So I sit alone, cold on a bench, world's away from my comrades, that lie dead in the trench.
These hands that saw violence, these eyes growing dark, this world bathed in silence, a new journey to embark.

We did it for kings, we followed the crown, we rushed from the boats, I saw many drown. 
They pinned a shiny medal, right there on my chest, and I heard the bell toll as we laid them to rest.
...

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What’s of the eyes if not to see -

a darkness on the land,

perpetuated by a world

that will not understand.

What’s of the ears if not to hear -

a silence through the night.

A deafness born of leaders with

no care of what is right.

What’s of the lips if not to speak -

a fading muffled voice,

drowned out by those in power who

refuse the people’s choice.

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The washing on the line is mine, is mine;

The washing on the line, it dries, it dries.

My best friend down the road, he dies, he dies;

Our enemy of old, he lies, he lies.

The washing on the line, it sighs, it sighs.

The washing on the line is mine, is mine;

The washing on the line, it blows, it blows.

Desire for revenge, it grows, it grows;

The guilty man nearby, he cr...

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Death transcends the toll of time.

Stands beneath a smoke-filled sky.

Spirits rise up from the past,

row by row from first to last.

Like silhouettes of lifeless trees

against the sun, no foot can flee.

Then sink they into desert sand…

as hate consumes the life of man.

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Don’t shoot!

Stop the violence,

Stop the killing.

Don’t waste your time with gods,

Or clerics on the greasy pole,

Or warped ideology

Which tells you what to think,

Or the cult of the madmen,

The travelling circus,

The usual suspects,

The old men in suits,

The gap –

Between the theory and the practice.

Be yourself;

Lay down your arms,

Reach out your hand...

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As you may have seen on the News and Features page, I have compiled a selection of fifty poems to mark the second anniversary of Russia's invasion of Ukraine. Some of these poems will be familiar to regular contributors, but a number have not yet featured on the WOL blog.

This is a private print and not available for general sale, but I would be pleased to send a free PDF copy by e-mail to anyb...

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‘Time passes,’ said the man at our table.

‘People want something new.’ I guess he’s right.

It's the prevailing theory round here.

‘The same old faces,’ opined another;

‘You know, Zelensky. Always wants money.’

And ‘here’ is anywhere, maybe everywhere.

Time passes. All of us know that feeling:

You turn a new page in a calendar

Or put away Christmas decorations.

At cricket...

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Doomsday

Grey clouds roll in

The Sun sets in

Long ago was the summer of smiles

Now dark brooding anguish riles

Only the forgotten battlefields remember

The light green and the fond Heather

While with winds kiss

The clock winds and begins to hiss

The ticking is louder than ever now

As we wind our lives further down

While far away the threat is real

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A morning to freeze the spirits.

As they shiver in hollowed times,
Workers stamp and spit used breath.

At the corner I see two men:

Their eyes wet from today’s bad news.

‘You can always tell,’ says my guide;

'They both had sons where it happened.'

I try to do an interview:

Get short shrift. Understandably.

As we leave, one of them calls out:

‘Poetry is dead. Art is dead...

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We queued at the supermarket;

I saw that everyone was dead.

And yet they were still standing.

Out of defiance? Contempt?

Perhaps just out of habit.

We queued at the bakery,

And in the rows of cakes

We saw the faces of the fallen:

Unmoved, at last at peace.

We queued at the bus stop.

A passer-by called out to us

And we called back,

But no one was alive

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A viper slides its way beneath the grass;

The animals of prey are on the prowl.

The innocent and helpless stand no chance

Against the savage tastes of hawk and owl.

Upstairs, forbidden lovers take the plunge;

Their beads of sticky sweat adorn the bed.

She’s fast asleep while he boosts up his pack;

Outside waits a procession of the dead.

The hunters beat the heavin...

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