defunct soldier

Defunct Soldier

When I met him he was an homeless old soldier, one who has fought

every war in the last hundred years, cannon, fodder for big business

and those who say that our society needs to be saved from migrants.

 The last war he fought was in Fallujah this time he was an American

soldier who believed in the righteousness of his mission, only to find

when he came home and demobbed, he was alone in a world that

took no interest in his war of freedom.

Undeterred he went to Afghanistan and fought there, another war that

had no meaning other than keeping licensed warriors in employment.

The common soldier is forty and never rose above the rank of sergeant,

old soldiers are not officer material, they just go on fighting were they

are sent, and sadly since the world War Two there has not been a honest

war, but that is not the concern of the nameless soldier who every year

 in Paris, we put flowers on his grave.

neophyte

Neophyte

What can I say the pot plants in the yard are fed tiny rain drops

saintly tears of a girl rejected by the abbess to join the order

because she detect a wild sensual abandonment behind eyes that,

 at first glance, are mirrors of chastity.

The abbess knows the young girl is not seeking god rather she seeks

shelter from the raving craving of her body, the relentless dreams

so alive she  feels the weight of her fantasy lover´s alabaster body,

a young priest at the local church.

 Sacrifices, in god´s name is always demanded by religious orders,

and mother superior has a quota to fill, but she is not looking for

troubles She needs compliant novices, Indian girls from the slum

who will forever thank god for escaping Calcutta´s poverty. They

will be slaves of Jesus and married to him, clean his underwear

endure ignominy for three square meals and a bunk bed to sleep in. 

slave mentality

Slave Mentality

I had a dog for twelve years, a friendly dog it loved me it was a slave,

had to, in order to be accepted in human society, suppress its instinct.

Nature is a hard place fight for food is endless; canines found it easier

to make a pact with the man; give up their freedom for a can of dog food.

Often, by insecure people, slaves are spoilt allowed to be indoors sleep

on the sofa and made to think they are the masters of the household.

Wrong, dogs are slave to be anything else puzzle them, they want you

to be the leader and as they make you love their fidelity.

Slaves defy their masters in subtlest ways, my dog slept on the sofa when

I had gone to bed. Big corporations are our masters tell us what we like and

dislike; we comply, it is the easiest way not to be critical of the employers

the hand that holds the nine tailed cat. We get our trivial revenge stealing

a little free time when we can.  After all democracy on an empty stomach is

 not worth fighting for; freedom is our masters’ grand illusion. 

 

a winter tale

A Winter Tale

I was going out driving to the shops and buy food, switched off indoors lamps,

only the grey winter light came in, and the living room looked like the depth of

a severe depression, the moment when you check your gun and sigh because it

is not loaded, and you will live a day longer.

I left the heater on low switched on a couple of side lights this gave the room

a cosy feeling. The room luxuriating in its own slightly seedy look, used furniture,

settee, chairs and a books shelve that is a picture of literary disorganisation.

It was raining outside I looked into my own room, had not drawn the curtains,

the room looked inviting and thought why should it have the privileges of  

slow lifestyles while had to buy firewood and keep the room warm.

I was standing there, a foundling looking into a rich man´s house Christmas Eve,

with only a box of matches that, only paedophiles would buy. I need no newspaper,

joined my room switched on the TV, together we enjoyed a comfy winter evening,

that had the romance of apple strudel and Grimm`s fairytales. 

virtual children

Passchendaele

Passchendaele

Morning mist hung over the front line like a dirge,

as far as one could see the landscape was gray as

a German infanterist´s uniform and the few trees

left standing had been hit by shrapnel a thousand

times. Lead heavy stillness no bird flew across this

corner of carnage, but the soldiers had gone and

the dead had been carried away. Farmers moved in-

sons of the land- ploughed fields of sudden death,

 and planted seeds. And the soil, rich by the blood

of unknown soldiers, exploded in many hues of green.

 Few traces of war left, except for trenches crossing

here and there, but they were a good place for rain

run off when earth got soaked and a place for hares

to hid from the farmer´s shotgun. 

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