ASK MY KIDS

 

Then

The shrivelled and bed-ridden

haggish woman croaked her

groans of sour expletives;

each moan spit out its own invective

of her spent, invious life.

Later.

still wearing the cursed tirade

in my outraged mind’s

intravenous plasma,

I cursed and groaned

and spit out my bad-tempered invective

at the kids that bear my name.

God! is the old woman’s son

destined to grow like she;

or am I already too late?

Why not ask my kids?

For Gods sake, do not ask my wife!

 

Ashkey Cunnungham Booth

 

 

 

 

 

1000 MARBLES

~ author unknown

 

  The older I get, the more I enjoy Saturday mornings. Perhaps it's the quiet

  solitude that comes with being the first to rise, or maybe it's the unbounded joy

  of not having to be at work. Either way, the first few hours of a Saturday

  morning are most enjoyable.

 

  A few weeks ago, I was shuffling toward the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee

  in one hand and the morning paper in the other. What began as a typical Saturday

  morning turned into one of those lessons that life seems to hand you from time to

  time. Let me tell you about it.

 

  I turned the volume up on my radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning talk

  show. I heard an older sounding chap with a golden voice. You know the kind, he

  sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business

  himself.

 

  He was talking about "a thousand marbles" to someone named "Tom." I was intrigued

  and sat down to listen to what he had to say. "Well, Tom, it sure sounds like

  you're busy with your job. I'm sure they pay you well but it's a shame you have

  to be away from home and your family so much.

 

  Hard to believe a young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy hours a week

  to make ends meet. Too bad you missed your daughter's dance recital."

 

  He continued, "Let me tell you something Tom, something that has helped me keep a

  good perspective on my own priorities." And that's when he began to explain his

  theory of a "thousand marbles."

 

  "You see, I sat down one day and did a little arithmetic. The average person

  lives about seventy-five years. I know, some live more and some live less, but on

  average, folks live about seventy-five years."

 

  "Now then, I multiplied 75 times 52 and I came up with 3900 which is the number

  of Saturdays that the average person has in their entire lifetime.

 

  Now stick with me Tom, I'm getting to the important part." "It took me until I

  was fifty-five years old to -think about all this in any detail," he went on,

  "and by that time I had lived through over twenty-eight hundred Saturdays. I got

  to thinking that if I lived to be seventy-five, I only had about a thousand of

  them left to enjoy."

 

  "So I went to a toy store and bought every single marble they had. I ended up

  having to visit three toy stores to roundup 1000 marbles. I took them home and

  put them inside of a large, clear plastic container right here in my workshop

  next to the radio. Every Saturday since then, I have taken one marble out and

  thrown it away."

 

  "I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused more on the really

  important things in life. There is nothing like watching your time here on this

  earth run out to help get your priorities straight."

 

  "Now let me tell you one last thing before I sign-off with you and take my lovely

  wife out for breakfast. This morning, I took the very last marble out of the

  container. I figure if I make it until next Saturday then God has blessed me with

  a little extra time to be with my loved ones......

 

  "It was nice to talk to you Tom, I hope you spend more time with your loved ones,

  and I hope to meet you again someday. Have a good morning!"

 

  You could have heard a pin drop when he finished. Even the show's moderator

  didn't have anything to say for a few moments. I guess he gave us all a lot to

  think about. I had planned to do some work that morning, then go to the gym.

 

  Instead, I went upstairs and woke my wife up with a kiss. "C'mon honey, I'm

  taking you and the kids to breakfast."

 

  "What brought this on?" she asked with a smile.

 

  "Oh, nothing special," I said. " It has just been a long time since we spent a

  Saturday together with the kids. Hey, can we stop at a toy store while we're out?

  I need to buy some marbles."

 

  HAVE A GREAT WEEK AND MAY ALL YOUR SATURDAYS BE SPECIAL AND MAY YOU HAVE MANY

  HAPPY YEARS AFTER YOU LOSE ALL YOUR MARBLES.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A   MOTHER’S   PLEA  FOR  M£

 

When

death knocks at your door,

some say you’ll hear a mother’s frantic cry:

“Kill them, son, don’t let them ‘Gooks1 kill you!”

 And, if I heard ay mother’s cry,

what happened to her erstwhile passivist’s: “Peace at any price”?

   And I wonder why those Chinese lads never heard their mothers’ plea?

Or, was it simply that they could not hear above  my

mother’s frantic cry?

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

WOR SAJINT

Wor Geordie Sajint’s oft to Japan with a wounded Fusilier. He’s got hissel his small pack a slung across his rear.

They’ll not write about wor Sajint in Newcassell’s Evening News; becass the Fusilier’s bin wounded, but wor Sajint’s gonorrhoea!

Ashley Cunningham Booth

 

 

 

 

WHY DO THE INNOCENT SUFFER AND DIE? 

” For country and Queen”
Then joining their fellows in paradise
NO pain NO Evil.
WHY DO THE INNOCENT SUFFER AND DIE?

 Barbed wire, the threads of death
Still clinging onto it’s victims
Whistles and howls in the wind
Craters all around
Hide men who try
To cut loose the deformed bodies.
WHY DO THE INNOCENT SUFFER AND DIE?

The eerie light of flares
The deafening thump of the shells
And the continuous screams of the afflicted
Is this all real?
Or is it a nightmare?
WHY DO THE INNOCENT SUFFER AND DIE?

WHY?

 

BY SOL MIDDLETON

 

 

 

 

 

 

VICTIM

 

DEDICATED TO MY BROTHER JOHN

 

Reflective thoughts of Silver , Treasure island fun.

Lazing under palm trees,  beneath Pacific sun

But that was oh so long ago, amidst your happy youth.

Serving Queen and country; ignorant of truth.

 

Strangers come to play their games, cloaked in secret shrouds.

Pressing big red buttons, making mushroom clouds.

Comrades fly to east and west, your left to hold the fort,

Staying longer than the rest, you don't give it a thought.

 

You're older now and weaker, with sadness in your heart,

Memories of yesteryear tear your bones apart.

Stumbling on the stairway, body wracked with pain.

Never ending misery driving you insane.

 

Doctors stand by helpless, nothing can be done.

Tragedy remembered beneath that tropic sun.

Wishing it was over as tears well in your eye

You sit alone and quiet, hoping that you'll die.

 

By Pip Neal

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BRONZE AND THE CENOTAPH SOLDIER

The Bronzed, Herculean, Unknown Soldier seems unwearied by the years of resting on his ‘Arms Reversed’; head bowed in the Soldier’s universal hall-mark, when mourning comrades’ souls; growing not older for the years that I, and time, have passed by him; my slinging backward glances at all those yesterdays’ faces; khaki-coloured, from my youth, and once-upon-a-time, which he keeps inside his hollowed-bronze, that rests upon his Soldier’s ‘Arms Reversed1.

at the Cenotaph, a boy-child has his curiosity wet by the tears from my old Soldier’s eyes - he cannot see the reason why - and is mystified by my old man’s medals, which clang their unison to the silent lost-friends-memory-sobs.  Nor does the passing youth, who looks and sniggers and, like the boy-child, cannot figure. I pray the boy-chilo and the youth grow old, never to understand why this old man has a need to cross his Bridge of Awful memories and of Sighs: where under flows a Styx cram-full of memories and  good intentions... I swear, upon my Soldier’s ‘Arms Reversed1.

 

Ashley Cunningham Booth

 

 

 

 

THE MEAN STREAK

When,

in an uncontrollable fit of anger, I told the shrivelled and bed-ridden haggish woman, who croaks and groans, of the Dante’s misery of a living-hell that she had inflicted upon me - my being a soldier and afraid of the dark her outraged mind’s protest hurt more than wounds,.. more than the dark.

God, forgive my cruelty!

 

 

Ashley

 

 

 

TWO PLANES OF A PROFILE

Through my eyes lens, I looked deep into the near-blind artist’s eyes - past the pupil doorway -through the inner chamber and the posterior of the eye; along the optic nerve into his brain, until I saw reason and understanding, I had never seen before.

What is this madness, I wonder, that has driven a near-blind artist to give his eyes? Could it be the same madness that strives in me to understand what there is behind his eyes? And you, like me, who have no talent for such things: do you really see the artist’s soul brushed with each stroke onto his mind’s canvas?

Or do you look and see nothing, then simply say: “Quite nice.   What does he mean to say?” Returning to an obscure world of silhouettes, infilled with varying shades of grey.   And, when you place this poem down, what shade of charcoal have you for me... what will you say of me?

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remember not why

 

In my minds fitting out of time from historical event to historical event

Misjudge me not because I can’t forget the heaped horror of memories

No one sees behind my eyes

 

Should I appear in your distraction, to neglect the time I live in –

This time which history, tomorrow, will make have today

Condemn me not that I should seem to squander

All my thoughts on yesterday’s gaunt memories,

Which war has etched upon my mind

 

 

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘SOLACE‘
Their lips are moving and their eyes meet mine
I nod and smile a semblance sublime
The King Laughs so I laugh back
I yearn for emptiness off the beaten track
I’m forty now was nineteen then
From boys to soldiers from soldiers to men
Some judge some pity some laugh some hate
Some threaten me with God and the pearly gate
The left say killer the right say hero
I say ‘LEAVE ME‘ my tolerance zero
I walk through the forest then sit all alone
For a minute I feel peace away from human scorn
I watch a small bird with grass in its beak
It’s lands by my foot so beautiful but meek
It fluffs out it feathers and looks straight in my eye
Why can such innocence cause a grown man to cry?
I’m assaulted back to reality by two low flying planes

 

Curled up in a ball back at Fitzroy again
That minute of peace seemed more like an hour
I will cherish those seconds like a sin cleansing shower
The woods getting darker wind making trees moan
I feel cold but no fear in the dark all alone
As I trudge back to my car a bird chirps from the mist
A smile breaks my lips while clutching the grass in my fist.
Author ,

 

Tony McNally.
 

 

 

QUO FATA VOCANT: Where The Fates Call

Fate, what have you there for me, with the

Unexpired portion of my young soldier’s life? Oh, that you would cast - aye, by deception, if need must be -

A dark shadow upon my mind; intersect the trajectory of my Remaining life; dull the memories; blur the faces; into

Inconsequence these bleeding’ awful places!

Would that I, but once again, walk hand-in-hand with youth, and

Taste of its sweet innocence; relive those precious moments

Of discovery; no bleeding’ soldier-boots I’d wear.

No limbless husks, nor sightless eyes, of those once known,

In sandbags I would hide.

My feet through becks and woods would tread; there at my side, a

Wench in hand, and we’d discover what this war’s denied... All nature’s mysteries - no sergeant’s bark my innocence to chide.

Of this and that, I’d have my bit; of politicians, soldier-Sergeants, I’d not give a shit!

Who will repair war’s mutilation of my mind?

It’s not the same for him who dies!  Of him, old Khayylm Wrote: “...the flower that once has blown for ever dies”.

My curse, though, is that I cannot pluck the flowers of my friends

From the misery of my mind.

Will it ever end before my flower is also gone?

 

 

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE APOSTOLATE’S EYE

 

 

A shaft of horizontal sunlight beams through a window in the clouds;

Enters  my eyes, and glares with its apostolate’s eye

At the prison-pallor of my hermit-writer’s mind.

Screaming brightness echoes its reflection

from the whitewash walls of head’s inside,

And I can see the trophies of decades of expired exper­iences,

Hanging their withered carcasses on the coathooks of my mind.

Begone sunlight! Remind me not of youth’s memorabilia;

Of the two wars which have spewed their puke

Upon the Dorian Gray canvas of my mind.

Let  old memories lie! If you should look too long inside,

You will only disbelieve what, otherwise, I choose to hide.

 

Ashley Cunningham Booth

 

 

 

 

 

VALUTI IN SPECULUM: AS IN A MIRROR

I stared at the stranger’s face in the bedroom-wall mirror,

looking for the young man inside of me.

When I could not see him,

I asked the stranger there:

 

“Have you seen my youth?”

 

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO CAME RUNNING

Night had long since assassinated the dying day’s sun, entering me with its cold uncertainty. Yelling Reds, appearing white in the stage-lit fierce fluorescent-flares, brought with them an awful intent to fight: disregarding the machine-gun mad chatter of the tracers of our Vickers, which neon-pecked the coal-bagged darkness; tearing limbs off mothers’ sons. Like frantic marionettes, they danced death’s jerky choreography, as their quilted paddy-suits frenzied with the barb-wire of a wicked man’s invention.

Mines minced their limbs to stumps - like upside down pollard trees.  And those who reached the rusty wire made Bailey-bridges with their writhing forms for them behind, who’d missed the mines and the greedy Vickers’ reaped-share of the human harvest, like cut corn stalks, getting right up close to view our ‘Geordie’ mothers’ sons - eyeball to eyeball!

Crouched low, to miss the Vickers’ high fixed-lines - designed to take their heads off - two came running; their soft paddy-boots thumping hell out of the earth’s backside, in their haste to have our hides. Brrrp-brrrp, brrrp-brrrp, their Russian-styled ‘Burp’ guns belched lead in curved, undisciplined arcs, spitting at the parapet - like monsoon raindrops on bone-dry earth - sending dirt to blind the eyes.

By dawn’s pale light: my tossed grenade blew away his quilted soldier’s-coat, laying bare his thorax bones; my rifle’s bullet stopped the other, quite dead, just short of where we were; for I recall the distance in his dying eyes. No title do I make to what the old ‘sweats’ claim: you’ll vomit on their corpses in revulsion; feel shit running down your legs. Though, I do recall the sheer relief which dried my sweat and atrophied my balls!

 

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

 

RIFLE OIL

Oh that comforting smell of rifle oil
Cold metal against skin
Strength through superior firepower
Objective is to win
Advance to contact rounds firing a wall of steel
Dead mans click its bayonet time
Dear God this is for real
I stab at the flesh
Through fingers they grasp
Please die please die
How long can you last
Ammunition reload dive into next trench
The blood the cordite an ungodly stench
From whence came great noise

Now ears buzzing in silence
My brothers in arms
Unleashing just violence
This trench is now my home
My blood forever in soil
Clean rifle check map drink tea
Oh that comforting smell of rifle oil.

Why do they look at me that way?

Why do they look at me that way?
”He’s not all there”, I’ve heard them say
Leave me alone you faceless folk
To fight in war it ain’t no joke
I’ve lost my wife my job my friends
Was it all worth it ,that all depends
I don’t know why I feel this way
I took my oath I did obey
I killed because I was scared to die
By blowing those Sky hawks from the sky
Those retard bombs they drove us mad
They sent us on the Galahad
 

Sam Middleton

 

 

 

 

 

REPLY TO THE MAN IN THE MASK

So you’ve passed this first test, on the roadway of life,

And you think you’ve got it made in a way;

This is only the start, of your judgment on trust

Let’s see what the Man has to say.

 

He’s been sitting up there, for all of your years ,

Passing judgment on all down below;

He’s witnessed your pain, your suffering and tears,

But doesn’t allow you an easier go.

 

This is for you, the ultimate test,

Now that you look straight at the man in the glass;

You’ve judged yourself, in the way you think best,

 

 

Because you are the one you just asked.

 

You pleased yourself, paid no heed to the rest,

You jibed and indulged laissez faire,

You claim to have passed the most dangerous, difficult test,

A view the real man in the glass doesn’t share.

 

It’s now time for the tolling, of your final bell,

It’s not a question that failure might hurt.

It’s not even a question of heaven or hell,

But the thought he might leave you on Earth!

 

 

Allan Hutcheson

 

 

 

 

 

STOCKPORT

 

1.

My memories of Stockport

Of Stockport and its grime

Are memories of happy days

Before these days of crime.

When hopscotch, skipping and rounders

Played beneath the old gas lamps

Made winter evening so much fun

For the many little scamps.

2.

I loved old Stockport Market

And the penny black pudding man

With no extra charge for mustard

Spread on as thick as jam.

The cheeses in the inner hall

The flowers on the stalls

These are the things I shall never forget -

God knows I loved it all

3.

I remember the clogs and caps

The latter in fashion now

Also the puffs, the grunts and, groans

As we climbed up Huntsmans Brow

The bughouse called “The Brinks’way”

At the bottom of spying cop

Oh! happy days Oh! special days

I'm glad I haven’t forgot

4

School holidays were lots of fun

To Bramhall Brook we’d hike

And those amongst us better off

Would ride there on their bikes

To take a swim and drink cold tea

To us seemed just like heaven

We were always so reluctant

To leave for home at seven

5.

Mr Pearson's fund provided kids

With an outing for the day

Your name and address tied on your

coat in case you went astray

Then the Sunday School outing

The races, there were many

To win a race and a lovely prize

All for just a penny

6.

I went to Chapel often

To learn about my maker

And also because my best friend’s dad

Was then the Church Caretaker

My friend she really had to go

It was the proper thing to do

So I went along for company

And to join in the singing too.

7.

Our Sunday School Anniversary

Was something I loved dearly

To sing a solo from the choir

Loud and sweet and clearly

My dress bought from a jumble sale

Well washed and neatly pressed

My friends quite smart in new ones

But no one ever guessed

8.

Now that I am growing old.

l'd love to go back home

To see the many changes there

It’s streets and parks to roam

To see the dirty Mersey

And visit Lyme Park Hall

Who knows perhaps,perchance

I’d get invited to a ball

9

Stockport isn’t beautiful

But the people there are gems

Their swearing; and their friendly ways

From the working classes stems

I’m proud to have been born there

Yet I have one great sorrow

That I can’t turn the clock to yesteryear

Only forward to tomorrow

 

 

 

 

Spirit that will never fade

 

        A World War I ballad holds that old soldiers never die, they only fade   away.

One old soldier faded out of my life last week but his memory will never die..

 

He left the army with a major’s crown upon his shoulder but, If asked what he should be

 

remembered as, he would have toyed with the description “reporter” but probably settled for

 

‘soldier’. For he thought a soldier with the finest mark of humanity,

 

A man who could be trusted and relied upon to turn his hand to any trade, any craft. We disagreed

 

, and would disagree into eternity, but what made him special was the white-hot experience of

 

captivity In Japanese hands during World War II.

 

He was one of the 87,000 taken prisoner when Singapore fell and who suffered years of brutality and privation.

 

He and his mates suffered terribly, but they brought back, along with their memories, something Indefinable that has enriched this country

 

They were a special breed, tempered in a cataclysmic event that reshaped our perceptions of the

 

world, in some ways even more than the tragedy of that first world war .

 

If you know an old POW, treasure the experience.

 

Experience made them tough; survival made them giants; compassion and mate ship made them

 

imperishable.

 

 

 

 

 

The Blind Transvestite

The white cane gave away the blindness,

and because of it, one saw the lacking-care of a seeing-

woman’s subtle touch, inviting its attention of our minds.

Sympathy grew out of it, and for the hush-puppy shoes, too small, and the wrinkled nylon stockings’ failure to disguise the coarse hair of her limbs.

A mishap of a frock, which did not fit, ridiculed her form; and her wig, an understandable attempt at tidiness, failed. Dark glasses obscured eyes that had no light in them, concealing from the world’s cruel curiosity... though God knows why!

At the pavement edge, she turned, and the five o’clock shadow on the chin mocked the erstwhile seeing eyes’ attempt at femininity; making a nightmare of it all.

I ask myself: does he wear the clothes convention will not have him in for us to gorge our minds in protest, because of what we see?

Or, is he not the coward that they’ve never let me be? His blindness touching not the fear we feel of the Harlequin’s love of a fantasied Columbine’s clothes; or is he simply a blind transvestite struggling for his normality in the dark?

I wish he’d let me look into his mind!

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BOY AND THE MAN

 

As a boy:

I saw God’s face in every sunbeam,And in every drop of rain.

 

I could find Him in the rainbow -Where it begins and ends.

 

I saw Him in the seasons,And in the face of every flower.

 

I found Him where one shouldn’t be:In each forbidden place:

 

I couldFind Him at the gasworks, byMucky becks or in a chase.

 

I could see Him when kicking footballs; and in each friend’s scruffy face.

 

If you look, you’ll find His work on Pillowslips, sleeping angels on the lace.

 

As a man: I grew up and lost Him, In all those foreign lands,

 

Where I’d been sent, playing soldiers, Marching with the bands.

 

Elite, I played their game for real, In Hell - Korea - a God-forsaken land! Where God became a

 

Buddha - Mighty Mahmud Allah-breathing - strange!

 

I thought that He’d forsaken me, As I buried one more friend, So I locked him in a room

 

which Had no light - like my mother did -In a dark room in my mind.

 

Ashley Cunningham Booth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE KINGS SHILLING

 

 

 

For king and country we took his shilling

We were young eager and most willing

Oblivious to what lay ahead

Where marching feet will weary tread

Our comrades joked and sailed with pride

To embark to countries far and wide

A soldierslot is full of woe

In foreign lands fighting foreign foe

Orders from the high command

No retreat but fight and stand

The brave and timid fought as one

All likely targets for the gun

With bayonets drawn seems so unjust

To take anothrs life with jabbing thrust

Seems such a waste and such a loss

A metal helmet hung on a wooden cross

 

 

 

 

 

THE MAN IN THE GLASS

 

 

When you get what you want in your struggle for self,

And the world makes you king for a day.

Just go to the mirror and look at yourself,

And see what that man has to say.

 

For it isn’t your father or mother or wife,

Who judgment upon you must pass;

The fellow who’s verdict counts most in your life,

Is the one staring back from the glass.

 

Some people may think you’re a straight shooting chum,

And see what that man has to say;

But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum,

If you can’t look him straight in the eye.

 

He’s the fellow to please, never mind all the rest,

For he’s with you clear to the end;

And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test,

If the man in the glass is your friend.

 

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years,

And get pats on the back as you pass;

But the final reward will be heartache and tears,

If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.

 

Author unknown………

 

 

 

 

TOMMY ATKINS

God bless Tommy Atkins for taking the Kings shilling
He fought the Hun and did not run in the midst of all the killing
God Bless Tommy Atkins for his service in Korea
Against the Chinese hordes his bravery awards did not dispel his fear
God bless Tommy Atkins for service in the Suez canal
Government sent him there then they ran scared
Lost his leg got no medal lost his pal
God bless Tommy Atkins for service in Northern Ireland
In the Emerald Isle he saw humanity defiled
Through the bombing and killing he kept smiling
God bless Tommy Atkins in the liberation of Kuwait
He took his posionous jabs saw the burnt Arabs
Now he limps with an awakward gait
God bless Tommy Atkins for protecting the Balkan muslims
Instead of counting sheep sees dead babies in his sleep
With Croat skeletons in Chetnic prisons
God bless Tommy Atkins in his war against the Taliban
This war is just cause to stop Anthrax spores
In a hellhole called Afghanistan.

Author Tony McNally.

 

 

 

 

 

THE OLD MAN’S HAT

The young soldier screamed inside himself for time to rush to get the battle done,

then with this pen record his mind’s torment of that awful time’s event.

Time obeyed: studiis et rebus honestis: in honourable pursuits and studies.

Thus, when it stopped - just as the battle had -for him to write of War’s experience,

three decades of time’s passengers disembarked.

The Soldier rushed to pen his words of War as though time had, for him, stood still.

When he finished writing, he looked into Life’s reflections and cried - for time had cheated him and travelled too fast;

leaving 3 young man’s memories under an old man’s hat.

 

Ashley

 

 

 

 

 

TOO LATE, TOO LATE

 

The optimist pulled at his sagging waist line;

pushed out his concaved chest;

groomed his non-existent hair;

and flashed the procelain teeth

he had acquired in a dentist’s chair.

 

The pretty young thing,

new to the office,

reciprocated with the beaming smile

of her beguiling innocence;

she, not yet wise to the hazards

of such a smile to a man past his youth.

He, consolidating on his unbelieving luck,

put out his hand to touch,

and the first sign of alarm disapproved

through the young girl’s smile.

The youth who had flashed his smile

through the Dorian Gray of my ageing face

cried at the rebuttal,

and I could hear the sound

of his Narcissus tears inside of me,

splashing on the sidewalk by my memory’s pool.

 

Ashley

 

 

 

TOO LONG DID I STARE AT THE NIGHT

Too long did I stare at the Night’s Tattered blanket, with its holes, Through which the stars eyed us; Keeping out the Dawn’s enfilade of Night’s black dominance.

And when I thought that Dawn had made it... (God! I hate the dense, dark Wholeness that Night is; Stars or no stars!)

...obscene, orange flares punched Holes in the blanket’s black; Splintered steel - that mortars Make - disembowelled the quiet!

As Dawn’s discolouration slit a grin

In the big black Night’s belly, I

Heard the Night’s pained protest roar;

And the anguished cries of wounded Fusiliers.

 

Ashley Cunningham Booth

 

 

 

 

THE SANCTUS BELL

 

I have seen their postulated flesh,

From wounds; heard death’s cry;

Harked the padre’s Sanctus-bell,

When death conscripted them as

Human dung-heaps for the flies.

In Hell, what happens to the medals?

And the glory and the pride?

Will the Devil let us keep them bright?

In the deep, dark hole, I chide.

 

Ashley

 

 

 

The screams of the dying

 

The screams of the dying, twisted metal shards
A floating burning hell of dead Welsh Guards
I did not cry for them that day
Why do they look at me that way?
My brain recorded events for me
I seem to torture myself with glee
In the capital Stanley we drank ourselves sober
The Sergeant Major said “The party is over.”
They sent us back to our home shore
Amongst our families we were still fighting our own war
It’s nearly twenty years since we won the day
Those painful memories just wont go away
I love my Country and my brothers in arms
On November the 11th I’ll sing hymns

 

 

Then:

 

in the Valley of Tophet or Hinnon,

near the Sacred City of Jerusalem,

Simon, the poet, was called upon to offer up

his only son, Matthew, in sacrifice to Moloch.

By the city’s refuse dump -where children were burnt with the rubbish, in ofference to the Phoenician deity, Moloch -Simon offered his greatest gift, the poetry in his mind, in exchange for Matthew, Eunice’s son.

Moloch wanted Matthew, not his father’s poetry. Simon took home his son’s ashes and gave them to his wife, Eunice, who wept and wept, and washed away the poetry in Simon’s mind; that’s why you never read of it, there’s none for you to find.

 

Now:

Reflected in the pupils of my childrens’ eyes was an oaf, like Moloch, who bawled his diatribe: “Shut up!  Be off!  Do be quiet!”

Looking out at me from the bathroom mirror, where Moloch had taken his shame into refuge, was the face of an insensitive oaf. I knew him well, he called himself a poet.

Gift-wrapped in the mirror’s silver, he looked in need of a Halcyon nest to have his poetry in. Had he lived in the biblical Valley of Tophet or Hinnon, would he have sacrificed his poetry for his sons - Matthew and Simon?

 

Ashley