Veteran - Stephen A. Roberts

In the smoke and flattened fields
your comrades walked into oblivion;
you were left to face
a hundred years alone

Now you are fêted
and they ask you,
before you fade into history,
what was it like?

A tear comes,
it is for the fallen:
and for the
world still at war

Stephen A. Roberts

Someone Else’s War - Richard Fleming

We thought the war was far away
and spoiling someone else’s day
but suddenly things took a turn:
on telly we saw rockets burn
across the sky, cities were hit …
our cities. That’s what started it.
It seems that one lot broke the rules
and used their nukes, the bloody fools.
Then other nutters used theirs too
and smashed the nuclear taboo.
New York, Rome, Moscow, Gay Paree …
our own dear London ceased to be
and countless millions were surprised
to find that they’d been vaporised.
It seems unfair: we bought the flags,
donated clothes in plastic bags,
showed solidarity online,
agreed that Putin was a swine,
said worthy things on Twitter too …
what else were we supposed to do?
The Government, in whom we trust,
tell us a cloud of deadly dust
will come our way and pretty soon
but, sadly, no one is immune.
It’s radiation: stuff, we’re told
will kill us slowly. We’re consoled
that all our neighbours, too, will die
so this small note’s to say goodbye
but who’s to read it, for the dust
gets everybody, as it must.
We hug each other, whisper love.
The sky is darkening above.
We thought, it’s someone else’s war:
alas, it isn’t any more.

Richard Fleming

Image : © When the Wind Blows - Raymond Briggs

Red Lines - Stephen A. Roberts

In the early morning she rises
Awoken by an unknown fear
Through the basement window
She sees the red lines appear

Moving through the woods
The Z men are finally here
She watches her brave children
Put them to the spear

Red lines in the snow
Mark the new frontier
It’s time to flee the homeland
And everything she holds dear

Maybe she will make it
To freedom’s belvedere
Away to a place of safety
A far off distant idea

Where a thousand miles away
They face their biggest fear
In the test cassette window
Will the red lines appear?

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : author/sky.com

Thoughts on the war - Tony Gardner

The sun was peeping through the clouds
Every now and then.
The wind had died, the temperature
Was well above the 10
Pottering in the garden
Forking, planting, feeding and
I thought how lucky we were all
Living in a war free land
I thought of poor folk trapped and scared
In Russia's evil war
And wished that I could help someway
I pray, but should do more.
But I'll just keep planting Dahlia corms
And hope all turns well
That soon Ukraine will breathe once more
And Putin rots in Hell.

Tony Gardner


Image : Pixabay - ELG21

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

I Thee Wed - Richard Fleming

As, with this gas-mask I thee wed,
Zed-missiles whistle overhead.
Machine-gun fire to left and right
reminds us of our parlous plight.
Our wedding bed is now debris,
our Best Man is a refugee:
he had a funny speech prepared
but scarpered when the sirens blared.
Amazing how war can transform:
our Bridesmaids are in uniform
and crouch in trenches, day and night,
untrained, but still prepared to fight.
The other day, the church got hit
but church or no church, we’ll commit
and, though we can’t walk down the aisle,
let’s opt for marriage Ukraine-style.

Richard Fleming

Image : Behance.net

Sneaker Wave - Stephen A. Roberts

The plague was upon us for many long years
It lasted much longer than everyone feared
It went through us all and millions died
Some were clapping while others cried
Those that were left were filled with dread
So stockpiled their stores and cases of lead
Others blasé shrugged off the threat
They knew of no one who had suffered as yet
They lasted the summer when the weather was good
Took no precautions though they knew that they could
Then took their chances and refused the cure
Divided opinions: the facts were not sure
Too late to repent and with furrowed brows
They stumbled through their empty ghost towns
The people who knew them paid their respects
Built a bonfire and burned all their effects
Then suddenly the plague was done
It almost seemed as if we had won
Then a madman made a brand new war
We survived the plague, but what the hell for?

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Pixabay - KELLEPICS

Just Stop - Donald Keyman

Vlad has woken from his slumbers
Out into the world he blunders
He can’t see that things have changed
He stares madly, wild, deranged

He must have been asleep for years
Immune to all the cries and tears
Belligerent stranger in this new world
He finds an old flag to unfurl

The neighbours know not to underrate
Vlad’s temper and his hate
So they leave what they were dreaming of
To make another box of molotovs

Donald Keyman


Image : Pixabay - David_Peterson

Soldier Of Fortune - Lyndon Queripel

He was a soldier of fortune
In the year of our Lord
When he discovered the pen
Was mightier than the sword 

He was a soldier of fortune
In the army of the Word
Where everything that’s said
Has been over heard

He was a soldier of fortune
In the World of the Third
Where training will be given
But experience is preferred.

Lyndon Queripel
Image : Pixabay - RichardsDrawings

Armistice Day, France - Trudie Shannon

Armistice Day
And the café is two thirds empty.
Vacant seats that evoke images
Of men unknown
Who drank coffee, made love, fathered children
Teased their siblings, loved their fathers, idolised their mothers.
Unknown and faceless here and now
Yet these empty seats exude their presence somehow.
Their voices infiltrate the conversation and the music,
Their invisible footprints leave muddy trails upon the floor
And the dank smell of their unwashed bodies and uniforms
Permeates the air and outside there is a
Staccato rhythm to the silence.
It is not raining.
It is not nighttime
But there are ghosts, drifting hopeful
Around these empty tables, these vacant chairs.
And suddenly in isolation, tears cascade into my cup.

Trudie Shannon

Anthem For Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
---Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,---
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

This item is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford (www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit);
© Copyright The Estate of Wilfred Owen. The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen edited by Jon Stallworthy first published by Chatto Windus, 1983. Preliminaries, introductory, editorial matter, manuscripts and fragments omitted.

Invisible Enemy - Joan Etoile

In nearby trenches the enemy was real
He was over the top behind a hail of steel
Waiting with his gun and knife
And a picture of his wife

Some years later he came again
For 5 long years of death and pain
But we understood the threat back then
And countered it with brave women (and men)

That wasn’t the end of the totalitarian scare
It morphed into the Russian bear
In this cold war we cowered in our beds
Waiting to be vaporised by the Reds

Now we hide and wear a mask
Doing what the virus asks
Give up your job it’s more dangerous 
Than a charging rhinoceros

Never mind that there’s bills to be paid
Stay alone indoors and be afraid
Running blind in full retreat
This invisible enemy has us beat

Joan Etoile

Operation Mincemeat - Stephen A. Roberts

Do you remember
The man who never was
An unnamed corpse
Turned volunteer for the cause

She met him on the subway
Sweetly they held hands
Before his final journey
To foreign lands

A considerate lover
A special friend
She imagined a different life
But it had to end

Floating in a foreign sea
He became alive
And by his dead embassy
Helped to fool the other side

Stephen A. Roberts

Image: Wikipedia

Grandma’s picture - Tony Gardner

She stands there just exactly where
I stood the other day
The only difference is we were
A hundred years away
I was in Twenty seventeen
For her the War raged on
Her man was out there fighting
She was home here with their son
In the photo she looks haggard
She knew some would not return
But Hope burned bright within her
And her lucky candle burned
For Grandpa came back safely
Though he left some brothers there
Sleeping through the history
And Time that should be theirs
Grandma, Grandpa Thank you
For facing what I don't know if I could do

Tony Gardner

Three Kittens - Trudie Shannon

She is a farmer’s wife, she is a farmer
She drowned the kittens
She said, it had to be done.
She said, It broke my heart
She said, I put them in a sack
She said, I plunged the sack snap, like that, into the bucket
She said, I had no choice
I was on my own.

It seemed barbaric to me
And I really didn’t want to listen or to hear.

I leave the farm and the farmer’s wife.

Now I reflect and consider,
How many small bodies has the sea swallowed
As the Syrian refugees flee their war?

It’s barbaric
But it seems we shed more tears over kittens.

Trudie Shannon

Soldier On - Lyndon Queripel

The old soldier looked down in sorrow
By the flag he once held with pride
To the valley that was now in shadow
Where all of his comrades had died
“No survivors, they are all gone“
He said as he turned to walk away
“But why should I be the only one
Who lives to fight another day ?“

Lyndon Queripel

The Valour, The Horror - Kathy Figueroa

Ypres, the Somme, Vimy Ridge, Passchendaele…
The Enemy was fearsome, but destined to fail
Before the might of the Canadian Expeditionary Force
Brave-hearted men who changed history’s course

Let us not forget the young lives lost
The tremendous toll, the human cost
The valour, the horror, the pain, the gore
The battles waged on a foreign shore

Let us remember torn flesh, blood, and bone
That mingled with mud, water, sand, and stone
…Europe’s ridges, trenches, beaches, and plains
Are scattered with fragments of human remains

Of good men who knew not if they’d perish
To uphold ideals that we cherish
Who risked their lives for future generations
With a hope of peace among the nations

November 11, 1918, was Armistice Day
The warfare stopped and peace held sway
One hundred years later, let us remember still
And strive for peace, harmony, and goodwill

Lest we forget.

Kathy Figueroa

This poem is dedicated to the memory of a veteran of World War I and
member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, Peter Harman, my grandfather.

Veteran - Stephen A. Roberts

In the smoke and flattened fields
your comrades walked into oblivion;
you were left to face
a hundred years alone

Now you are fêted
and they ask you,
before you fade into history,
what was it like?

A tear comes,
it is for the fallen:
and for the
world still at war

Stephen A. Roberts

Muddy Fields - Diane Scantlebury

Your great grandad fought in the 1st world war
He survived, but never spoke,
About the muddy fields and stinking trenches
Or of the mustard gas on which he’d choked,
He’d joined up early to fight the Hun
For king and country to make a brave stand,
Too young, he’d lied about his age,
Too young to be dodging bullets in no man’s land,
Your great grandad fought in the 1st world war
He survived, but never spoke,
About the muddy fields that were the Somme,
Where young boys fell and slept,
But never woke.

Diane Scantlebury