My anger today is silent

It is beyond rage and ranting.

 

It is my fist through a door on the other side,

fractured but healing itself

 

It is the blasted walls of my room scattered around my feet,

And I’m standing in the Sun, still alive.

 

It is a closed door opened to find dead friends behind

their peaceful faces purple and putrid,

 

It is the darkness of a room in which I sleep and dream,

of lucid night flights to place’s never seen

 

It is absent weeks and months not knowing who I was,

Slowly opening my eyes, the bandages coming off.

 

It is answering questions offered by machines about my health,

Folding the blade shut, putting the glass down.

 

My anger today is in every single cell

So terrifying is its silence it becomes a living Hell.

 

He’s Marching now,

still marching now

 

Pants stained with piss

And bayonets fixed.

 

He’s Marching now

defences down,

 

A British Soldier

From Bandon Town.

 

Catheter split,

covenant broke,

 

From fearsome fighter

To sad old bloke.

 

Those Mau Mau bastards

are at the door,

 

Not scared of colonials

anymore.

 

Standing too for the evening news,

DMS boots now paper shoes.

 

No Ration packs, he gets to choose

Liquidised dinner laced with booze.

 

Came back home to drive a bus

raised four kids, made no fuss,

 

Never spoke of jungle fires,

Pulling nails, or necklace tyres.

 

But when the twilight touched his mind

it brought back what he’d left behind,

 

And his last stand was made alone

behind the lines in a British Care Home

 

 

 

Woven straw of string tied doll

hanging from a farmers post,

pin-pricked, spat on, cursed by all,

once a life, now more a Ghost

 

Fumbling’s of the foulest feast,

Whispered threats to Promise Keep.

These Woods belie a Darker Beast

And far to go before you sleep.

 

Touch the corn to feel the Pain

the Hearts that Beat here share no Tongue,

Though they’ll recall from whence you came

to tell it all, but just for fun

 

You are of Flesh and not the Grain

your Harvest spoiled was Salted Tears,

The Scythe that Swept will Cut again

that None be spared their Childhood Fears

We Gave Them Names

Absentia

Take an Axe to Mighty Tree,

With Metal-Head and Oaken Shaft

bring it low so all can see,

Natures force cut down by craft.

 

Diluted Power, Wielded Wrong,

Honed and Whittled, Skinned and Boned

Brings us back where we belong

The Savage Garden, lost, alone.