The blighted leaf will fall the same
to lay beneath from where it came
and those alike that shared its name
no longer shall its sickness shame
All glory whether green or gold
lives but short span the truth be told
and losing purchase on its hold
becomes as mulch in Gaia’s fold
© Wolfgar 2019
I lay awake above the lock
where natures forces stall
and in its starlit mirrored top
there spied reflections of us all
The surface clear the faces proud
above the murk beneath the mask
this new purview all sight allowed
all laid before and all things past
Then with the dawn the sluices vent
my visions flow to wilder Seas
the moment passed my memories spent
and all the words I have are these
© Wolfgar 2019
On the 14th line of this poem I use the derogatory term “coons” it is without context an offensive term which I would never use personally or sanction the use of by anyone else.
When taken in context this is the ranting of an ex-serviceman blighted by PTSD and Dementia. I would argue that it is relevant and appropriate in this setting/context as it highlights a disturbed mind.
It represents the deliberate discriminatory degradation of human beings by other human beings and the subsequent less discriminatory degradation of humans by the horrors of dementia.
I was requested to moderate this work on the website writeoutloud.net
In the context of maintaining realism and to portray life as it is/was I refused to do so.
As a result I was suspended from the site and am awaiting a decision on whether I will receive an outright ban.
Should we redline Spielberg’s scripts, sterilise reality? We do victims no service when we fail to represent the disgusting treatment they endured, that is what I am attempting to disclose here, the degradation of us all.
Additionally I have posted links to informative documentary evidence of the circumstances regarding the oppression and mistreatment of Kenyans during that period of history.
He’s marching now,
he is marching now,
Pants full of piss
bayonets fixed.
He’s marching now,
squeezing the carers tits.
Catheter wrenched out
to a Sergeant Majors shout,
those Mau Mau bastards
burn them out
Came home to fuck all
pissed his wages against the wall.
“Fucking England, fucking Dragoons,
fucking jungle, fucking coons”
The Postman scared to come to the door
the letterbox a view to war
He’s marching now at eighty two
he gave his youth and mind for you
I am quoting in this piece, I do not subscribe to my father in laws attitudes.
As for the conflict against the Mau Mau much has been aimed at the Brits which has detracted from the savagery of the Mau Mau, not that savagery of one side excuses that of the other.
I’m not sure if this is more about him then or him now, which is a sorrier state of affairs? You choose. He was a young man doing horrible things, he is now an old mad man haunted by horrors, suffering dementia and quite probably undiagnosed PTSD.
On point of correction here which reveals some poetic license, the unit my father in law served with was the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers not the Dragoon Guards..his son later went on to serve in the Royal Irish Rangers.
Darkling the blood did flow
further from the beating heart,
as magma turns to stone.
Black as ashen clouds cast up from hell,
fiery rained the molten spears
that on the vermin humans fell.
Some petrified and foetal curled,
at last embraced in death
their world
and no new dawn awaited there,
where earth and void
did darkness share.
© Wolfgar 2019
Ducking into église saint-roch I shake off the demons,
Safe in here surrounded by stony Angels and dead mens bones.
The doorway its own station of the cross, cardboard lined and disinfected.
The confessional silently awaits my truth, and wait it shall.
Joan of Arc brandishes her fire forged anger, she, raised on a plinth of
invisible prayer,
I diminish before her, a Saint that burned so well so pure in flame.
And then there is Jesus there is always Jesus, born bloody from the womb to calvary.
A sunburst of cherubs adorns the scene, yet in the shadows still the crown of thorns.
I fumble a candle alight with fingers cut from whisky glass and the thighs of whores,
Forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord, I am not yours, I am not yours.
And the Street still waits, beyond the grasp of glory gapes its welcome jaws,
through the wastrels fumes falling back to earth, I am yours I’m always yours.
© Wolfgar 2019