Shooting Pains - Richard Fleming

Another day, another mall,
another shooting to appall
the world, astonished, that looks on
and, once again, the ghastly spawn
of frontier days produces nerds
who shoot, as though at bison herds,
and random bullets rip apart
some stranger’s brain, her lung, his heart.
For seconds, time’s arrested, then
restarts: the screaming starts again
in this red space, Hell’s ghastly twin,
as mall-security kicks in
too late, of course: the murdered child,
eviscerated and defiled,
the adults’ bodies, gutted, thrown
aside like debris, entrails, bone
exposed. These people won’t resume
their lively shopping in this tomb.
The shooter’s down: restrained, he screams
about his foul, frustrated dreams.
As sirens shriek, survivors cling,
to one another, anything
that has a heart that’s beating yet.
Blood spreads like a grotesque rosette.
 
Richard Fleming


Image : conversationprints.com

Young Nicolai - Richard Fleming

Young Nicolai was made to fight.
He didn’t think that it was right
but sometimes men just have to do
what men are told and march on cue.
The Leader said, now, here’s a sword,
chop someone up if you get bored
but make sure it’s the enemy.
You’re going on a jolly spree
and there’s a shield to keep at bay
those you may meet with on the way:
unpleasant types that might resist
your presence, but you must insist
their land is yours, you have the right
to seize it. Should they dare to fight,
just do some chopping, kill a few
and lots of medals will accrue.
Young Nicolai was very scared
and as a soldier, unprepared,
to go off with a sword and shield
to battle in a neighbour’s field.
To his surprise, when he got there
it didn’t really seem quite fair:
the enemy had such small knives
and some of them were daughters, wives,
in fact, not quite the monsters he
was told the enemy would be:
they had no swords or shields at all.
A stout babushka in a shawl
waved her old fist and cried, go back
(a strange way to repel attack).
The worst of it was that they seemed
so much like him. He never dreamed
that enemies, the sort we cuss,
are pretty much the same as us.
Brave Nicolai fought a good fight:
he chopped to left, he lopped to right,
but, by the time that he had stopped,
so many still remained un-chopped.
It seemed that they would not submit.
He tried to make some sense of it.
but, though he pondered, long and hard,
amidst the rubble, black and charred,
no answer came. That’s hardly strange,
for war is war. Things never change.

Richard Fleming

Image : Berserker - one of the Lewis Chessmen

The Bear's Tears - Stephen A. Roberts

the Stranglers back in the cold war
sang no more heroes any more
Tina Turner didn’t need one too
but now it turns out that we do
a former purveyor of stand up gags
stood up would not be gagged
walking tall in the ruined cities
Russia’s nemesis Volodymyr Zelensky
he defies the forces so maleficial
tanks that come bearing his initial
are soon toasted by the inhabitants
with flaming spirits and panzerfausts
an echo of the Reich - an ironic twist
as they blow apart the new iron fist
how can this madman's desires be sated
in new Aleppos bombed and cratered?
on the state run TV news
brave words appear, Putin accused
on a placard behind the presenter
held up by the beautiful dissenter
I fear for her and all her kin
the true heroes digging in
manning makeshift barricades
against the random fusillades
from the sky the evil comes
thermobaric and cluster bombs
Mariupol theatre is blown apart
random shelling is destroying art
violating all accepted norms
sickeningly the hospital burns
a mother dies with child inside
tell me that you didn’t cry
to see stickers green yellow red black
affixed to victims of the attacks
what can we offer them
apart from weapons and hand-wringing men
a spare room for £350 a week
come and stay with the woken meek
watching aghast on 85 inch screens
to find out that it seems
they are people just like us
with nannies, pets and all that stuff
let’s empty out a few glad rags
into some charity bound refuse bags
might we see our discarded trews
worn by a refugee on the news
running past a Smart car on fire
from the Syrian guns for hire
meanwhile in a Kyiv Oblast field
before the bride in combats he kneeled
they believe in what they’re doing
there is hope among the ruins
at the wedding - no red flowers -
just a few last precious hours
some moments of serenity
in the midst of this insanity
(and if I believed it would do any good
then pray for them I surely would)
the oligarchs are not ashamed
they listen to weasel words of blame
then transfer everything away
to avoid the financial judgment day
now there comes some talk of peace
to make a deal with the beast
though while they sat down to their talks
missiles rained down on Mariupol port
Europe again hangs in the balance
in the shadow of nuclear weapons
Mother Russia weeps to see
her evil child's atrocities
In body bags the awful proof
Of the cost to conscripted youth
from this dirty war, this genocide
for which those guilty must be tried
the resistance is an example to us all
think: what happens next if they fall
brave Ukraine please do not falter
don’t be a sacrifice on mad Vlad's altar

Stephen A. Roberts

Confession To A Murder - Donald Keyman

To a woodland glade 
with a brand new spade 
in the middle of the night
I know that it’s not right
I’ve claimed one more
I’m beyond the law
You better stop me soon
From playing my tune
But maybe it’s too late
Here comes the middle eight
There’s a deadly toll
In that grassy knoll 
They’re beside the tracks
I’m hazy on the facts
But you did your best
It’s lucky I confessed

Donald Keyman

Image : Pixabay - jarmoluk

The System - Ian Duquemin

The warning signs were in his eyes
The pain was locked away inside
His body beaten black and blue
From every punch his parents threw 
And yet not one reached out to him 
The evidence was on his skin
His fear so obvious to see
A short life spent in agony 
Locked away alone to cry
Yet no one ever wondered why? 
No food or toys. No time to play
No bed for him to sleep and lay
No one rang the warning bell
To save this child from living hell
To wrap him in a caring arm
And keep him safe from any harm
"The system" let this poor boy die
Of that "The system" can't deny
How many more will die the same? 
And you "The system" still to blame
These children, they depend on you 
To see things from a child's view 
To hear the things they need to say
Not leave them there, and turn away
Another victim of abuse 
"The system" there is no excuse 
So hang your sorry head in shame
Admit that you were too to blame
You left him there to die alone
Hell for him, was in his home 
You listened to his parents lies 
But missed the truth within his eyes

Ian Duquemin

Image : Pixabay - geralt

September 11th 2001 New York - Theresa Le Flem

American flags hang dismally
like forgotten laundry slung across balconies
dirty and betrayed
A grey skin of steam
plumes by the Hudson River
It echoes the smoke in our memory
Something to fill the gap
Where the twin towers stood like brothers
proud against the skyline
mothers search for sons
There is no looking
only seeing, disbelieving

American flags in tatters torn
like skin like someone waving at the moon
It’s so unreachable untouchable
this enemy of life
No amount of kindness or forgiveness
seems enough

When hate itself becomes the sword
that pierces every word and thought
What can dilute the poison draught?
Who can achieve a goal in life
if death itself is the task?

Two cylinders of buildings
where people starting work
carrying coffee, filing letters
are ignited by a spark
Death such as this
makes history itself unworthy
of the task of recording
so many lives lost senselessly

We have this hole in Manhattan to fill
It aches, it kills us still
they all belonged to us you see
now we’re loosed from it
but we don’t feel free
Our question lies uncomfortably
Why not me?
Why not me?


Image : Pixabay - Armelion

From Theresa Le Flem's collection 'Meet Me at Low Tide' available here.

Rewind - Richard Fleming

Wind Time back. Rewind Time.

Make the struck towers rise from dust,
reconstruct themselves:
glass, concrete, girders, walls,
a huge jigsaw
interlocked,
complete again.

Lights come on, phones chirp like crickets.
In reconstructed work-stations,
fingers dance on keyboards again;
vending machines cough
then spew out pungent brew;
air-con sighs then resumes;
elevators ascend, descend;
video conferences resume mid-
sentence, emails beep,
digital clocks flicker
like quick, green lizards.

Wind Time back. Rewind Time.

Time restarts
as though it had never ended.

Hopes, innocence, daydreams, boredom:
all the mundane certainties of ordinary lives
are reaffirmed.
Shoes, handbags, mobile phones, flesh,
warped by intense heat:
these un-melt, re-form,
resume their former shapes.
The terrible, unearthly screams
subside.

Wind Time back. Rewind Time.

Backwards
the soft clouds drift;
birds fly in reverse.
Those grim death-planes,
stiletto-silver in the morning sun,
withdraw, like daggers, from the shattered towers,
whose twin glass skins, pristine again,
shimmer
like smooth, un-rippled water.

Richard Fleming

Till Death Us Do Part - Edgar Allan Poet

I cannot stand my ghastly wife:
instead, I love her sister, dear.
The former one pollutes my life.
The latter woman I revere.
I’ve hatched a plot to rid me of
my wife, I’ve simply had enough.

I’ve put rat-poison in a cake:
my wife is fond of sweets and treats.
One slice is all she’ll have to take:
rich cream will guarantee she eats
then she’ll be gone and I’ll have Maud.
It’s simple: just give fate a prod.

Maud’s phoned me to my work and said
she’s at our house to tend my wife
who’s got the sniffles, gone to bed:
there’s germs around and flu is rife.
I fear I’ve made a great mistake:
Maud’s brewed some tea and scoffed the cake.

Edgar Allan Poet

December 6th, 1989 - Kathy Figueroa

I can still remember
opening my studio door
and the shock of seeing the newspaper
in the hallway, on the floor

And what that unbidden issue
of the Toronto Star said -
fourteen women at Ecole Poly-technique
in Montreal massacred …shot dead

And I remember the fear
That slowly crept up my spine
As I looked at that awful
Early December headline

Was this surprise at my door a warning
some sort of indirect threat
that if you’re female, bright, and ambitious
this is what you might get?

As it turned out, it was left
by a man with a good intention
who wanted to apprise me of the news
not cause me apprehension

I felt compelled to write this
to mark the tragic date
when common human decency
was overruled by hate

When fourteen innocent lives
with so much potential were ended
by ignoble and evil actions
which can never be defended

Kathy Figueroa

El Paso - Richard Fleming

Withdraw the bullets, mend the flesh.
Place back the bullets in the gun.
Return the weapon to the store.
Remove the fury from the heart.
Transform the shooter to the youth
he was before obsessive thoughts
led him, against humanity,
to spew out death like obscene words
and scatter souls like fleeing birds.

Richard Fleming

Bed of Roses - Diane Scantlebury

I lie here
Under a bed of roses,
Not breathing out
Or breathing in,
The moist, damp soil
Caressing my body,
Cold against my naked skin,
You search for me
But never see me,
My lips are silent
My hands are bound,
So quietly I lie here
Under a bed of roses,
Buried deep,
Never to be found.

Diane Scantlebury

The Cycle - Ian Duquemin

You shoot at them…
They'll shoot right back
And through your cowardly attack
Many more will surely die
Their families left to mourn and cry
So in revenge you kill some more
To try and even out the score
This cycle now a constant threat
But when you hate, that's what you get!
If murder, maiming, fills your heart
This cycle then, is just the start
You shoot at them…
They shoot right back
And through your terrorist attack
Many more will wrongly die
Their loved ones left to reason… Why?
And so the cycle keeps on turning
Hunger for revenge now yearning
Shoot the people… Burn the mosque
With no concern of life that's lost
The cycle turns just like before
You hate them, but they hate you more
And on and on and on it goes
This hatred only ever grows
So…
You shoot at them…
They shoot right back
And through the threat of your attack
This cycle just rotates again
Causing untold death and pain
I wonder… Will this ever cease?
Could different faiths just pray for peace?
And glory in the freedom found
To stop this cycle turning round

Ian Duquemin

Evolve To A Higher Plane - Kathy Figueroa

This poem was inspired by world events on March 14th, 2019.

There’s so much bad news
It’s like the world’s going to Hell
Will mankind survive?
These days, it’s hard to tell

A mass shooting in a mosque
Down in kiwi land
Another senseless slaughter
Sane folks don’t understand

Divisions in religion
Politics, and race
Become like ugly team sports
This society’s disgrace

Some are on Team Christian
Others on Team Jew
There’s Team Moslem, Team Sikh
Team Hindu, to name just a few

Will humans ever get along
And evolve to a higher plane?
Or are we doomed to destruction
By the hateful and insane?

Kathy Figueroa

Oetzi - Stephen A. Roberts

Image Source

This is the story of iceman Oetzi:
A cold case murder mystery  
Where the world's oldest blood has dried 
The crime preserved, mummified
  
In a mountain village long ago 
A traveller came down from the snow 
He is welcomed and offered sustenance 
As they listen eagerly to his accounts 

But with his tales of nomadic life 
Oetzi charmed another man's wife 
The jealous husband  was dismayed 
And scored the visitor with a blade 

Oetzi apologised, moved on, bade farewell 
But the wife had changed and all could tell 
She took on a mournful distant look 
So the man wanted Oetzi brought to book 

This interloper caused him loss of face 
How dare he challenge his rightful place 
Enraged he sets off , bow in hand 
Towards the high alpine pastureland 

The wanderer strolled on unaware 
Far above the meadows, into cooler air 
Then Oetzi sat: he had dined his last 
He reflected on the women in his past 

She was the one: in the valley below 
It only took one look to know 
But she belonged to another man 
And Oetzi respected this higher plan 

Musing as he climbed the glacier 
One day perhaps he would again see her 
(If he turned back now he would have seen 
The villager turned killing machine) 

Still tracking the stranger for cruel revenge 
Three hundred years before Stonehenge 
Above his rasping mountain breath 
Oetzi did not hear the arrowed death 

Punctured by that fatal blow 
Oetzi laid gasping in the crimson snow 
His killer eschewed the copper axe 
He wanted to leave no fossil tracks 

And maybe underneath that ancient sky 
The murderer stood and watched Oetzi die 
To hear familiar words in an ancient tongue 
"Why my brother? - I did you no wrong..." 

This is a story as old as time 
Forever frozen above the treeline 
Man's cold hatred, built to kill 
Nothing changes, time stands still 

Stephen A. Roberts

Gardener’s Question Time - Edgar Allan Poet

The garden is magnificent:
the fruit trees pruned, all hedges trimmed.
Hours, countless hours, you must have spent
in keeping every lawn-edge strimmed.
Where do you get the energy?
It is a mystery to me.

Oh, I don’t manage on my own:
I keep some zombies in the shed.
They work all day and never moan
for, after all, they are Undead.
I feed them cats to keep them mild
and now and then a neighbour’s child.

That rose bush, too, is wonderful.
Do you use chemicals or what?
The answer is immensely dull:
nutrition from organic rot.
Think of the rose bush as a wreath.
The postman’s buried underneath.

Edgar Allan Poet

First Date, Last Date - Stephen A. Roberts

he's excited about tonight

an assignation in the city

there will be girls there

and boys too, he doesn't care

he stares into the mirror

smiles, neatens his hair

arranges his new stuff

it's all now ready to wear

the future's looking bright

he's dressed to kill tonight


Stephen A. Roberts

Good To Meat You - Edgar Allan Poet

We stop indoors my wife and I:
keep to ourselves, rarely go out.
We have no friends. We are quite shy.
Newspapers, we can do without.
But, once or twice a year, someone
arrives, by chance, and we have fun.

A man, whose car has broken down,
requiring help or telephone;
A salesman with a worried frown
who, foolishly, is on his own
and sometimes even better news:
Jehovah’s Witnesses in twos.

We fetch them in for cakes and tea
then drug them, carry them below
into our cellar, laughingly,
begin to torture them real slow.
then later on, to soothe their aches,
we chop them up for juicy steaks.

Folk always say that life’s a bitch
and then you die: we fix that bit.
We like our diet protein-rich
and human flesh, I will admit,
sliced carefully from a fresh kill,
is truly irresistible.

Edgar Allan Poet

Terribly Wrong - Kathy Figueroa

What’s the problem with America,
The land of the free, brave, and strong?
What’s happened to America?
Something’s gone terribly wrong.

What befell the country
Where “freedom” is the cry?
Why, in the United States of America
Do so many citizens violently die?

Is it still a leader in the free world?
I’m beginning to think not.
Heartache, suffering, death…
So many people have been shot.

Should we build a wall to enclose
The nation that once was great?
Which now has been damaged
And stained indelibly with hate?

Where it’s a growing trend
For men to be accessorized with a gun?
Where shooters kill indiscriminately
For grudges and just for fun?

What’s the problem with America,
The land of the free, brave, and strong?
What’s happened to America?
Something’s gone terribly wrong….

Kathy Figueroa

"Terribly Wrong" was published on March 1, 2018, in The Bancroft Times newspaper.

Again - Trudie Shannon

There’s no point in writing words
Of sorrow, disbelief and pain,
It happens again and again and again.
Someone’s child and someone’s child and someone’s child
Dead in the name of some Cause,
Dead in the name of some God
Dead, in some kind of global insanity.
The reality:
We only have one world,
There is only one humanity.

Trudie Shannon

Teachers of Terror - Ian Duquemin

The killer in his covered head
Whose hatred wished for many dead
Where just his eyes could victims see
His god made him the appointee
His mission was to kill them all
To teach to others gods own rule
And warn them that their time would come
No matter where they run
You might think terror... Muslim fear
But think back to another year
When men in sheets would hunt a man
And murder was their plan
It seems to me the table turned
And from your hatred others learned
The hooded terrorists today
Resemble KKK

Ian Duquemin