Closet Fear

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Yet again, I have been asked to publish a gay-interest post/poem on this blog; it has been on my gay-interest blog for several years. A reader writes, "I have a pc at home, but dare not risk reading your gay blog, and have to go to my local public library for that. I know that some members of my family read your general blog so please post more gay poems there so they might yet come to understand that being gay is neither crime nor sin."  Whether the writer is male of female, I have no idea, but I hope the poem helps, at least in part, to bring any family members to a greater understanding of the human heart as a free country and any God as a God of Love, regardless of any contradictory dogma by this or that religion. 

Here in the West, it has been my experience that many gay people take freedom of sexual identity for granted.  True, there is no denying that homophobia is still alive and kicking. Yet, I have listened over the years to chilling tales of how it is to be gay in countries where same sex relationships remain a criminal offence (Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia and various African countries among many) punishable by a public whipping, prison or worse. I have learned to count my blessings…even during those low points in my life when they may otherwise have seemed too thin on the ground for much comfort.

Yes, the heart is a free country, not a prison; wherever its every beat expresses fear of exposure under pain of punishment, even death, that's more than an abuse of Human Rights, but makes any of any religious dogma advocating it the greater abuse or sin against humanity by far. Religion is meant to be an expression of love; no God of Love would condone hate crime in any shape or form. I left my local Church Sunday School for this very reason at the age of ten years, four years before I realised and acknowledged (to myself at least) that I am gay. 

It is a tragedy for the West that many if not most immigrant families bring their religious dogma with them, forcing their gay young people into the kind of closet that public opinion forced me into years ago; one which resulted in a mental breakdown in my early 30's and a suicide attempt. Even now, I bitterly regret not coming out to family, friends and work colleagues, whatever their take on homosexuality, until my early 40's. Regular readers will know that I do not subscribe to any religion. At the same time, nor do I consider religion to have a monopoly on a sense of spirituality; the latter and homosexuality (or gender identity) are not incompatible. As I have said so many times on both blogs, our differences do not make us different, only human.

CLOSET FEAR

No one can know we’re lovers,

everyone sees us as good friends

or lany peace of mind for love stands

no chance

No one can know we share a bed

whenever I stay over at your place,

taking each day as it comes, for good

or ill

No one can know we’re gay men

playing hide-and-seek with shadows,

one mind-body-spirit no less deserving

of nurture

No one must guess our secret,

war weary of judgmental stereotypes

dragging us down even as we recharge

its batteries

No one must catch a single look

between us that even hints at a story

that dare not be told though reworked

for centuries

No one must guess we’re lovers

who would cheer us publicly stoned

to death to satisfy an inhumanity baying

for blood

Yet, we will lie, bodies entwined,

away from prying eyes and loose talk,

make love among far kinder hypotheses,

dream on…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

  

A Gay Bashing

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

This post/poem has been available on my gay-interest blog for a few years. I am repeating it here at the request of an overseas reader whose best friend was beaten to death by gang of homophobic thugs only last year. No witnesses have come forward so the perpetrators have not been identified.  To date, no one has been charged with the young man’s senseless murder.

Meanwhile, I know of at least one closet gay reader who has participated in n attack on another gay man because he did not want to lose face with his so-called 'friends'. (What is it with some societies that they continue to impose pressure on LGBT people to play chameleon rather than look the world in the eye as they are?)

Now, it is one of the many tragedies of modern life that there are (still) people and groups of people that are so screwed up as to want to see an gay or transgender person hurt, even dead.

Politics, religion, a common humanity…all have their part to play in getting the message across to certain pockets of society that gay and transgender folks are just ordinary people who want to be left to go about their daily lives in peace. How we like sex and with whom is our own business.

Does a perspective on how (or even if) we like sex loom large in our appreciation of society as a whole? Did I hear you answer, no? So why should it matter if a person is gay?

Gay people are not irreligious monsters, although some religions would (still) make us outcasts…or worse.

It is also a myth that gay people are paedophiles. Historically, the vast majority of paedophiles are screwed up heterosexuals.

So come on, you holier-than-thou brigade and you others too busy playing lip service to political correctness to see the wood for trees…give us gay people (among others, worldwide) a chance to prove our worth, yeah?

What’s that? Gay people have never had it so good, did you say?

In 76 countries, gay relationships are still a criminal offence and punishable by death in six. 

As with all forms of prejudice, the expression it takes is likely to turn on the socio-cultural-religious/ home-school-work environment in which people live…in a century that still has one hell of a lot to learn about love, peace, and a common humanity.

Gay bashing is not the only form of hate crime of course; none should be tolerated by decent people, local communities or countries worldwide.

 A GAY BASHING 

Found him late at night, bleeding 

in a street gutter, near dead

His fine features an ugly sight, 

white shirt turning red...

Called an ambulance, did all I could

to comfort, help ease his pain,

but it seemed a long time coming,

and he but barely breathing

as I struggled to speak, anxious

he stay awake, so scared 

for him that he close his eyes

never to hear a human voice again,

feel its warmth spread over him 

like my overcoat, not yells of abuse

chasing him down centuries,

spilling their ignorance and hate 

on streets much like this one

with more horrendous tales to relate

for any who care to listen

A light rain began to fall like tears

(a God of Love empathising?)

I, too, wept that he might even die

believing the world against him

and siding with its sick homophobes

even though a part of me knew

it was already too late - for them

as for him - given a world 

barely even paying lip service 

to LGBT folks in parts,

hearts sporting logos set in tablets

of stone, fronting public roles

that embrace liberality and equality

while inwardly egging on

the sheer bestiality of any criminality 

seen as justified wherever LGBT

spells SCUM, deserving no less,

no matter if (supposedly) we all of us

share a common humanity

Left near drowning in a sea of sirens, 

we'll yet draw strength from straws

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Carnage in Colombo

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

While the awful death toll in the recent Easter Sunday attacks on churches and hotels in Colombo continues to rise, the so-called Islamic State terrorist organization, ISIS, has claimed responsibility although Sri Lankan officials have blamed two local Islamic extremist groups for the bombings albeit almost certainly with ‘outside help’.

Reports suggest the preliminary investigation shows the attack was "retaliation" for the March 15 massacre of Muslims at mosques in New Zealand.

It has emerged that early warnings from India's intelligence services to Sri Lankan officials ahead of the bombings were based on information gleaned from an ISIS suspect, but these were neither passed on to politicians nor acted upon. Understandably, a Sri Lanka in mourning is also one nursing disbelief and rising anger.

While I respect those religious people who practise what they preach and don't just play lip service to advocating peace and goodwill to all humankind - and I have met many, albeit in a minority relative to their numbers (possibly because I am gay?) - I have never regretted abandoning religion for nature. 

Oh, nature is not always kind ... and human nature is ...?

CARNAGE IN COLOMBO

One bomb, two bombs, three bombs,

and more; shock, carnage,

fear and (yes, already grief) on streets

soaked in blood and tears;

too soon, yet, to play the blame game,

waiting in the wings …

A day of religious celebration savaged

by manic extremists,

with no care or respect but for their own

perverted concept of right

and wrong in what they see as a fight

for … what, exactly?

World media excitedly paying attention

to a human-interest story

with all the ingredients of a pot boiler

while real families weep,

will probably never sleep fitfully again

in their lifetimes

Oh but ‘acts of terror’ sounding better

over dessert than cold-blooded murder

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

(April 24^th 2019)

In the Face of One--eyed Jacks

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Since the early days of the so-called Arab Spring, civil war has caused untold suffering to the Syrian population. Anti-government protests had been ongoing in the Syrian city of Hama since March 2011, when large protests broke out in the city, similar to others elsewhere. In July, the Government sent the Syrian Army into Hama to control protests on the eve of Ramadan, often referred to as the ‘Ramadan Massacre.’

Ever since, both security forces and “rebels” have carried out numerous large-scale operations, resulting in mass executions, killings, arrests, kidnappings and torture across Syria. Many families and elderly people are suffering above all from the shortage of electricity, water and lack of food/ medical supplies; frequently they no longer have a home. There are blackouts several times during the day, and gasoline is rationed. No one knows when or where the next bomb will fall.

There has to be a diplomatic solution although the neutral observer may well feel prompted to ask  whether - in the murky world of politics - that old saying, ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ is not more aptly applied to expediency than to will … on anyone’s part? If inhumanity is a vicious circle, it is one that's drawn and expanded by human beings.

This poem is a villanelle.

IN THE FACE OF ONE-EYED JACKS

Watch inhumanity boxing clever

as the toll of dead and injured grows;

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria

As face-saving excuses endeavour

to explain away as its politics allows,

watch inhumanity boxing clever

Freedom, a dirty word, all the surer

for (ever) wiping its poor bloody nose;

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria

A century’s children living in terror,

all innocence cheated of its tomorrows,

watch inhumanity boxing clever

No stranger to either war or massacre,

(cue for United Nations to strike a pose)

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria

May humanity yet endure, be the leader

sheer common sense alone sure to choose;

watch inhumanity boxing clever,

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria …

London: April 2018

Copyright R N. Taber 2018 

[Note: A cyclops is described in ancient Greek and Roman mythology as from a primordial race of giants, each with a single eye in the centre of the forehead; the word "cyclops" literally means "round-eyed" or "circle-eyed".  – Wikipedia]

W-A-R, Crucible of Remembrance

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Now and then, I receive emails from ordinary men and women who have lost loved ones in one or other of the world’s a war zones, and seek peace of mind.

Every death deserves a poem. Sadly, though, the Muse cannot keep pace with it all. As for peace of mind, there is little enough of that to be found in a war zone, whether it be in Ukraine, Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Gaza…wherever.

Let us give some thought, too, to the survivors of those life-or-death battles around the world in which involvement they may, rightly or wrongly, take pride, while I suspect they, like the rest of us, can but struggle to find words to justify it all. Oh, plenty of excuses under cover of various socio-cultural-religious-political camouflage, but justification in real (human) terms...?

We should also bear in mind, of course, that we are all but human beings trying to do what we think is right; there are casualties on both sides of any conflict, their loved ones, too, left behind to try and pick up the pieces of a fragmented life.

Tragically, while love may well nurture dreams that last forever, the world’s power-hungry vultures from various quasi-cultural/ religious/political backgrounds are inclined to do the same for its nightmares.

W-A-R, CRUCIBLE OF REMEMBRANCE

Blood on the grass, blood on the mud,

evening skies spilling the blood

of dying and wounded on sand, on sea,

sacrifices meant to set the world free

Blood on the hands helping comrades

to call out and challenge Hades;

blood on the pillow, blood on the sheet

where love’s worst nightmares meet

Blood on the ceiling, the lamp shade too,

bloodshot eyes still weeping for you;

bloody, the colour of your lips and warm,

defying nightmares to save a dream

Blood on the grass, blood on the sands,

rites of passages no one understands;

though it shed blood (in whatever name)

to a common humanity, the same dream

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2014

Plight of the Yazidis OR Another Bloody Stain on the Landscape of Religion

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update: May 2018:The plight of the Yazidi people continues...]

[Update: November 15th 2015: The Yazidi people continue to suffer indescribable atrocities at the
hands of the cowardly murderers calling themselves Islamic State. Iraqi Kurds have retaken Sinjar from IS so there is light at the end of the tunnel for this minority group, at least for now. Out hearts go out to them and hopes that these I S psychopaths will eventually be wiped from the face of the earth as they deserve.]

Tens of thousands of Yazidis - mostly women and children - were forced to flee to Mount Sinjar, in north-west Iraq when the militant Islamic State (formerly ISIS) recently overran the Sinjar region.

The Yazidis have been surrounded by the militants for days in blistering heat, and with little food or water. Many have died. Thanks to the actions of the Kurdish peshmerga forces and US air strikes targeting the militants, many have now been able to cross into Syria and return to Kurdistan, but many others remain trapped. 

There have been reports of anyone refusing to convert to Islam being summarily executed by Islamic State, taken into slavery, and even buried alive.

All religious fundamentalists are a disgrace to their religion and to humanity. When will they ever learn...?

[Update, May 3rd 2015: Thousands of Yazidi men, woman and children have been massacred by so-called 'Islamic State' in northern Iraq.  Yet, acts of such appalling abuse against humanity and Islam continue to attract followers, especially among young, disaffected Muslims across Europe. ]

PLIGHT OF THE YAZIDIS or ANOTHER BLOODY STAIN ON THE LANDSCAPE OF RELIGION

Victims of a radical Islamic obsession

men, women and children, no safe haven,

under siege on a mountain

Misunderstood by many for centuries

(a common perception, devil worshippers)

a veil over the world’s eyes

Defiant, proud, pursued into the glare

of a sorry world’s shortcomings and media,

focusing on their terror

Islamic State (ISIS) as dark a force as evil,

rallying to a flag as black as any terror-devil

might well raise at will

World, wringing its hands at their misery,

does what it can, little enough for the Yazidi

children of the century

Islamic State, swathe of horrific obsession,

raping body, mind and spirit of a pure religion,

impregnating a generation

London, August 11th 2014

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Beyond Christmas OR Whatever Happened to Peace on Earth and Goodwill to All?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Come Boxing Day, we may well already be starting to look beyond Christmas. Oh, but if only the spirit of Christmas - and other religious festivals - might endure, messages of peace and love be heard around the world, especially in those parts where bitter conflict persists. Fat chance, little hope, beautiful dream ...? Why so, given that where there is the will there is (supposedly) a way...?  

As a child, I once asked a complete stranger standing next to me at a carol concert, what happened to 'peace on earth' and 'good will to men' after hearing 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day' at a carol concert. He did not hesitate, but replied in two words, politics and religion. I thought he was being sarcastic. Some 50+ years on, I look around and see only too plainly what he meant. On the arre occasions I have heard that particular carol  - based on a poem by Longfellow - sung again, i understand his despair and only wish I could enter into his ultimate optimism for the human race. Even so, hope springs eternal...and if we all play our part, who knows...?

Now, I have friends who are Christians and feel I am missing out because I don’t believe in God in any religious sense but take what I like to think of as a sense of spirituality from nature. 

Well, as I see it, no religion is all about its interpretation of God, but also about humanity. (Interpretations of God as a homophobe are as absurd as they are pathetic.) Take the humanity out of the religion and what's left is not worth having. (Fundamentalists haven't a clue!) Nor does religion have a monopoly on spirituality.

Now, whether we choose to believe in God or not, all world religions have much to say about humanity that is well worth listening to; some would do well to pay more attention themselves. It may well be that any given religion is a closed shop, members only, but interpretations of it remain open access to anyone at all times.

In those parts of the world where people are still persecuted for their sexuality and/or democratic principles, we can but wish them peace and love. As for their persecutors, especially those arrogant, evangelical types who are a plague on all our houses, (especially in parts of Africa) but other bigots and despots too, whatever socio-cultural-religious excuses they may care to make for their behavior, they would do well to remember that what goes around invariably comes around…

I have met many open-hearted people (from all religions) who have put to me that our only hope for a better, kinder, more peaceful world is to make ripples if not waves in our own home-school-work environment and trust they may yet spread. Food for thought, indeed...

BEYOND CHRISTMAS or WHATEVER HAPPENED TO PEACE ON EARTH AND GOODWILL TO ALL?

Christmas spirit can’t always connect
with peace in parts of a sorry world
divided by crises, all failing to reflect  
even hidden meanings in the word

Wherever colour, sex, sexuality or creed
tell dark tales, let light in, hear love call
by way of answering a basic human need,
body, mind, and spirit seeking to fulfil

Where mortality respects no boundaries,
conflict deaf to cries for a lasting peace,
love continues to tell its beautiful stories,
bring hope to each and every one of us

Christmas says much for love’s spirituality,
common even to a divided humanity 

Copyright R N. Taber, 2007; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1st eds. of Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revided ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Home Grown

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update 20/4/17: Yet again our hearts go out to the people of France after a police officer was killed and colleagues wounded in a terrorist attack on the Champs Elysees in Paris; our thoughts are with their families and friends as well as other colleagues who, of course, risk their lives every day during these dark times. On Sunday the French people will elect a new president. He or she will face a tough task ahead, not least - along with security forces worldwide - in thwarting the growth of home grown terrorism. Open borders are a wonderful sentiment, but impractical given the times in which we live; border checks are a necessary evil and anyone who cannot see that is well and truly blinkered. It would appear that prisons, too, are a breeding ground for home grown terrorism so security forces worldwide need to monitor anyone released who may be suspected of being radicalised; this is not an infringement of civil liberties, but plain common sense.]

Terrorism remains a global threat from fundamentalists and fanatics who think they are right so everyone else must be wrong. Tragically, their message is one of warped idealism, but idealism all the same to which young people especially are vulnerable; few have sufficient experience of life to appreciate that there are more subtle (f no less effective) ways to help initiate change for the better in what, after all, is a much flawed world for all its focus on progress.

Most if not all of us, too, have our own private terrors within our own personal space; many of these are spirited away into the rose coloured mists of time by kinder forces to which we become more sensitive we grow up, but ... rarely if ever completely.

Before we can hope to defeat global terrorists perhaps we (and they) need to address and rise above our own private terrors?

HOME GROWN

A cry in the night, could be

human or beast,

sneaking past the Old Man

like a snake

A stalking star, fallen upon

its victim?

Feet dead, thought paralysed

by indecision...

Someone badly needs help,

but in what direction?

Probably a cat, trapped in that 

dark alley’s jaws

Quiet. Blood rediscovering its

everyday route...

Mind functioning sufficiently

to agree inaction

Body heading for home, as if

never disturbed

A cry in the night, marking us

for human or beast;

heart beating madly, madness

everywhere

Of global terrors, none greater

than home grown

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Note: The original cover design for this collection is by my dear friend Graham Collett who has designed  covers for (many) other books besides mine in the course of his full-time job as a graphic designer. He also finds time to shoot the videos for my You Tube channel:  

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber. 

I am fortunate indeed to call him my best friend. 

Beyond Belief

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

An earlier version of today’s poem first appeared in an anthology, Echoes of War, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 and subsequently in my collection the following year.

Now, regular readers will be aware that have revised some poems since they first appeared in my collections and on my blogs. Some readers say they prefer the original version, but most prefer the revised version. All ask why I posted/published the original version if it was likely to be revised later. Well, at the time I wrote it, I saw it as a complete poem not the genesis for another. Years on, I read some of my earlier poems and can see where they fail, to one degree or another, either because they don’t say quite sat what I meant to say or don’t say it at all.

Once I get back inside a poem, I can see where the cracks need filling, not merely papered over. Writing a poem from the outside working inwards is very different to writing from the inside and working outwards.  Yes, the original is written from within the poet, but he or she only created the poem head and heart have shaped; the poem itself, as a developing organism,  needs to have say in that development.

Creating a poem is one thing and, yes, sometimes it is enough, but not always; any further development will comes late so long as the writer leaves room in the poem for that, and I always do. Moreover, I have always had a sense of this with my poems so always kept in mind that I would need to publish new editions of my collections at some point to allow for and include revisions/developments in some poems.  [Revisions that appear on my blogs will appear in new editions after 2015.]

From time to time, someone gets in touch to say he or she enjoyed both an original and revised revision of a poem, but especially enjoyed comparing the two.  One reader wrote to say they found it ‘intriguing’ to look inside my head and see how an original version of a poem led into the later version.  

While I dare say critics will see some of my poems as failures (they may well be right) I see them as relating to the person/poet I was at the time I wrote them. Hopefully, I have changed with passing time (hopefully for the better); similarly, my poetry. Readers are welcome to form their own opinion. Whatever, having written something, it make sense to share it, surely? So I have published my collections since 2001 and feedback, plus the changing nature of my own personal space. will result in new editions after the publication of a final collection - Diary of a Time Traveller in 2015 - when I hit 70.

Now, there is more than one take on aspiration, and somewhere along the line we have to make choices; sometimes it may seem as if the choice is whether or not we are prepared to let someone else make that choice for us. But isn’t that just passing the buck?

Whatever, few things on this earth are anywhere near as simple as we try to make them appear, certainly not that complex network of communications, missed communications,  mixed messages and calls for commitment that comprise the human mind.

BEYOND BELIEF

Some say he sought freedom,

preferring martyrdom to repression;

others point to sentiments

expressed pertaining to the zeal

of a fundamentalist

waging war against the world

armed with Holy Word

Some say he followed a star,

near blinded by its glorious light;

others call him a Messiah

come in peace with a fire in his belly

no one could extinguish,

a measure of anguish fuelling

growing desperation

Some say, he was brainwashed

as a child, taught how the finest ends

justify appalling means,

suicide as a political statement

absolving conscience

from the agony heaped on body bags

at a roadside

Some call him a Dark Angel

that did not know him as well as she

who knew his fears,

saw tears fall, final choices made,

sent alone, small and scared

to brave The Word, bomb the world,

no one spared

Ashes, poor apology for a sorry world

and its every word

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2012

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

Last Post

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update March 12 2018]:Today’s poems (on both blogs) a were written especially for Remembrance Sunday. I am repeating them here not only because 2018 marks 100 years since the end of World War 2 but also because we should always remember.

'They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.' -  a stanza from 'For the Fallen' by Robert Laurence Binyon 

(1869-1943) as published in The Times newspaper on 21^st September 1914.

Yes, let us remember always...not only our war dead and their families but also those wounded in wars past and present and their continuing battle with pain just for getting on with their everyday lives in ways so many of us take for granted. We owe them...and how!

Ah, but when will humankind ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn...?

LAST POST

They shot me down on foreign soil
and the first sound I heard was a child’s cry
at the moment of birth
and I wished the child and parents well,
that they would see a kinder end
than me, wracked with pain, no less so
for knowing I would never see
either homeland or loved ones again
yet had done my best (can anyone
do more?) and had no regrets but one
about fighting a war like this

A continuing absence of peace

They lay a black cloth over my face
so I should not see comrades close to tears
for the worst of fears
we put behind us who fight such wars
as we don’t always understand
but do our duty though it be in a land
as far away from the pub
on the corner of our street as heaven
from hell where they all but meet
here in Afghanistan

A continuing absence of peace

They put me in a box and closed the lid
so I would not feel the tears of passing clouds
on the journey home
or hear the strains of the Last Post
acknowledge me gone
nor see the flags lowered as silent crowds
line the streets of a small town
taking me to their hearts as if I were one
of their own, as they have done
for others like me, making our journey
less lonely for this

A lasting empathy with peace

The first sound I heard as they lowered me
into the earth was a child’s cry at the moment
of birth and I wished the child
and parents well in a kinder world than this
that saw me fight to save it
from a hell of its own making, no less so
for centuries of tradition
and a culture of oppression seeking
to break free while keeping faith
with its finer principles and (far) kinder
ways than this

A continuing absence of peace

“A good person, worthy sacrifice, fine soldier...”
Too late, I cannot hear.

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999, 2010

This second poem is a villanelle, written July 2009 to mark the death of Harry Patch, the last British veteran of the First World War.

A FEELING FOR PEACE AND QUIET

On old Memory Lane, all is quiet
for those who fought a war to end war
so we may make our peace with it

Among cries of the fallen, a shout,
(At ’em lads, at ’em, that’s the score!);
on old Memory Lane all is quiet

They bore old age, faces firmly set
to do them proud who had gone before
so we may make our peace with it

We will always be in their debt,
dead and wounded on a foreign shore;
on old Memory Lane all is quiet

We must never even try to forget
those whose freedom’s colours wore
so we may make our peace with it

War, war and still more of it yet;
on the landscape of love, a weeping sore;
on old Memory Lane, all is quiet
so we may make our peace with it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: 'Last Post' first appeared on the Internet in Ygdrasil, an online poetry journal 1999; both poems are included in my collection On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]