we make the noise

we make the noise. pic

 

a marquee on the lawn in bright autumn sunshine

gathers into its celebratory space a host of opinionated people

the squeezed earth a silent witness to this intrusion

where gossip and mirth are part of the fairytale

on these occasions we must bless one another and bask

in the shared luxury of a gilded cage

but a shadow is cast, drawn like a membrane

that renders ghostly figures to dance on canvas

like puppets and marionettes in fields of smoke

whose backdrop in truth is rubble and ruin

the desolation of being lost on one’s own soil

and being hated for simply surviving

so my thoughts meander as I smile in this cocoon

unsettled on behalf of defenceless souls in war zones

as all around me lips pucker with effrontery at the injustice

they perceive in their gilded orbits

of barriers to carefree lives

Bully Boys Brag

Bully Boys Brag

All of it, the wished for song

of air squeezed and compressed to utter

chants. Those tribal, primal, screams

that seek to possess

to claim victory

and leave an image, a semblance

of superiority like musk on a jungle trail

or the laments of survivors over

their dead

Those chosen ones who somehow contrive

to vacuum the air of remorse

as they swell in their putrid vanity.

Those purely muscled men strike poses

and raise flags over a smoking wasteland

claiming victory

already succumbing to inertia

Their fat arses on a bed of hungry weeds

feeding that strident song

it’s notes looping away on collapsing thermals

of bravado

in the laying down of new mown history

uncertain in its fledgling state

The stench of power

The “justified” abuse contrives

to be respectable

whilst the losers scrape to find

some solace in whispered prayers

Those Random Fields

Those Random Fields

Those random fields

 

The poppies. Luscious red on stalks

In patches. Risen because memory

And a reservoir of love

Deeply held, compels us to plant

The seeds of future hope

And to mark with a beautiful stain

Acknowledgement of desperate human wrongs

That random beauty

From guerrilla planting

We savages come across

And see a whisper

A visual clue

That one hundred years ago

The moans of men

Are not forgotten in soil

Where red remembers

Passion spent

Where sentries speak

That whispered lament

So. Softly go.