Face to Face

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“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself” Soren Kierkegaard

“Never trust your fears, they don’t know your strength.” Athena Singh

“To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom.” – Bertrand Russell

“If the truth shall kill them, let them die.” Immanuel Kant

As the war in Ukraine rages on, Russian forces appearing to persistently and deliberately targeting civilians, we hear tales of inspirational courage among unimaginable horror; not least those civilians, some of them students, being taught how to load and fire guns in the event of their being faced with the ultimate choice, kill or be killed.

FACE TO FACE

Looking death in the face,
day after day,
huddled together for warmth
in temperatures
below zero and still falling,
life forces siding
with us as we try to stare Death out,
food for thought

Looking death in the face,
night after night,
unable to sleep, hopes fading
for any tomorrows
being any kinder to us here,
where we shelter
from invading forces, no safe havens
even for civilians

Looking death in the face,
night after night,
having to put on a brave face
for the children,
while haunted even more
by its greedy eyes,
no empathy with our all but starving here,
only devilish sneer

Looking death in the face,
thoughts struggling
to break free of this copycat hell
underground,
yet even worse, above,
always expecting
yet another air raid siren warning us to flee
this ruin of humanity

Looking death in the face,
but mind-body-spirit
not ready yet to have to have it
feed on its surrounds
of flesh and bone and more,
ever taking heart
from a free willpower resolved not to cave in,
shoot its enemies down

Never handled a weapon, me, a person of peace,
but will fight Death on my terms, not his... 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

  

War and Remembrance OR Courage Wears Many Faces

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Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

The Covid-19 coronavirus has plunged much of the world into another war, this time with an invisible enemy, probably the worst and hardest kind of war to fight. Fight, though, we have, as a common humanity united in its resolve to see this awful pandemic through and emerge the stronger, and hopefully the more united for it.

Courage, indeed, has many faces and has shown them all in recent months;in  the selflessness of health workers, the stoicism of victims, the tragedy of losing loved ones where often even close family were unable to be at theirs side as they passed away ... and so it goes on. The war is far from over and far from won, but the human spirit is not easily put down, and will continue to see us through until the world, hopefully, resumes a stronger sense of normality, No, nothing will ever be quite the same again, but the same spirit that wins wars will see us win this one too, of that, at least yours truly is certain.

Many men and women rarely settle down easily - if at all - into everyday life for being haunted by scenes of death and carnage they have witnessed on tours of duty around a world where civil wars and terrorist atrocities persist. Family and friends from all socio-cultural-religious backgrounds and nations need to support them as and when we can. The same principle applies to our war with Covid-19. As a common humanity, we need to support each other wherever and whenever possible; at the very least, avoid  exacerbating divisions.

In the summer of Summer, 2016 we commemorated the start of the Battle of the Somme 100 years earlier, remembering the human the face of Freedom; various cultural-religious-political face masks should not be mistaken for the real thing. Covid-19 has tested and continues to test the latter, along with the rest of us, and the various face masks we, too, are inclined to wear.

Thankfully, at least some lessons have been learned since the First World War about the effects of stress even on trained, experienced service personnel in a war zone. Covid-19 has placed us all in a war zone, untrained and inexperienced alongside those best equipped to help us, and to whom we owe an immeasurable vote of thanks.

Around the world, the battle against coronavirus continues. Around the world, too, courage continues

 to show its many faces, ensuring that we may lose a few battles along the way, but we can and will win the war.

 WAR AND REMEMBRANCE, ALL INCLUSIVE

Jim was just seventeen

when war broke out;

he was courting a girl

called Jane…

They held hands at the fair,

dreaming and planning 

for the future, celebrating

their lives together

Jim was just eighteen

when he joined up,

all his mates did too,

everyone admiring

the uniform, waving him off

with bursts of cheers

while Jim’s ma and Jane

saved their tears

Jim was just nineteen

as war took its toll,

savaged the soul, senses

caving in till no place

left to run like a fox in a hole,

hounds hunting it down,

waiting for the end, shivering

for sheer terror

And who’d know any better

than soldiers of the crown,

the human spirit once broken

no use to anyone?

All was haste, no time to waste,

the pack denied its reward,

Jim (refused a blindfold) shot

at dawn for a coward

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002, 2016, 2020

[Note: Revised (2012) from an earlier version that appears under the title ‘Unsung Hero, in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002 and subsequently in Poppy Fields 2007, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2006. 

Courage

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Here in the UK, many if not most young people today have a rough time, especially given that they nearly always get a bad press. There is far too much stereotyping of young people going on. Most manage to rise above it all and make society proud. But if some appear to have lost their way in life, even despair of ever getting a job, whose fault is that? 

Youth unemployment is high across the whole of Europe, and what is being done about it? There is no quick fix, but just because people are young doesn’t mean they want and need to feel any less valued and inspired than the rest of us; if anything, they want and need to feel even more valued and inspired, not repeatedly written off for being lazy and/or potential criminals. Perhaps many don’t have the skills a modern society demands. So whose fault is that? What exactly are our schools teaching, for goodness sake? If education in our schools and colleges is meant to prepare young people for the roller coaster we call life, it doesn't strike me as having made a very good job of it for some years now. 

If mature adults are meant to lead by example, our ‘maturity’ has a lot to answer for. When I go shopping in London or just out for a walk, I am often appalled at the way some people of my generation behave.  Yes, some young people can be ‘difficult’ but my generation is certainly not blameless, and I can see how many younger people are inclined to write a good few of us off for being ‘difficult’, not least judgemental. 

So how about we all stop playing the blame game and give each other the respect and support every human being deserves?

“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”
― Winston S. Churchill

COURAGE

Wandering dark tunnels,

lost and afraid;

regulation torch for company,

imitation fur for the cold;

phone battery running low by now

heartbeat erratic, 
becoming harder not to panic,
yet where there's life, there's hope 
(or so they say.)

Live to fight another day?

Brave words

when the Dark is rising, Styx

threatening to burst

its banks, flood us, even drown us
should we cease
to negotiate our worst fears,

the darker comedy of our errors 

playing us for human

Look. Listen. Rescuers 
on their way;

Faith, Hope, Charity, children
of contemporaneity
come to lend lost souls a helping hand
who can but run the gamut
of a Here-and Now 
threatening to leave them behind

see them fail

Ah. but where failure rises above its tears,

find courage, too, behind closed doors

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2002

[Note: First published under the title 'Children of the Century' in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Behind Every Coffin, Another Question

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Here's another poem from one of my collections as I begin to compile editions that will include revised poems (already on the blogs) for posting as e-books; revised versions of my poems are already on the blogs, but not all my poems so, as requested by some readers, I am adding them now.

The the courage of armed forces around the world cannot be disputed nor their loyalty to the country they serve, but what of those responsible for deploying them wherever its politics dictates or rather, the politics of whatever party dominates its corridors of power...? Do men and women in the world's armed forces die for their country or to satisfy some hidden, even personal agenda creating a nasty draught in those same corridors.?

Political leaders often have a hidden agenda, that much emerges from their choice of words when called upon to explain or justify their actions, although proving it is invariably another matter...

Oh,  and what of all the innocent men, women and children caught up in conflicts over which they have precious little (if any) say or control? The media may well speculate and those directly affected by the consequences of conflicts around the world will debate in huddles on street corners or - more likely - behind closed doors, and so it goes on,...behind every coffin and injury, questions rarely answered to anyone's complete satisfaction.

BEHIND EVERY COFFIN, ANOTHER QUESTION

We salute the fine men and women

redeployed to fight in the safer interests

of their country, those not returning 

kept safer still in the vaults of memory

We salute the fine men and women

redeployed to fight in the safer interests

of their country, acts of friendly fire

but tragic accidents waiting to happen

We salute the fine men and women

redeployed to fight in the safer interests

of their country, trust any returning

shall feel no insult added to injuries

Who leads in the corridors of power,

redeploying troops in the safer interests

of their country, and by what criteria

does its politics prefer to define ‘safer'?

Who leads in the corridors of power,

redeploying troops in the safer interests

of their country to fight shadows

not into killing by any natural rules?

Who leads in the corridors of power,

redeploying troops in the safer interests

of their country, pledging solidarity

in its newspapers, on radio, and TV? 

What say we to the men and women

redeployed to hell in the safer interests

of their country since no politician

can tell anyone what is really going on?

Behind every question, another coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

 [Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

[Note: Revised (2013) from the original as it appears in print  eds., 2012]

The War Widow

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Tody's post is from the archives of my gay-interest blog for November 2010 after ‘Edith’ (a lady in her 90s) kindly contacted me to say that she and another war widow friend were moved by it. It appears that the friend's great-grandson has taught them to use a computer and access the Internet. I have to say it is wonderful to be contacted by someone from an age group that often has reservations about using the Internet if only because they feel intimidated by new technology. I will be a mere 65 next month but it just goes to show that we are never too old to learn new tricks.

To my surprise, Edith also told me that she enjoys dipping into my gay-interest blog as well my general blog. It appears she has always felt and thought of herself as a war widow since the death of a female partner who joined the Wrens (WRNS) during World War 2. No one knew of their relationship at the time of course. As far as anyone else was concerned they were simply two friends sharing a home. Apparently, they met at school and were secret lovers for some years. She never married or found anyone else to share her life that way but says she feels blessed for having loved and been loved.

Edith, it seems, has led an active life and continues to ‘feel blessed by wonderful friends and neighbours.'

A sad story, yet, beautiful too. Many thanks for sharing it with us Edith. A lesson there, too, perhaps for those only too ready to rush to judgement on LGBT folks worldwide...?

THE WAR WIDOW

A soldier’s widow knelt at his grave,
their children by her side;
comrades-in-arms gathered nearby
wondering (never aloud)
whose turn next to shed tears
at whose grave

A soldier’s widow swore on his grave
to love him till the end of time,
raise their children to take great pride
in a father whose presence
felt with lasting passion nor less
for his absence

The soldier’s widow took the left hand
of a thirty something veteran
who had lost his right hand in Iraq
the first time around
before the Mandarins of Power
had second thoughts

The soldier’s widow rose, took comfort
from the young man’s smile
that shone like a beacon of hope
from his wheelchair
among the wreckage of a life
once thought inviolate

A war widow wipes her children’s tears,
the Last Post ringing hollow in the ears


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Extracts from a Migrant's Diary

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This may well be the last (new) poem I will blog before I go into hospital next week (Monday) for an operation on my infected elbow. As it is my right elbow and I am right-handed, keyboarding will almost certainly take longer for some time. Even so, I will link to posts/poems via my Google Plus site as and when I can. Meanwhile, I hope you will enjoy browsing the blogs as I may be unable to link to poems vis my Google + site as I try to do on a daily basis since being asked by regular readers to make accessing poems easier than random browsing:

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This poem was inspired by a conversation with a migrant from war-torn Syria some months ago.

EXTRACTS FROM A MIGRANT’S DIARY

Dreaming of distant lands,

sapphire seas, golden sands, treasures

of mind-body-spirit

equal to none, prize worthy of a poem,

can’t be measured out in coin  

Dreaming of distant shores,

where birds sing a welcome in the ear,

reflected in the shy smile

of a passer-by, equal to none for peace

and love, cue for a better life

Dreams of landing on the moon,

peering back through time and space,

seeing how Here-and-Now

offers so much more than once a place

to call home before crisis-hit

Waking to street sounds roaring

like a pride of hungry lions hunting prey

in a concrete jungle,

no sapphire sea, golden sand, birdsong

a warning, wishing them gone

Waking to damp stains on walls,

courtesy of landlords whose first language

a rhetoric counted out in coin,

invested in one-upmanship, measure

of a common nouveau status 

Wide awake, fierce stirrings within 
a body-mind-spirit so weary of battling time
and tide, yet forever inspired
by a rage to live, no matter the odds 
against winning the peace

Copyright R. N. Taber2017

Epilogue

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[Update: Oct 6, 2017]: The 2nd Invictus Games, created by Prince Harry, and the only international multi-sporting event for wounded, injured and sick service men and women, have been a great success, not only - and most importantly - in helping the participants to rise above any disability and all the emotional baggage that goes with it, but also in helping able-bodied audiences around the world to appreciate their efforts; disabled people are far too often stereotyped, even all but written off because the less enlightened see only the disability, not the person. More yet needs to be done for war veterans worldwide to encourage those who feel undermined and undervalued by virtue of this or other disability to give them a shared purpose in life, restore self-esteem, let them feel appreciated for who they are and for their self-sacrifice on our behalf without any sense of being patronised. Three Cheers for Prince Harry for having the sensibility and insight to found the event; his mother would have been very proud of him for it.]

November 11, Armistice Day, will see the commemoration of an armistice signed between the Allies and Germany at Compiègne, an agreement that ended the fighting on the Western Fron that went into effect at 11 a.m. Paris time on 11 November 1918. While it marked a victory for the Allies and a complete defeat for Germany, it was not a formal surrender; although the armistice ended all actual fighting, it took six months of negotiations at the Paris Peace Conference to conclude a peace treaty, the Treaty of Versailles.

Today’s poem first appeared under the title, Epilogue in the on-line poetry journal, Ydrasil (2009) and Poetry Monthly International (2010)before I changed the title yet again for my collection. (It sometimes takes a good while for me to feel 'right' about a title.) I wrote it soon after a former soldier I’d met in a bar had been telling me about a friend and former comrade who was in prison. The friend has been found guilty of attacking an ‘innocent’ party who had been goading him about looking better in uniform than in a suit. Apparently, he was on probation at the time. My companion commented, ‘It’s hard. You go to a war zone a whole person but each time you come back it’s like something more of that person is missing. Part of you dies out there or goes AWOL at the very least. I guess how much so is different for everyone…’

Many ex-service personnel (anyone, anywhere) need help to adjust to everyday life once they are home again either on leave or after being discharged. While it is important to help the injured and support the bereaved, there are also men and women who carry no visible signs of having been to war, but are just as much in need of our support and understanding as well as (in some cases) professional counselling. 

The man in the bar told me something else. ‘You have to be tough to fight, really tough. Show any weakness, and if the enemy doesn’t get you, your own side will. Back home, it can often feel like there’s a total stranger living in your skin and the chances are you don’t like that person at all. It's like the old self is all but dead. Sometimes the best part of that old self will make its way back, sometimes not. I dare say it’s the same for both sides in any war…’ He paused before adding tearfully, "It's hard on family and friends. They see a soldier hero, and have no idea..."

All disabled people, and I include forms of mental illness and any struggling to get the better of the likes of post traumatic stress disorders - regardless of race, creed, gender or sexuality - are an inspiration,  heroes of battles they face daily, winning some, losing some, but determined to get the better of both disability and the misleading stereotypes it so often attracts.

This poem is a villanelle.

EPILOGUE

I so look up to you with love and pride

for the finer human traits you nurture
in each, a candle lit for those who died

The first time you went to war, I cried,

while you but longed for adventure;

you fill me with such love, and pride

In Iraq, your worst fears chose to hide

in caches of ‘true grit’ human nature;

in each, a candle lit for those who died

In Afghanistan, you fought side by side

with the bravest, a born again warrior;

I so look up to you with love and pride

You saw friends killed or injured, tried

seeing Hell as but forms of cruel satire,
in each, a candle lit for those who died

You seemed to take it all in your stride,

 heaving the fallen over your shoulder;

 I so look up to you with love and pride,

 in each, a candle lit for those who died

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2016

[Note: This poem appears under the title 'Missing, Believed Killed' in  print editions of Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2012.]

Flotilla of Remembrance

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Today, May 21st 2015, a flotilla of boats will set sail from Ramsgate to mark the 75^th anniversary of the Dunkirk evacuation during World War 2.

This poem is a villanelle.

FLOTILLA OF REMEMBRANCE

To Dunkirk, the little ships did sail

for tens of thousands, backs to the sea;

an awesome task they dare not fail

Its bloody beaches saw hope prevail,

a town on fire, centre-stage for history;

to Dunkirk, the little ships did sail

Ordinary people, answering the call

to play their part for king and country;

an awesome task they dare not fail

Injured and dying due for a miracle

few could believe they would ever see;

to Dunkirk, the little ships did sail

Tens of thousands plucked from hell

under plain sail transcending the ordinary;

an awesome task they dare not fail

Soldiers of Peace, heroes one and all,

applying humanity’s balm, braving its fury;

to Dunkirk, the little ships did sail,

an awesome task they dare not fail

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2015 

[Note: May 27^th - June 4^th 1940 saw the remarkable rescue of tens of thousands of allied troops trapped under enemy fire on the beaches of Dunkirk. ]

V-A-N-I-T-Y, Conversations with a Mirror

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How many of us, I wonder, and how often, dare look to our shortcomings and confront home truths...?

How many more of us, I wonder, act upon what we discover?

This poem is a villanelle.

 V-A-N-I-T-Y, CONVERSATIONS WITH A MIRROR

Mirror, mirror on the wall
all you see I'd share;

talk me true, walk me tall

Mind-Body-Spirit in freefall,

racing heart laid bare;

mirror, mirror on the wall

Pride, answering Ego's call

to pose with flair,

talk me true, walk me tall

Inclined to pose as the Jekyll

in Hyde’s lair;

mirror, mirror on the wall

To the toll of any warning bell,

I'll turn a deaf ear;

talk me true, walk me tall

Home truths haunting me still,

(lies, lies, I swear...);

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

talk me true, walk me tall

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; revised edition in e-format in preparation.]

Playing Dirty, the Politics of War (and Peace)

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It has to be one of human nature’s greater ironies that it invariably deflects the greater blame for its worst tragedies away from itself.

It is called politics.

It is probably fair to say, though, that most if not all of us are no less guilty sometimes than those who tread the Corridors of Power.

PLAYING DIRTY, THE POLITICS OF WAR (AND PEACE)

Last seen standing on the edge of war,

strutting bravery, dreaming of glory,

no conception of carnage gone before,

rewriting, in blood, a nation’s story

Heads high, eager to answer duty’s call,

faith let fly in the wind, flags unfurled,

no one suspecting how many might fall,

prayers unanswered around the world

Victory (as ever) fell on time’s sword,

eleventh hour, day, month, 1918;

no action-replay, we gave them our word,

only to break it again and again…

Heroes, on Time's sword called upon to fall
for the sake of Peace and Goodwill (to all?)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2018

[Note: Revised (2016) version of a poem that  appears under the title 'The Rhetoric of Blame' in   Accomplices to Illusion, by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Giving the Lie to Glory

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[Update, June 17th 2019]: Some readers have said they would like to read some of my poems again but either can’t find them on the blogs or haven’t time to look. Until recently, I was able to link posts/poems past and present to Google + but Google recently deleted its personal G+ sites, retaining only business sites.  A reader, Max, has kindly emailed me to say he misses my Google + site, but “Whenever I find a poem I really like, I make a note of any search words or phrases in the labels column and use them to find more poems …” Well, thank you Max, and I'm sure some readers will find the tip useful and time-saving. For the record, search words and phrases include  climate change, communication, creative therapy, culture, death, depressions, friendship, ghosts, guilt, history, human nature, human spirit, imagination, innocence, inspiration, love, mind-body-spirit, memory, peace, mortality, nature, past-present-future, personal space, posthumous consciousness, peer pressure, prostate cancer, religion, relationships, sexuality, society, time, war and young people, zen... among others. [Another reader has asked why I often hyphenate several nouns to imply they are one; it's because I see them as inseparable one from the other, a continuum in which we human beings are pivotal, for better or worse...

Meanwhile…

I was in a bar once where an injured soldier was being asked about his experiences in Afghanistan. Someone mentioned the word, glory, which met with excited murmurs of approval and expressions of admiration. ‘Glory?’ the young soldier exclaimed in disbelief, ‘You must be kidding! Haven’t you people learned anything?’

Good question...

November 11^th is Armistice Day closely followed by Remembrance Sunday. Since we are only just into October, some people have suggested I should wait until then before posting any poem in remembrance of those who have given their lives in two world wars and subsequent conflicts worldwide as well as those bereaved families left to get on with their lives as best they can; remembering, too, those who have suffered physical and psychological injury and their loved ones who are helping them to live as full as life as possible.

Ah, but every day is an anniversary for those who bear the emotional and/or physical scars of love and loss, in times of war and peace alike.  

Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day, whatever  we call it is an important anniversary; an opportunity for people to come together as a nation to commemorate those who have fought to try and make the world a kinder, safer place in which to live. Nor do I exclude our enemies, most of whom were (and are) ordinary men and women fed the propaganda of unenlightened politics by those they are persuaded to look upon as their 'betters'.

'What passing bells for those who die like cattle?' - Wilfred Owen (Anthem for a Doomed Youth)

This poem is a villanelle

GIVING THE LIE TO GLORY

Sure to give the lie to glory

(for all its medals won)

who live war’s horror story

No contemplating bravery

(the job has to be done)

sure to give the lie to glory

Struggling with the futility

of a friend’s mind blown,

who live war’s horror story

Flagging up a bull for history,

red rag to a politician

sure to give the lie to glory

Proud aloud, scared privately,

in for the duration

who live war’s horror story

Blind eye, tight lip, testimony

to the injured and fallen;

sure to give the lie to glory

who live war’s horror story

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Poppies, for Remembrance

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Today’s poem was written in 2004 and appeared in my 4th collection the following year; it has also appeared in an anthology, The Colour of War, Forward Press, 2011.

I have written almost as many poems about the tragedy of war as I have about the inspiring quality of love, much influenced by the powerful poems of World War I poets like Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Vera Brittain, to name but a few.

The irony cannot be lost on anyone. Given that the horrors of war have been passed on so graphically from generation to generation since, it neither prevented World War II nor this sorry world of ours remaining a battleground for various socio-cultural-religious-political forces worldwide.

Here in the UK, as Armistice Day approaches, many of us buy a poppy as a symbol of remembrance; the money raised goes to the British Legion, a charity that, for many years, has provided financial, social and emotional support to members of the British armed forces, veterans, and their dependants.

National anniversaries of remembrance rightly salute the dead, but the dead would not want those they leave behind or injured friends and colleagues who survive to be forgotten either. Charities like the British Legion  and Help for Heroes have stepped in where successive Governments much prefer not to tread.

Countless poppies, countless tears; hopes, shared by millions for a peaceful world while haunted by the growing sense of a twenty-first century no less inclined than any other to the rhetoric of peace.

  

Photo: Cenotaph war memorial, London (UK)

Created by ceramic artist Paul Cummins with setting by stage designer Tom Piper; ceramic poppies commemorating the centenary of the outbreak of World War scheduled to progressively fill the dry moat around the Tower of London until Armistice Day, November 11th, 2013.

Photo: In the war memorial Neue Wache (Berlin) the moving sculpture, 'Mother and her dead son' by the Berlin artist Kathe Kollwitz says it all...

POPPIES, FOR REMEMBRANCE 

In two world wars, and conflicts since, they died

for love of country, freedom and their own;

shells, mortars, bullets and bombs they defied

so we may reap the rewards they have sown

Let’s remember those who never came back,

(sitting comfortably, watching TV);

Somme, Dunkirk, Korea, Falklands, Iraq...

(So much for the lessons of history!)

The wounded, too, deserve our thanks and pride,

some forgotten, left but to fade away

in pain, loneliness, no one at their side

as fought with them so bravely, won the day

World in remembrance of hope, prayers and tears

for peace in its time to yet end its worst fears

[From: A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Stretcher Bearer

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A boy at my school was being taunted about his grandfather being a 'cowardly conchie' during the First World War. 

When I asked my mum about this she told me that the lad's grandfather had not fought in the war but acted as a stretcher bearer, frequently on the front line of battle, and was no coward. 

She also explained to boy Roger (I would have been about 10 years old at the time) that people who hold fast to their convictions rather than surrender to demands to the contrary are no cowards anyway.

(Image taken from the Internet)

STRETCHER BEARER

I wear a badge of courage

few can see who look for medals

on the chest

or a victory sign to oblige the press

anxious for a story,

but less interested in mine;

I’m no hero, not me,

shooting holes in the glory

of a devotion to duty

I wear a badge of courage

few can see who look for scars

won in battle

or, better still, a crippling injury

that will treat me

to free beers at local bars;

for me, only looks

and words drawn like swords,

politics of all wars

I wear a badge of courage,

will join heads bowed in gratitude

and pride at the finest marble

monuments to its tears, the price

(no choice?) of freedom,

so many would have us believe,

if not the likes of me

left stitching up the glory

of a devotion to duty

Under fire, I, the stretcher bearer,

Front Line conscientious objector

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Real-Life Heroes and Popcorn Soldiers

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I know I have said this before but it never ceases to amaze me how, when terrible clips of deaths and injuries suffered during the war in Afghanistan are shown on TV News, some people - especially children and young people - instead of being appalled, become excited, as if they were watching a war movie!

Oh, but it’s a sad reflection on our times if we cannot get across to everyone how to discriminate between fact and fiction.

REAL-LIFE HEROES AND POPCORN SOLDIERS

Dust, sand and blood

on his boots;

dust, sand and blood

on his uniform;

blood, sweat and tears

on his face;

blood, sweat and tears

in his eyes;

only a quiet heart kept

clean if not safe;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

No dust, sand or blood

on designer shoes;

no dust, sand or blood

on custom tee shirts;

no blood, sweat or tears

in high places;

no blood, sweat or tears

in eyes glued to TV,

only the armchair soldier

biting popcorn bullets;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2010

Turning Point OR Time to Move into the Fast Lane

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Today’s poem is, yes, another villanelle; an earlier version appeared in an anthology, Soulful  Emotions, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in my collection.

Looking out and not being a part of things can make a day pass very slowly.

Looks like it’s decision time…

This poem is a villanelle.

TURNING POINT or TIME TO MOVE INTO THE FAST LANE

Time, it goes slow,

ticking like clock faces 

at a lonely window

Seasons come and go;

world, its shadow chases;

time, it goes slow

Tears may well flow

for a love the mind places

at a lonely window

Oh, dare not follow

where the pulse races ... ?

Time, it goes slow

Heart gouged hollow

as the beast, Fear, surfaces

at a lonely window

Come, adrenaline. flow,

put life through its paces!

Time, it goes slow
at a lonely window

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books,  2004.]

War, War, War

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D-Day June 6^th 1945 was the beginning of what was meant to be an end; an end to World War 2, that is. And, yes it was....Ah, but an end to war? Fat chance!

Today and always, out thoughts, thanks and admiration go to fighting men and women around the world; to their families as well, left to fight battles of a different if no less anxious kind on Home Fronts just about everywhere...

It is one of humankind's greater tragedies that the cost of war in terms of its suffering is always so high, while any subsequent peace never quite enough.

Our hearts go out to men, women, and children caught up in bitter conflicts around the world and to the millions of refugees displaced by them...while those in whose hands Peace lies sleeping continue to play politics.

WAR, WAR, WAR

Great grandpa died in the First World War
alongside other brave men
who thought it was the war to end all wars,
but…it happened again

Grandpa was killed in the Second World War
alongside other brave men
who thought to win a kinder, safer, world,
but…it happened again

My father went to fight in the Falklands War
alongside other brave men;
mixed feelings about why they were there,
and…it happened again

My brother was injured in the First Gulf War
alongside other brave men
who little thought they would be coming back
to fight much the same war again

My sister is on active service  in Afghanistan

alongside other men and women

for whom bravery is all but second nature,

part of a job that needs to be done

War is always in the news, its men and women

immortalised in prayer and song;
My mother always says the doves of peace

are too scared of us to stay long

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]