I stare at the postcard, now yellowed with time,

of the ship that took me from all that was mine,

my country, my friends, the mild winter frost, 

the soft summer days, the paths that I crossed,

while echoes of voices silenced by death,

fade away slowly with every new breath,

and faces decay in the sad dimming light,

as candle flames flicker in the long hours of night,

reflecting again on the nature of things, 

where all is explained, from beggars to kings,

while most of them listen to fakirs and thieves,

on the invisible veil that life for us weaves;

the voyage from London across the great sea,

that night in New York, the wonders to see,

Grand Central Station, the train to the north,

wondering what days new would bring forth,

in the vastness that stretched from the lakes to the pole,

by changing the scene to play put our role,

the boys, the girls, the teachers in  school,

first kisses, first sorrows, the unwritten rule,

the steel mills, the smoke, the forests and fields, 

my mind to my memories more and more yields,

the promising future, now decades gone past,

but life’s in the present and the present is vast,

no beginning, no end, the light and the shade

we are existence and from it are made.

That peaceful night we said goodbye, the stars all seemed to cry,
For I was off to war and death, and you kept asking why,
But all I did was bow my head, and promise not to die,
And so we kissed, and touched our hearts, beneath a mourning sky.

I turned to leave, you pulled me back, you knew I had to go,
Still you asked me why and why, but I really didn’t know,
The enemy was cruel, they said, and dealt us harm and woe,
So we had no other choice but fight, to strike a heavy blow.

You grabbed my arm to stop me, maddened by the dread,
Told me I was crazy, a foolish man misled,
Their wars were all a madness, on lies and madness fed,
When loving more was needed, us loving in our bed.

I drew you closer to me and said you must be brave, 
The world would find an answer, a road to peace they’d pave,
But one hot night their shells crashed down, a roaring ocean wave,
And now I do not even know if I lie within a grave.
 

He’d drunk too much, but not enough, the times demanded more,
Cursed the shadows, cursed the lights, cursed the church’s open door,
Which faced him through the window of the only local bar,
Where satisfaction never was, you know how people are.

The voices swirled around him, sharing chit and chat,
Women, men, and in-betweens, a bit of this and that,
But most were young so talked of plans, or of their hopes for love,
Though one young man demanded answers, from his missing God above,

The drunk sat there, drinking, and vowed to drink again,
Told the barman it was his right, his need, to numb the pain,
Which through soul and mind, had spread,
Had sapped his will, had filled his thoughts with dread.

Just then he saw a shadow pass across the evening moon, 
And wondered if it were just a cloud, or eclipse that came too soon,
Or perhaps a sign of darker times when the lights would quickly dim,
But decided it was, instead, imagination’s whim.

De Vere once posed the question, but no answer did provide,
For who can judge if life is best, when they have never died,
So when the barman loudly said, to startle those around,
“The play is in the final act, the hare does chase the hound.”

Upright sat the drunk right quick to raise his glass in hand,
“To you, my friend, who sees it all, the wisest in the land,
Our world is gone, has disappeared, old Chaos reigns once more,
And Death, her dear companion, has opened wide the door,”

The barman nodded in salute but others called him mad,
“Just an old eccentric who’s lost what he once had,
A bum, a jerk, an idiot, they should put him in a room,
We don’t need his stupid tales of endless woe and doom”

The drunken man ignored their words and retreated deep within,
Where tranquillity could there be found, far from their dismal din,
Then, refreshed, he left the place, to wander through the night,
Guided by that yearning to hear the music of the light.

Before my eyes there spreads the sea, beyond the sea the sky,

The sea is black, is green, is grey, as winds rise high, or die,

The sky appears a soft blue veil, stitched with clouds of whitest light,

They turn a soft and rosy hue, when day withdraws for night.

And there, just there, a line appears, a slash of death, in waters deep,

A shark perhaps, or killer whale, why sailors’ widows weep,

A line cascading, foamy white, carved by knife-edged fin,

As though Good was hunting Evil, in depths of all our sin,

But then there breaches rounded back, but no strange whale is this,

The fin becomes a U-boat’s sail, the venting air, a hiss,

A klaxon screams, as water streams, from deck and missile pods,

The periscope and antennae are like tangled fishing rods,

Then men appear, in open hatch, who scan the sea and shore,

They seem relaxed, just taking air, as if there was no war,

But, with loud alarm, then hatches down, she slips beneath the waves,

To hide among the darkest deeps, as leopards hide in caves,

Death on edge, expectant, waiting for its cue,

For stealthy, silent, submarines know what they must do,

And so it’s gone, preparing soon, for rockets to be hurled,

They named it well, the madmen, Destroyer of the World.

The sunlight dapples the blank waiting page,

From the window, shouts of children at play,

My bones remind me, to me a lost age,

A lone crow calls out-but what does he say?

The electric fan whirs through a hot, sultry day, 

Endlessly turning like a mechanical cage,

Brushing stale air from its spiraling blades,

As she walks through the room,

In a long silken dress, beauty in movement,

But not a word said-

Exchanging only our emptiness.

This is for those who struggle through life,

Alone, without help, so reach for the knife,

Who can’t take the troubles, the pain and the strife,

This is for those born poor without hope,

Fed images on screens of Prince Harry and soap,

Stopped before starting, so reach out for dope,

For the underpaid workers told to suffer with less,

By the men who enslaved them and created the mess,

And their fatuous wives, in their glittering dress,

For those driven mad by the twelve hour day,

Locked in a warehouse so dark they all pray,

To win the state lotto, can’t live on their pay,

For those in the office, bored out of their mind,

For the ignorant led by the morally blind,

And the many who know not how to be kind,

For those forced to vote for “democracies”.

Those vice-ridden totalitarian hypocrisies,

Whose voice is ignored, unless on their knees,

For the victims of charlatans, tricksters and whores,

Always surprised when they open the doors,

And in march the black shirts with their new nazi laws,

For the ones who resist, and are beaten or shot,

Or made to look fools, or just left to rot,

Thinking they’re heard, but simply they’re not,

For those who still believe that all will be well,

When we’ve made our planet a version of hell,

For that sound you hear, is the toll of the bell.