Month: August 2017

Youth truth and Passchendaele

Hell is now for me a place where I breathe the last dregs of England out of my lungs, and the last trembling flare in the hand of the unknown solider dies. For the poet dreamer who wished, “All evil shed away,” that very evil now walks among us and is welcomed. So what of those ancient young, what of…

An August haze 1962

The wooden black board rubber that hit me on the head that day was large school issue. The teacher said: “You’ll never get a job as long as you got a hole in your arse!” He is not here today for me to tell him he was wrong. However, another teacher told me, I was so hopeless, I’d “End up…

I feel the cold these days

Ancient moons where highway tunes claim those gone on the, ‘speechless seeking trails’ from yesteryear’s world. No funeral dirge for lost friends disappeared into that horizon, unless the sun has memories, their goneness has Passchendaele finality. Now in these evening years I wait, where autumn’s gate meets a frozen meadow, and human kind strive with secrets, in the ice-cold gutter…