Shackled Regret

fifteen ramadan’s

measured

cadre ouma’s life when

four hours

almost claimed it

fierce gun battle

between militant villagers

and armed oppressors;

bloody skirmish, hand grenade;

spear broken beyond repair

blinded

by shrapnel,

young back

pierced and

ripped by bullets

barely alive with chest

shredded, ouma’s request

to be killed was rejected;

nursed back to health

only to be taken, shackled,

sensory-deprived, to where

no man, woman

or child

could ever feel

human again

incarcerated and tortured

war crimes tribunal

label: murderer and terrorist

apology rejected

child soldier learned too late

the nature of war is death

(All rights reserved)

Based on the true story of a child soldier, this is the companion poem for an opinion piece at http://myfatoldsouthafricanlife.blogspot.com entitled When Murder is not Murder.

CHRISTMAS CAROLS

This poem was inspired by true events.  On Christmas Eve 1915, a peace overture came from the German lines. On Christmas Day, after a night of carol singing, Bertie Felstead, a private in the Royal Welch Fusiliers football was produced from somewhere – though none could recall from where. "It wasn't a game as such, more a kick-around and a free-for-all. There could have been 50 on each side for all I know. I played because I really liked football. I don't know how long it lasted, probably half an hour." recalled that feelings of goodwill had so swelled up that at dawn Bavarian and British soldiers clambered spontaneously out of their trenches.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce 

CHRISTMAS CAROLS
Brothers-in-arms crouched low in the trench,

worn faces streaked with God’s earth.

Uneasy silence infused the dawn

of that day celebrating Christ’s birth.

Raised on the wind, across ‘no man’s land’,

voices carried a well-loved old tune.

Awe-struck allies listened to the choir

as the sun took the place of the moon.

A man hidden in a narrow trench

threw his baritone into the fray.

His brothers-in-arms each found their voice

singing carols on that Christmas Day.

It wasn’t long before men stepped out,

to meet each of the foe face to face.

That Christmas Day, in nineteen fifteen,

‘no man’s land’ was a sociable place.

Photo’s of loved ones proudly displayed

amidst laughter and good cheer all round.

Then, hearts heavy, as the sun sank low,

all crept safely back into the ground.

At midnight the truce came to an end

and the battle raged all through the night

while the cold air resounded anew

with the sounds of a bloodthirsty fight.

On either side of that ‘no man’s land’

brave men’s lives were surrendered too soon,

their inert bodies with shattered limbs

kissed by the sun that replaced the moon.

(All rights reserved.)

Even though I am not 100% happy with the structure of this poem, I am posting it on Armistice Day, in memory of all those who have died in any war so that we could be free.

POPPIES

Prisoner of war, was it with shame
that on that cross they carved your name?
The name of one who died in chains
not where the death of battle reigns.

Did they reflect upon your story,
lacking fame, devoid of glory?
Ever stopping to reason why
your life escaped you with a sigh?

Your dignity, a fragile flower,
crushed by those who had the power.
Icy winter winds that froze
flesh and blood beneath worn clothes.

Meagre rations, thin as rakes,
getting weaker, got the shakes.
Eating bread from shit-filled tanks,
yet to God you still gave thanks.

Escape became your only goal,
to rescue body, rescue soul.
Halleluja! Goal achieved --
Enemy bullet; soul reprieved.

Prisoner of war, was it with shame
that on that cross they carved your name?
The name of one who died in chains,
not where the death of battle reigns?

NO! You are praised with those who died
where canons roared and grown men cried.
Red the flowers that honour you,
a prisoner, but a hero too.


(All rights reserved.)

THE BLEEDING MOON

The moon rises gently, on invisible wings,
spreading golden beauty across the sky.
I’m struck by my insignificance in life
knowing that, unlike the moon, I can die.

With the ceaseless repetition of the universe
the day ends and the moon rises yet again.
Whilst I, made of fragile flesh and blood,
will one day cease to be - not merely wane.

Oh wish that I could be eternal like the moon
and shed a warm and loving glow on one and all.
Oh wish that I could help this broken world
and save it from its last and final fall.

Some nights the moon rises, warm as fresh blood,
symbolic of the fearful hearts of all mothers
whose children are destined, from the moment of birth
to die in some war — slain by their brothers.

When man finally succeeds in his self-destruction;
when he eliminates all life from shore to shore;
when he destroys the world in a nuclear inferno
then the bleeding moon will rise no more.

We need not fear for our childrens’ children-
for them there will be no pain nor death nor war-
for man is so intent on achieving oblivion
that soon the bleeding moon will rise no more.


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