A thousand faces

Wisley December 2019 2

These eye’s now laid on natures wings
have seen the sum of hateful things,
enough that English Winter Skies
as Pale as death cannot disguise

the salty sorrow in a tear,
encroaching nightmares ever near.
An empty voice shocked free from words
which when it speaks is never heard.

Yet by the River from the hide
I saw a bird and almost cried,
as through its feathered curtain shone
a thousand faces dead and gone.

© Wolfgar 2019

When Nothing is news – News is nothing

White Phosphorus Barbecues
Burn Bone Deep against Azure Blues.
When Nothing is news

In the Belly of A Whale
Fester The Remnants of last January’s Sale.
When Nothing is news

In the back of A Truck
39 Futures come Unstuck.
When Nothing is news

In The Palaces of Kings
Likes and Tweets are Trumpeted by Thumbs and Pings.
When Nothing is news

In Civil Society
The Bar-Room Chatter is of Impropriety.
When Nothing is news

In A Students Room
The Book of Life Closes too Soon,
When Nothing is news.

In The Stairwells of High-Rises
Steel Blades Stab with no Surprises.
When Nothing is news

In The Unreachable Corners of A Mind
Rot The Don’t Give a Fucks of The Blissfully Blind.

When Nothing is news

© Wolfgar 2019



Dissolve apathy in The Seven Seas,
Terraform the Planet put re-Creation in the Breeze.

Apply lotion to The Plants and Trees,
Rehydrate The Glaciers and halt The Desert please.

Discuss in open forum the conflict of all Beasts,
That none be less or more than them, let exploitation cease.

Serenade our Group Psychosis and Soothe Delusions Pain,
that we awake to realise the place from which we came.

©Wolfgar 2019



The mind that strums pure chords from trees
that sets them tumbling on a breeze,
or plucks the seasons fresh from frets
to paint sweet tunes of no regrets,

is seldom seen in winter fields
where sunlights giving warmth oft yields,
where barren turns the empty soil
where springtime chutes wither and spoil.

Yet in such bleak and darkened days
somewhere the Summer Skylark plays,
and in echoes from the seasons gone
we hear our futures hopeful song,

then in reprise our souls unfold
to make us young, to feel less old,
and though a year has once more turned
there is less forgot than to be learned.

© Wolfgar 2019

Airport Circle Kabul

beggar kabul

Viewing the world through Inch thick glass,
the traffic chokes to a halt.
A veiled shadow holds a face to the window.

Its gaze encrusted with disappointment
eyes as pale as a moonlit desert,
We stare at each other from our different worlds

I silently mouth sorry
whilst thumbing my passports pages,
The Child Spirit sees me whole.

Frozen for the longest moment
in a humming steel cocoon,
I watch the wagons circle, vulturesque.

A hand-print is smeared on the window
I touch it before walking to the terminal,
less than the span of my palm or the fold of a Dollar bill.

Ascending through dust and cloud I curse the City,
Roads spinning out from the Circle below, the people are no longer real.
The Dubai lounge is first class cool just my Duty free and me.

© Wolfgar 2019

Here Is


“Listen you fuckers you screw-heads you cunts”

He never talks so no need to ask them to listen
He used to talk

He builds his strength so he can destroy
He used to protect

He thinks and reads so he can express himself
He used to write

He looks at beautiful things to avoid the horror
He used to keep an open mind

He embraces a religion which he despises
He used to fear his damnation

He has knuckle dusters in his glove compartment
He used to bestow benefit on doubters

He sang his babies to sleep and raged against wrong
He curses children and cracks dull skulls

Here is what you made him
before you
Here is what you wanted from him
Here Is
Here Is
Here Is

© Wolfgar 2019

Poetry people


The meeter and greeter
whose patter gets sweeter
whilst extending a sheltering arm,
to the nubile doe-eyed self incompleter
he’s like daddy minus the charm.

The halfwitted trojan horse clown
scribbles recklessly getting it down,
and though the words in his head
have already been said
he’s convinced he’s the new Ezra Pound.

The political ranters
finger their chanters
while reeling the dancers a tune,
the revellers will tap and skip to their crap
as if tides to a dictating moon.

The front line reporter the dutiful scribe
no opinion his own behind others he’ll hide,
he’ll travel the length and breadth of the land
making notes on events
he can’t understand.

The crab like page crawler
safe under his rock
awaiting the low hanging fruit,
skitters cross pages in clumsy veiled rages
his default much less than astute.

The cast out outsider
scrawls drunkenly silent
his passivity strangled, choked into violence,
he’s lost all his rhythm he’s radicalised
Joyfully driven to be so despised.

© Wolfgar 2019

I see the changes


Fly Amanita’s are tempting the Cedars,
their red-bonnets beckon like poisoned Sonnets.

Chestnuts crackle underfoot
a smoking pyre refuses to flame,
stoked and stacked the leaves stay put
their golden death embalmed by rain.

My footsteps follow on Autumns path
though somehow it is I in shadow,
there is poison and there is life renewed
with every step inspired, imbued.

© Wolfgar 2019

Fatal blow


Down where the Land defers to the Sea
like the edge of an offered blade,
a channelled ocean flows harnessed yet free
through trenches millennia made.

At the pool of my blood I’m cut to the bone
fractured cliffs rise up to defend,
my heart echoes through chambers forever alone
with a pulse that no steel could end.

Your love is a sword that rusts in the tides
thrust too deep to ever withdraw,
like the Myth of a King who drew it but once
to find himself ever at war.

© Wolfgar 2019



what black hearts grown in

deplete the dosage
invite psychosis

receptors confused
not broken, contused

bruises of purple and blue
flower only when they’ve wounded you

repeat prescription, repeat prescription
my GP speaks in robot diction

We pass from being into having been
pharmaceutically silenced, conveniently unseen

© Wolfgar 2019

Seeds (within every seed there exists its own demise)


The shadowed trench half lit by a shredded moon slowly swallows the remains of men. What hasn’t been tossed to the rear vanishes in mud disappearing for decades, awaiting some distant spring.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere rats are eating something indefinable, elsewhere far behind the slaughter a stonemason crafts a memorial for an empty grave, his chisel the cruel liar to a hollow casket.

The draw of a cigarette reddens a pale face which glows but doesn’t live, cupped in a clawed hand the burning leaf warms a palm that will never cross a new born brow. Exhaled breathless smoke abandons hope with a sigh.

And yet from this desolation comes the future of men, in words and clay and from the colour of all things living, and love, from this black night comes love and light and wisdom from the learning. For in all things there are seeds that will not die.


What nourishes the dormant seed?

Nothing is permitted until the time of natures choosing. Lying in the coffined earth an expanse of life and time gestates, a burst of blooming summers restrained. The cycle of seasons waits patiently for its moment to crack the husk, to reveal itself to the beckoning light.

This then, like the recovery of men from war cannot be predicted or governed. For each man in his contradictory polarity tumbles through his inner space, oblivious to the balance he must attract that will repel him just enough to stabilise the falling. Equilibrium must exist in all things for all things to exist with meaning.

And then slowly reaching, forcing itself toward light and warmth, even the warmth of rain a shoot might break the ground. It will make a sound and hear a sound and know it is alive, other things will act on it and it on other things until there is recognition between them, a balance.

The nourishment can begin.


Before the desire for knowledge is ever realised there is the necessity for it, the need for basic exchanges between the building blocks of life. The tentacles of will to survive reach toward the Sun, this like a form of automated worship never requiring Priests or Pulpits.

Not a call to Prayer but a call to live, a call to live free from the corruptions of false Gods and false prophets, to live pure and clean under the one all powerful entity which gives life to every living thing, without prejudice.

Does this creator demand our obedience? Every embryonic tide releases echoes endlessly washing through all that lives. We take its power and turn it against itself, unknowingly recycling entropy like vengeful angels smashing altars with bolts of lightening. And so we burn our flightless imaginations and tether ourselves to conformity.

As the unrelenting power moves our planet ever onward it cares not whether things live or die, are good or bad, it promises nothing and asks nothing. This is the one true source of everything we know and it demands nothing because it is everything.

With what little power we have we emanate destruction.

We make spaces in the ground to lay our used up carcasses in, the earth takes us back. We are recyclable, ungrateful particles of ancient stars that no longer shed light, instead we rage with resentments only known by those who have forgotten where they came from, an unanchored chaos engulfing everything within its orbit.

Expanding ever outward

© Wolfgar 2019

We gave them names


On roads between the tribal territories we would stop
to hide amongst the green of things,
some lads would smoke and some be silent.

We talked to horses and forgot our lives,
most often the stillness would calm us.
From hidden hillsides we’d watch our enemies move.

We gave the horses names and fed them apples,
they became our friends they listened to our confessions.
They were not aligned to flags or kerbstone colours.

The radio static broke the spell like lightening strikes,
the rains would wash us back to streets
where our calmness would evaporate to hate.

On the Derriaghy Road between the hell of sink estates
we harassed joyriders and freedom fighters,
terrorists and lovers too, the green and gold, red white and blue.

We gave them names and labels from folklore, rhymes and fables
just like the horses in the stables
we gave them names.

We fed their hungry bitter souls with reason and with cause,
we never thought we might be wrong
when kicking down their doors.

We gave them names in a language laced with spite
we cursed our enemies so, to make our cause seem right
We gave them names.

And when I hear those names again, spoken, spat and screamed
I think of friendly horses
and wish the rest was just a dream

© Wolfgar 2019

WoL Response

This comment was recently obliterated from a writeoutloud.net discussion board by the moderator Graham Sherwood. It had been posted by Martin Brenchley on behalf of David Moore, not infringing any site rules current at that time. It was taken down as it asked several questions writeoutloud.net repeatedly failed to address. The root of this discussion was the obliterating of David Moores account due to the alleged offensive nature of his poem “War criminal” that decision although final In writeoutloud.net opinion is still contested, and not forgotten.

A few days have passed since the previous comments on this thread allowing time for reflection and a welcome break.

I was going to walk away, but instead simply took some breathing space to contemplate the statements made by Greg Freeman, Graham Sherwood and others, none of which to my mind made anything any clearer. I’m going to try and work through some of the things that have been said and offer something in response, I’ll try not to miss anything.

Greg Freeman states that he felt compelled to join the discussion only after a former WoLer came back to have “one more go” regarding Graham’s administrative WoL colleagues hanging him “out to dry” it seems to me that admission in itself highlight the WoLers initial suspicion, as Greg only bothered to step in when his position of silence had light shed upon on it. Greg, are you supporting Graham or taking umbrage at your own readiness to show support being questioned? Possibly both, even so a little late to the debate… but better late than never I guess.

One principle seems to have been missed entirely, Greg Freeman states that the moderators decision is final. I was amazed when I saw that, yes it is written in the guidelines for all to see, however I would challenge Greg, most of those commenting here are fully aware of the decree, some even recognise the fundamental flaw contained within it. Not only does it dismiss any right/facility to appeal the possibility of an ill considered or unjust decision, it completely ties the hands of the authority who imposed the decision to reverse it and in doing so retain any credibility. Maybe that guideline needs a little jiggle, but maybe not. It might offer too much opportunity for appeal…something the WoL management seem keen to avoid. As for the remark “If you still don’t like it, you are free to leave” well what can a person say to that? A clear indication of a lack of willingness to engage with any appeal. To utter those words in several offices of my previous employment would have seen me removed from my position. We must not expect too much though, all the administrators are volunteers as we are frequently reminded in times of WoL crisis. Greg later goes on to quote the dangers of populism in the rise of the far right, quotes like “If they don’t like it they can leave” go down a real treat at populist far right rallies, in fairness those of the left too. Enough of that…it’s so obviously flawed it barely warrants discussion.

Greg Freeman’s stance on the use of offensive language baffles me. He states it is now completely unacceptable whether in context or not to use any offensive word. Winding that all the way back to a ridiculous state, how then do we have a discussion about it…seriously apply your rules without any qualification…do it, see what happens? in fact read some history Greg and see what actually happened. Your theory if put in to practice would obliterate so much of what has been written and performed that it would be a crime in itself. I have an opposite view, progress is rarely made by the obliteration of things and never by silencing. I believe the human race will have truly made progress when it is able to communicate with itself without elements of it feeling the need to protect those they deem less educated or somehow less deserving from their own sensibilities. We cannot have debates on language without utilising the language we are debating. We cannot learn from history if it is no longer there to bear witness to our previous folly. Gregs idea of progress to my mind is pure denial and blind idealism, In fairness I think the idea of the human race in total harmony and open debate is also idealism, but it is one which embraces inclusivity as opposed to censorship and exclusion of rights to access.

Greg goes on to say this “but it may be rather that we have shown too much tolerance in the past” by “we” Greg is referring to WoL. So lets just think about that for a moment…if Greg is correct that in the past WoL has been too tolerant then it would have demonstrably failed to adhere to its own guidelines. So that said can I request an example be provided where WoL has been too tolerant? Surely such an act would have shown prejudice and/or favour, I can site specific instances of the censoring of some words and not others which are almost identical in thrust. I can point to instances of anti semitism I have seen on WoL that have not in any way been addressed (to my knowledge)

To take comfort from the “vast amount of WoL users who have chosen not to weigh into this discussion” well another stunning statement, can I see some figures on that assumption of choice please, I mean in reality that is a very amusing remark. I can’t imagine taking comfort from the silence of those whose voices are probably more important than any other in this discussion. Rather, I would take comfort from their joining the debate..irrespective of stance and opinion, I would have expected WoL’s desire was to engage not silence, though on form that’s probably giving it too much credit.

Finally and just for now, I can assure Greg Freeman that his assumption of forgetfulness by participants in this debate regarding it’s origins, in my case at least is wholly unfounded.

Just a quick response to John Coopey’s comment. David Moore contacted the WoL moderator on at least two occasions between his suspension and the deletion of his account. He specifically requested he be permitted to retrieve parts of his profile/conversations/writings prior to any deletion. Additionally he contacted Julian Jordan (WoL co-founder) by private email making the same request. An acknowledgement was made in respect of one email to the moderator, however the subject of retrieval was not addressed in any way. No response was received from Julian Jordan. It can only be assumed therefore that the deletion of the account in its entirety without access being granted to its author (who had requested such access at least three times) was enacted as a form of punishment in full awareness of the requests made by the author, it is difficult to conclude any other reason for such a malicious and cruel act.

I haven’t the time now to start on Graham Sherwood’s latest comments but will at some future point address them.

The account on which the above comment was posted has subsequently been obliterated. The reasons given for its deletion did not conform to WoL guidelines and were not evidenced by any technical data. The account did not contravine WoL guidleines at its time of use.

The blighted leaf


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

At Camden lock


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

War Criminal


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

© Wolfgar 2019

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.

Darkness and Hemoclysm

Massacre of the innocents

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

At église saint-roch


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