historic ledger
I unfold a dog-eared page
then fold it back down
I unfold a dog-eared page
then fold it back down
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Sleeping on purple pillowcases
I dreamt about steel gauntlets, royalty, & long capes that trailed along floors followed by a dustball retinue. Far off in the distance cannons roared bombarding embankments, dropping into medieval Maginot lines, disturbing complacent slumber with violent shudders. Outside my window, kestrels preyed on rodents fishmongers sang as they filleted the daily catch children played tag in rutted, muddy streets, all welcomed idle time’s counterfeit change of pace. Above reproach or walking on eggshells, I drifted back to kip, wandered regal hallways searched for quests needing a champion, awoke to pillow drool shaped like a dragon. Children flee the deadly rain that now falls daily in Ukraine,
Their only hope is to defend against the wars that will not end. History repeats with no apparent shame, Playtime's over, time to train. Little boy with pointed lath, and trash can cover shield, Chase shadows in the alley, Kill dragons in the field. Joust with dreams and watch the old ones marching in the past, See the farthest side of Never. Listen for the awful blast. Be patient little boy and practice. We’re making your war ready now. sunlit face:
the most beaut sight i’ve seen, scar & all Shackleton's ship appeared sublime:
sails billowing in the wind but its name was to prove ironic as it limped along in Antartica on the mighty Weddell sea. It groaned like a dying sailor captured on grainy film in 1915, the funnel collapsing then the whole vessel sadly descended to a watery tomb yet all the weary crew survived. Now it's been discovered frozen in time, plates and steering wheel quite pristine. Tears must have fallen down Shackleton's face as it sunk in the ice...without a trace. What words can shield against the shelling in the night
Cruise missiles fuelled by your power lust? How can our children learn what’s wrong and right When their dreams and future lie crumbled in the dust? Your propaganda calls us “puppets of the West”, “Fascists”, while scores of towns and cities burn To keep your acolytes impressed Your jack-boots gain you lebensraum. I see the glacial eyes and the dirty hand Of a playground thug, an untrained dog Pissing on the pavement to claim some land Yet masquerading as a demagogue. Beyond redemption for your evil done I’d pray for your soul – if you had one. Houses burnt out like ancient monasteries,
ruined cars reduced to rust, screams replaced by silent ghosts of the 642 men, women and children massacred on 10 th june 1944 never to celebrate liberation. What terror must have been etched on children's faces in this sleepy town, the war thrust down their throats and as for the Nazi assassins did they feel remorse? It's now a tragic reminder preserved like those glorious monasteries and yet we all know so well today such callous evil...has not gone away. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
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July 2022
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