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Updated: 7 days ago

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I am now building this, it is in early stages at present but please feel free to visit. Recently got bored and posted some pictures into my gallery. I have won no awards for my writing, so cannot endlessly bore you with a list of them with which you can measure me by. Sorry for denying that pleasure to any who enjoy it, and well done to all trophy owning listed literary giants. Instead I have posted some of my scribbling's here, call them what you will. I lack the brass to refer to myself as a poet, that is a distinction to be made by others and not self. Born in Scotland with English blood. Currently freelancing to the lowest bidders. I enjoy reading, music and recounting great military failures of modern times. I also enjoy shooting at moving targets especially if they are retreating, I always aim off target in the hope that one day someone might do the same for me. I have travelled and lived on every continent except antarctica. I have lived in almost every despicable place imaginable. I have met the most evil and the most selfless of people. I have done good and bad, I have renounced the bad, though it is still there for me to call upon if needed (hopefully not) I have survived quite a few of my enemies, some are now friends. Some are simply forgotten. I am a Humanist, though independently, I do not like associations. I do not believe in a supreme being (certainly no god). I have not come to that conclusion in ignorance or without a real search, I respect the right of others to their beliefs, however irrational they may seem to me. I am respectful of nature and am resigned to the fact that it can crush me at any moment, a fact that probably demands more than a little respect. I was raised in a religious Methodist household of which my father, a Minister was head. Despite my writings I am relatively happy in my world, though I wish I saw my family more. I am not what I write. I dislike ignorance when it is willingly embraced, I dislike it no-matter of its root, but accept much of it can be mitigated by opportunity or blamed on the lack of it. I like to offer comments on the work of others, I work on a basis of positive words including constructive criticism. I am not concerned with the punctuation deployed by others, and if I were to mention it I think for the sake of courtesy I would do it privately. I might expect the same consideration. PS, I do not take life as seriously as all that waffle might suggest. Wolfgar.


Eternity’s sunrise Are we not men weighed down by earth? though anchored firm by chains held fast, may no day pass to this, from birth that we not live as if our last. Fear not eternity’s cold embrace that crawling sift of withering, but lift our hearts and sunward face to greet the hope each day will bring.  A call to arms A bloody ball, a tissued knot, from busted sac and membranes snot. What joy! this spat out burst of life, bestows us all in midst of strife. Yet, Still some say they fear to give, breath to new life that it should live. And by so doing seal their fate a legacy, of joyless state. Let not the acts of earthly fools diminish natures founded rules, but steel ourselves to populate with those that love not those who hate. The Bishops Tale Dear Mother who's my dad? I'm curious who you've had, or alternately who had you dependent on ones view. My lineage now in question, has been challenged by suggestion that you when less than guarded, saw my bloodline set retarded. Now a man of sacred threads, I'm accountable to my flock so need to know the beds, in which you serviced cock. Crimes against mysanity (to an alter ego) Sycophantic, word-pedantic dictionary whore. Your literary vacuum leaves me wanting more. Your spewing words thick with rot, from something ill ingested tie my patience like a knot, intestines worm infested. You’re like a stain of afterbirth still born and flushed away, I’d write a book about you if I thought that it would pay. As it is, you’ve raised my hackles and forced my angry tongue, I’d restrained it under shackles until my hate you idly won. Please walk into an ocean, a propeller or a plague. If justice had a notion you’d be rendered to The Hague. In the forest of future words In the forest of future words branches expand ever upward, competing to tear the skies rich belly. From where a pour of inspiration falls, to drench the woodlands dreamy ramblers. Then on the forest floor, in the sodden earth of hope, wormy crawling. Evolving thought embeds itself, seeking seed. By chance to couple some dormant gift and sprout the chute that offers life. Where ancient bark is stripped from trunk to lie beneath what it once was, and slowly sink back to the mulch. Its only purpose, to rise again and fill the empty sky, reaching as before. as if to answer, why? This cycle of events uncoils, un-thought. Absent of conscious reasoning, it has no known agenda, no predictive text. The forest of future words, is mankind’s sheltered womb. From which all else is born, and to which all returns. Tilt Things seen unravelled from the sense they make, make non-sense of sense. Collected and reassembled they are merely the same thing repackaged, brand new shiny exciting exotically uncharted. though there is nothing new under the sun for she is ever static, yet falling it is the light she emits that alters the view and how prepared we are to tilt Black lung Nostalgic remembrance, cobblestoned thoughts sparking memories and nudging senses, of wide eyed fathers descending clean. The yellow helmet resurrected ascending home Black as the cavernous eternity that disgorged them. These happy few assaulting the faceless face, brothers in arms picking a seamless seam. A glory in labour and grime, hardship rewarded by fellowships respect. Sinewed muscled bodies, labyrinthine with tissue and tunnelling vein. Spit and blood as they dug and dug, black dust mined their souls Its vengeance silent A dormant insurgent. And then to the death, Of gasping, frothing and wheezing. Armchair’s torn and ripped, clawed by white knuckled hands. Clinging to life and breath cursing the owners who shoved them down, tear stained rage. Released back to the black cavern, back down, and down beyond the dust to cleansing fire and deliverance. Cap those pit heads, blow the shafts tear apart communities that canonised dead men digging. Bring on the shopping malls, the wind farms the nukes. Let the earth cough up its dead. To scream never again, scream never again. The Bucket ‘O’ Blood The Bucket ‘O’ Blood’s Cobbled yard Red brick walls Bottle scarred Toe to toe And ale ready Bets put down Nerve’s held and steady Weighty men Of lowly breed Heavy of hand Or quick of speed Thrust like dogs Un-leashed Un-fed More alive The nearer dead Snarling spitting biting Leap Its stand and hold Or lose your keep Its knees and knuckles Smashed and broke Its gouged plucked eyes Its throats that choke For all the combat on the floor Its those that watch that I fear more And throw their coin on blooded stone To ply their trade in flesh and bone Every Kingdom Comes Every kingdom battles through generations of its own blood, Leaves behind a footprint trampled deep in mud. Every kingdom rises in the sunlight of its wealth, Then vents its subjects’ children in honour of itself. Every kingdom adorns its martyrs and frames their sacred faces, High on walls, in statued squares they hang in hallowed spaces. Their judging eyes fixed on us To remind us where our place is. Every kingdom comes to know, That every kingdom dies. And In its mournful passing, See’s another kingdom rise. The Arc of the convenient Atheists, aren’t they scum? hating everyone, until their Kingdom Come. Swarming over deserts locusts on the land. Dropping bombs and purging those not in their plan. Burning books and temples, raising treasures to the ground, they are the non-believers for they the truth have found. They’re raising up whole armies with no God to go to war, those silly little people don’t they know what Gods are for? Slabs (reflections on Sachsenhausen) 2015 Cold white slabs stand stark in the room, an aspect of manicured lawn’s. Gun towers straddle the fence-line, two worlds divided by blood. Separated by the accident of birth. Come Kinder, come Oma, come Opa. Under the knife, under the hammer, under the gun. Come all you who are not us, lay yourself on slabs. When darkness falls they’ll sluice the waste, and wash the filth away but who of you bears witness, to the horror’s of this day.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Audio entries by Wolfgar

At Nevill Holt (22/11/2017)

Epilogue for a friend (20/11/2017)

In tea rooms (18/11/2017)

Poets are not entitled (16/11/2017)

Dacha (13/11/2017)

Your suffering offends me please do it quietly (11/11/2017)

Toggle tweak (08/11/2017)

The Rattlers (06/11/2017)

November rides in (04/11/2017)

Fake poetry man (02/11/2017)

More audio from Wolfgar…

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Tom Harding

Tue 14th Nov 2017 18:41

Thanks for the comments David, always appreciated your support on here. Will let you know about the book next month when I know more.

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David Cooke

Sat 11th Nov 2017 18:40

Hi Wolfgar Glad you liked my Zhivago poem! David

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Richard Hartley

Sat 28th Oct 2017 18:35

Congratulations, that's a great website you've got there []
To my mind there are three good things about it: the website looks great; the poetry is wonderful and the pictures are amazing! What's not to like?
As you also say in your Profile, I have won no awards for my poems and I do not seek to get them published. Instead, when I've finished scribbling one of my offerings I just post it on my little website [ - but it's not as smart as yours!] and hope that at least some of those who read it will find something in it.
I think of my poems as my progeny and have no claim on them: once I've constructed each poem I send it out to make its own way in the world.
Keep up the great work!

Martin Elder

Sun 8th Oct 2017 17:58

Hi David
just wanted to say Congratulations in having your poem selected for the Marsden jazz festival. I saw it there being displayed in Marsden in a pub called the swan in the village.
Well done my friend

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Wolfgar Miere

Tue 3rd Oct 2017 12:55

Thanks for your reading and your comments Cynthia, always welcome.

I suppose it is fair in some way to call me dogmatic, and not so in others, of course it is a matter of opinion and that is too valuable to dismiss out of hand to my mind, so fair enough I'll take that.

In my defense (which to be honest probably isn't needed) I simply say what I think when I think it, I dislike sycophants who are occasionally thick on the ground in such environments as WoL. I feel I bite my lip and stay my hand too often, but diplomacy and restraint are sometimes the better option, and yes as I too am sensitive I only ever really get prickly if I feel attacked, which in fairness has hardly ever happened on WoL and never in respect of my written contributions.

I absolutely agree that the written word is often far more considered than the spoken, though not on all occasions. Often the spoken word carries more immediate impact if well considered, whereas careless sloppy writing is easily dismissed before a sentence ever ends.

Regarding a writer being what he writes, I think it's a question which offers variable responses. For instance writers often write from perspectives other than their own (I certainly do) in doing so the written text does not carry their belief or opinions, it is true that the practice of writing in such a manner reveals something of them, but how is the reader to know that, or what that something is?

I have to agree that everything we write may well reflect something of us or something about our reasoning, but I think very few people are paying that much attention to what is and isn't the authors true self.

I suppose it's just a complex question to answer, at least for me anyway.

I appreciate and enjoy the conversation, thanks again Cynthia.


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Mon 2nd Oct 2017 12:41

You are a fine addition to the 'stable of regulars' here on WOL. Always stimulating, if sometimes dogmatic.

I just reread your Bio. I do think, actually, that you ARE what you write. A good deal more than you are what you say. The mouth can natter, but the fingers must have more connections to follow from brain to keyboard. It seems logical, but I could be wrong. But I do think writing involves considered intent.

I have always thought that the 'mouth' is the world's most vicious weapon. Especially without due background knowledge. More deadly than writing, because it's so immediate, widespread and bristling with emotion. A real 'people catcher'.

Good to chat with you.

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Helen Elliott

Sat 30th Sep 2017 21:43

Hi David.

Thank you for commenting on Glaswegian and welcoming me back.

I hope to stick around this time 😉


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Richard Hartley

Mon 18th Sep 2017 16:44

I particularly like your "A Call To Arms".
Quite apart from spelling out your message, you've also managed to give this poem rythm and pace, both of which seem to have become unfashionable these days.
Well done.

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Hannah Collins

Sun 17th Sep 2017 21:53

Hello Wolfgar, I have enjoyed reading your sample poems very much. You have a great freedom in writing and language which I admire.

Thank you for your comments on my poem The Grass.
The incident you describe with the bully is admirable too.

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Joe Williams

Thu 31st Aug 2017 10:22

Thanks for the comment on 'Prettiest Girl...', David. I like a bit of reflective nostalgia in poetry, and I find myself putting it into my own work quite a lot. Glad you liked it!

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Dominic James

Wed 30th Aug 2017 08:46

Hi David
Thank you for the response to On Leave. Fragility was the key word. And Homecoming, in one way or another, is one of the vital, hoped for things. I Look forward to your post.

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Greg Freeman

Wed 23rd Aug 2017 13:07

Thanks for your comments on 'To My Unknown Soldier', David, particularly on how such matters relate to your own experiences. Much appreciated. Greg

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AM Cash

Sat 22nd Jul 2017 12:10

I do like your work, the forest of future words is on my mind now.

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Laura Taylor

Sun 25th Jun 2017 12:28

I forgot to say that as well as the Comps and Calls publishing shout-outs, WOL has an extensive list of magazines, competitions and publishers, under the drop-down menu on the front page, under 'Directory'. Well worth ploughing through.

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Laura Taylor

Tue 30th May 2017 12:48

Howdy David

Many thanks for your note on 'unmartyred', and yep on your own poem too.

Emer Ni Chorra

Mon 15th May 2017 20:39

I am pleased to log in here and see that you have won poem of the week on wol for the second time and that you are the first person to do so. Well done, David! You are a powerful, humble writer and as an avid reader I am constantly drawn into your wonderful poems. Always a pleasure to read your work. I don't know how you can write so many masterpieces every few days. Stay motivated, Congratulations again, absolutely delighted for you. 🙌😃💪

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Stu Buck

Fri 12th May 2017 19:43

cheers david - as bill hicks once said, 'everyone should have at least one psychedelic experience in their life, really get that third eye squeegee'd'

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keith jeffries

Thu 13th Apr 2017 16:17

Hello Wolfgar, Thank you for your biography which I found interesting, illuminating and humourous, in particular when you say that you are not what you write. I also enjoyed the poem Private Viewings in the City of Light. Short but it conjures up so much in the way of thoughts and similar experiences. Thank you again. Keith

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Tommy Carroll

Sat 18th Mar 2017 22:00

"Growing weary at a folkies bear and banjos. Cheers Wolf.

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Tommy Carroll

Sat 18th Mar 2017 21:53

Wolf I'm getting there re Christy Moore-

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Tom Harding

Mon 13th Mar 2017 01:14

Hi David, thanks for taking the time to look at my collection, really appreciate the support and the kind comments!

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Ian Whiteley

Sat 11th Mar 2017 01:01

thanks for commenting on 'Soldiers Box' David - yes - you've got it in one - must dig out that track and have a listen. I've been on an infrequent theme about my dad - who served in Burmha in WW2 - this is the latest 'visit' to his things that he left me. It makes me sad and proud at the same time. I appreciate you commenting - and sorry for the delay in replying - I don't come on WOL as often as I once did

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Tommy Carroll

Fri 10th Mar 2017 19:05

Cheers David re "Lift" ;- )

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Sun 12th Feb 2017 23:54

Hi, David,

You know, I'm a big fan of your insight. It bears repeating that hearing how a reader receives a piece (not necessarily praise) is immensely gratifying. I truly appreciate the ability to communicate on this level. And, I know that wouldn't be possible without people like you stepping forward and speaking up with their personal thoughts.

Thanks for supporting me with your continuing comments.

Rachel x

Martin Elder

Wed 8th Feb 2017 21:14

Hi David
Thanks for reading to write or not to write, glad you enjoyed it. Us Orwellians have go to stick together

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Thu 26th Jan 2017 12:26

I really like your exploration of the 'the forest of future words' as you put it... nice imagery. In particular - 'Evolving thought embeds itself, seeking seed.' Very good, mind altering stuff.

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Paul Waring

Fri 20th Jan 2017 11:43

David, just wanted to say thank you for your reply to my comments about Shatila 2017 and for the link to your poem 'Not Enough'. I have read it a few times now, it is a brilliant rage-fuelled statement that captures the tradegy of Aleppo (and, of course, many other places blighted by this type of war). It also reminds us the absurdity of war (and other absurdities in the world) that many of us feel helpless and pained about, hurting for our fellow human beings.


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Natasha Townsend

Thu 22nd Dec 2016 19:14

Hey Wolfgar! I read biography. A fellow living contradiction! Love it. Life is ever changing, moving, flowing. I am what I am right now nothing more and nothing like yesterday or tomorrow. I also am not what I write or as serious as I seem. I like the sound of you. And your poetry's not bad either 😉. Nat x

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Tom Harding

Fri 18th Nov 2016 20:00

thanks for your recent comments on harbour wolfgar!

Travis Brow

Thu 17th Nov 2016 15:31

Hello Wolfgar, i don't think i've read your biography before, at least not fully. Now, having read it, it strikes me as one of the best, witty and serious and thought provoking. I'm particularly intrigued by your claim that 'I am not what I write'. How true is that? I sort of feel the same, but at the same time i wonder if i'm EXACTLY what i write. There's an archaic (no offence intended, at all) style to your writing which i really like. It's unusual, but you deploy it beautifully in A call to arms.

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