Poetry

He fought a war.
His mate lying next to him in the trench,
Bloodied and dead from shrapnel,
At eighty,
Was still fresh in his mind.
His hands shook as he told me.
He had heard stories about playing football
At Christmas with the enemy.
Except all they were then was the other side,
The men with families at home,
Who wanted their sons and daughters to go to school
And have good lives.
They were both fighting for the same freedom,
Freedom from plastering walls with money
Because it was cheaper than wallpaper,
Freedom from persecution
For being a Jew,
Or a Palestinian.
That was the story he wanted told,
He had asked me to tell it for him.
I didn’t. I couldn’t.
It didn’t suit the corporate sponsors.
No. War was to be glamourised.
And the freedoms once fought with
Scarred muscle and scarred minds
Are to be buried on the hallowed ground
Of an accountant’s desk and PR risk.
Freedom, the idea worth fighting for,
It seems,
Is not to be lived.

yesterday’s house building brought
only chocolate around the belly,
eyes fallen into disuse,
a heart that lacks.
and today,
writing an obituary for tomorrow,
this body is mistaken
for something that might last,
thoughts for the truth,
and desires for the need
of all beings.
time to burn down the house,
and sing praises
to all that lives