The Farnborough Airshow is much more than that. It is one of the countries largest Arms Fairs. The deals are made beyond the public gaze, the corporate days outnumber the public days. This poem relates to the masquerade that is The Farnborough Air Show and Murder Incorporated.

Women, Children, Ice cream, Balloons,

excitement, enticement, sonic booms...

Shattered Stree...

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That jangling tune 
told of sweet times ahead
Children playing with hosepipes 
on hot summer streets
and gleaming bikes ridden
across freshly swept pavements
How the ice cream van 
sparked joy and hope
O, the heady idyl 
of childhood…

Now the ice cream van 
toils a different purpose
macabre and tuneless
its contents chilling
The limbs of children
parts of mothers
Lifeless figures...

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The house stands quiet behind its useless walls,

as if a wedding cake cut but not devoured.

Discarded tools and children’s toys, the crumbs of life.

Inside, a stagnant calm of dust breathes for no-one.

Patches of earth curled with weeds.

The scratchings of beasts consumed by men

score the kill pen floor. Men who ate with fingers

greased with blood and vengeful mind...

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These eyes 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,
intrusive 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 ...

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Buried in her wedding dress

the tomb a ruin now,

cracked open is what once was blessed

where dogs and vermin prowl.

On fertile steps of Grove and Vine

where boots so cruelly stamped,

once yours, now theirs’, that once was mine,

too many tribes encamped.

But hearts and minds don't document

with paper, pen and deed,

what's taken, forced, was never lent

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Some people say home’s where the heart is found;

I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the being there,

The rooted opposite of somewhere else.

Fond memories may have tipped the scales

In favour of this slow, contented place:

The local shops, the chatter’s usual sound,

The morning stroll to coffee on the square,

The precious banality of passers-by,

Though each slab of this ecosphere wi...

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1941, the 22nd of June,

The sky with the rising moon,

At 4 in the early morning,

Without any warning,

When children peacefully slept,

Hitler the most horrible plan kept.

It was Sunday.
Today it’s the saddest day
In the history
Of my long-suffering country.


Hitler broke the non-aggression pact
And my motherland was attacked.
The Great Patriotic War had started
With a ...

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‘Look at the big picture,’

Cried the man in the suit.

So I took his advice

And ignored the sniper,

The stiff, the nightly raid,

The trivia of grief.

I turned to the summit,

Its polished chandeliers,

Its underarm hygiene,

Its on-tap refreshment,

(‘Still or sparkling, Madam?),

While, in the dregs of war,

The uninvited crouch

And hope the shells will miss.

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A Sea Loch Graveyard walled and gated

hues of purple peated earth,

the stones stand stoic, weather dated,

washed up from their briny birth.

Some names unknown "A Sailor" lies,

in silence resting side by side.

Adrift they came from distant skies

as tears that fell, though never cried.

On other shores long lives lived out

to wonder at what might have been,

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Borrow against your future days

that this moment ever lives,

for what such credit takes away

the joy of now forgives.

We cannot touch what has gone

nor conjure what's to come,

our memories may live on and on

what's lost might yet be won.

The silent harbour once a throng

with hope and fearful men,

sits peaceful now and has done long

for what was done ...

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My life force has gone

whatever confidence I had is crushed

I cannot hear my voice

I cannot hear any voice

except panic

and anger

I am lost in a street walking the wrong way

shoulders bumped and jarred

I move to the wall

I press hard against it

It pushes me into the flow

my fear turns to violence

There is no reason to lash out

no reason to h...

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These dunes have been draped with flesh,

some on summer days surrendering to lovers

some under the gun by blood brothers.

The days between then and now are in the sand,

each footprint, each drop of joy and blood still here.

Children rush the shoreline chased by foamy waves.

We built monuments and carved men’s names

where beautiful children share happy games.

Beyon...

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A soldier kicked down the door and stole a yelping dog,

the children sobbed while their mother cursed god.

Later the widows were blown out, the roof glowed red

against a ghostly bone white moon.

The dog curled itself to sleep beneath a different flag

after filling its belly for the first time in weeks.

This poem is based on an event I witnessed in the H2 area ...

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People are cheaper, things are more expensive,

With a lack of spirituality, men are more offensive.

Ducky lips and selfie, a bare ass,

They forgot the beautiful word “lass”.

Passing by the poor people, watching mangy cats

Their faces remind me of dangerous rats.

His dad is a deputy, he studied in the States,

Now he is responsible for others' fates.

Someone is fi...

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There's no stars out in this darkened sky.
As a curl up, on the hard floor to lie
I cannot lay safe, cozied on this soft bed.
Not with the noises and memories floating in my damn head.
The cracks and the bangs that rang out in the night.
Times I saw many men fall, disappear out of sight.

Was that today, yesterday, or maybe tomorrow?
No bravery left here there's only raw sorrow.
The noise...

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Are we allowed to be afraid?

Is it compulsory to fight?

Many would choose to be elsewhere

When faced with a foe and its might.

Are we a traitor if we leave,

Or a patriot if we stay?

It is no shame to show contempt

For warfare, and to keep away.

And ‘pacifist’, that grubby word

That hardly dares to speak its name?

Why should we join the ranks of hate

Or pl...

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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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