Cold War Warrior.

A bit tongue in cheek this one, but it’s amazing how quickly the, then real, fears of nuclear warfare were forgotten once the wall came down.

Cold War Warrior.

Cold war warriors, that’s what we were,
not showered with fame or with glory.
No coloured ribbons or medals were struck
that would help us remember our story.

Then Europe was not like it is now,
united, the East and the West,
for behind a vast iron curtain
a Soviet army had massed.

Berlin itself was divided,
split by a quickly built wall,
an island in Germany’s heartland,
the West waited for it to fall.

After Kennedy facing off Khrushchev,
NATO prepared for the worst.
The nuclear warheads were readied,
we wondered who’d fire them first.

We waited and trained in Westphalia,
the Rhine Army watching the Red
and in NBC suits, and in gas masks,
prepared for the conflict ahead.

The Beatles played on in the Cavern,
girls screamed just to see them perform,
but we listened out for the siren,
that of an incursion would warn.

At dead of night, we’d hear its wail
and stumble from beds in the dark,
pull on our boots, grab kit ready packed
and sprint to the vehicle park.

A regiment readied, the call to mount up,
the clatter of tanks on the ground.
A radio check and a long, long wait…
Would we go? Or would we stand down?

It’s hard to imagine the world was like that
now the East and the West are all friends,
but the Cold War Warrior still can recall
his worries of where it would end.

My Old Dictionary.

On being given the brief, ‘write a poem about an inanimate object,’ I was not immediately filled with enthusiasm. An inanimate object, like a still life when painting, would not be subject matter I would normally choose. However, in both cases, the subject can seem to take on a life of its own once work has commenced.

My Old Dictionary.

You lay on my desk,
dropped carelessly, like litter.
Your spine as stretched and split
as bark peeling from a tree,
exposing the torn brown linen
of your broken binding.

Your front cover is askew.
A skater trying to regain balance,
falling back, feet skidding forward.
Showing well-thumbed corners
curling up from stacked, yellowed,
and liver spotted pages.

Grubby and finger searched,
yet faint gold letters hint,
at your value, your importance.
Cool to touch, friendly to feel,
I breathe your musty breath
and search to find certainty
within your ageing wisdom.

The Gypsy in Me.

My father used to say, whenever we passed gypsies at the roadside, ‘Look, wave to our country cousins.’ He was referring to a tale told to him by his father, of gypsy blood in the family many generations back.

Later, when researching family history, I made contact with a distant branch of the family in New Zealand who added weight to this tale as the same story had been passed down their line of the family.

It appears that there was some liaison with a Romany who came across from Brittany while the family was living in the Thornbury area of Gloucestershire. Unfortunately no details are known, or seem to have been recorded; this has often made me wonder?

The Gypsy in me.

There’s gypsy in me, so I’m told
it’s in my bloodline, in my genes.
It’s why I crave the open air
and open spaces, wild and free,
are places where I need to be.

Some dark liaison long ago
has left a lasting legacy
of restlessness and itchy feet
that feel the need to up and roam
although I’m happy here at home.

Perhaps a gypsy boy, so bold,
had charmed a milk maid with his song
or dark haired beauty’s flashing eyes
did search inside a ploughman’s soul
and steal away his self control.

Just who it was I’ll never know,
of how they loved, or lived their lives
of where they travelled, when and why.
Which Romany had broke their code
and lingered with a Gorgio.

When van and vanners rest nearby
their wood-smoke wafting on the breeze
dogs barking, children, wild, untamed.
If then, I feel affinity,
it’s just the gypsy, that’s in me.

Déjá vu

We’ve all experienced it I guess, that feeling that we’ve been somewhere or heard something before, but know full well that there is no way we could have. Or perhaps I just spend too much time alone in the woods. You will have to decide.

Déjá vu

Leaves are rustling overhead,
caressed by gentle breeze.
Whispers born of unseen breath
are calling down to me.
Although I try to listen
I can’t quite catch the words.
a message from a misty past,
remains, remote, unheard.

In dappled shadows of my mind
forgotten feelings grow.
Some lost association
from a time I could not know.
Beyond my understanding,
yet I know it in my bones,
that this is not the first time
I have heard these ancient tones.

The sultry summer sun is warm
but now my blood runs chill
and shivers trickle down my spine.
The woodland grows quite still.
Aware that I am being watched
by eyes that are not there.
I search among the undergrowth
and seek that icy stare.

But I am standing here alone
around me only trees.
Surrounded just by silence
and a presence I can’t please.
At last the birds begin to sing,
once more I start to breathe.
That haunting voice is quiet now,
I quickly take my leave.