I am still there.

When your tears have dried,
the bed has grown cold
and you're feeling lost and adrift,
when the days feel empty
and the nights far too long,
just remember, I gave you a gift.

A lifetime of memories
below a rainbow of love,
hearts like spring rain
as they fall from above,
to cover the ground
around your sweet feet,
a carpet of love;
every one a heartbeat.

For I promised you once,
long ago, far away,
that I would always be there,
never falter, never stray.

To my vow I hold firm
and we never shall part,
for I live deep within
every beat of your heart.



Written by Darren Scanlon, October 2013.
Revised 13th July 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved

Live every day like it was meant to be,
helping all those who want to be free.
Feel the warmth in a genuine smile,
a childish giggle can bridge the miles.

Surround everybody with happy ways,
bask in the heat of the suns warm rays.
A world of love and peace for all,
where we help the ones who trip and fall.

...

I may be a dreamer of fanciful sights
but dreams are better than childish fights.
“Mine’s better than yours”, “But mine is real”,
such childish pettiness in every deal.

Look at the world as it falls apart,
tearful eyes washing aching hearts.
Families decimated; children denied
the right to live at their parents side.

Its time to put away such childish days
and mend the scars left along the way,
see the world for what it could be,
a world of peace, where all are free.

Look at the smile on the face of a child
who no longer has to run and hide.
It'll warm your soul and melt your heart
and I cannot think of a better place to start.

Why do we fight, why do we hate,
why do we lock and defend a gate?
Why can't we live without all the pain,
just put it behind us; we're all the same?

My blood runs deep in fragile veins
but it’s red, just like yours; it's just the same!
Too priceless to be spilled on hot dusty streets,
congealed and dead under cold marching feet.

Life is so precious, regardless of creed,
we should focus on strife and genuine need,
it surrounds us all, wherever we go,
the dead and the dying on crumbling floors.

Look into your heart, beneath all the greed
and help each other so we can all succeed.
Life is for living, for love and for joy,
for everybody, be they girl and boy.

I, for one, am so sick and tired
of all the wars and funeral pyres.
It's time to grow up and open the gate,
welcome the friendship and throw out the hate.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 29th July 2014.
Revised 5th August 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

And the troops go marching proudly by
as she wipes a tear from her weary eyes,
the one that she seeks, she will never again hold
for he died at his post; he was thirty years old.

The colours fly high on a cool autumn breeze
as man and boy march with well practiced ease,
so glad to be home after being so brave,
with flags overhead and not covering their graves.

She can bare it no longer as tears start to flow
down pale damp cheeks as she sways to and fro,
too much of their blood spilled on foreign fields
at the whim of the tyrants and their deadly deals.

Friends hold her up with compassion and love
and so many look down from the heavens above,
surrounded by many who share in her grief
but the feelings yield little by way of relief.

§

And the troops go marching with heads held high,
ribbons on tunics for brave deeds gone by
but each feels the loss of their friends and their kin,
and trauma buried deep beneath a mask, now so thin.

They’ve experienced things that just shouldn’t be done,
in the name of freedom, down the barrel of a gun.
The memories will haunt them for the rest of their lives
as they try to return to their children and wives.

But in truth and reality, how can any return
to their previous lives after all they have learned,
no love and compassion; no laughter and smiles
can replace what was lost across many long miles.

They’ve all left behind their innocent souls,
dead and buried in deep desert holes,
leaving them drained and with aching hearts
for a love and a life that has been torn apart.

§

And the troops go marching so silently by
on streets lined with people; cheering and cries
but she turns her back on this painful parade,
wishing time could roll back and her son would be safe.

And there’s rage in her heart for the tyrants who sent
so many to their deaths; so much blood spilled and spent
as they cover their coffers; their spoils of war,
like ghouls in the shadows keeping count of their score.

Rubbing their hands and patting their backs
lying and cheating and covering their tracks.
Another quick round in their wretched games,
the dice from the dealer dishing out death and pain.

The survivors will never sleep soundly again
for the loss and the scars will always remain
The ghosts of their past, ever present and near,
taunting as they sink in depression and fear.

§

And the troops go marching so slowly by
some holding back, some with tears in their eyes
for the nightmare lives on in the world far and wide
where so many remain and so many have died.



*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 24th August 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.