Just be, live, carry on, receive and give.
Is madness a reason for not knowing?
When confusion recedes like the tide
Clinging to patterns of behaviour outworn
Writing words in the shifting sands of illusion
A piece of paper signed; a life designed
Designated defunct, side by side with
The official, sponsored madness we call government
Feeble minded rulers whose lifestyle stinks
Never ending staircase of bureaucratic ink
Winks and nods, favours, bet on the odds
Never thinking, just follow orders, procedures
You ‘ordure’ to impress the boss, he couldn’t give a toss
For you or your reports, the can’ts and oughts.
We seem to have a communication problem, the system and
I try to reason but you just throw it back in my face
Or is it the dust from the last rebel you ate?
Non conformism isn’t just a game,
I’m clinging to my reasons, whilst you just moan and complain
That I can’t follow orders; well I don’t command nor obey
Try to prise my fingers from my grip on reality
What’s the future for this society, when abusers like you
Are ripping apart democracy?
Chris Hudson
Coxswain of the Cockpit - Vic Gamble
In 2006 Vic wrote about a Canadian pilot (Flight Lieutenant John Walton Saville), who died when the Typhoon he was flying was shot down in Havelet Bay, on the 5th June 1944. Flight Lieutenant Saville was on a bombing raid tasked with destroying the German Freya radar installation on Fort George. The raid was a vital part of the Allied preparations for D-Day.
Unfortunately a plaque dedicated to Flight Lieutenant Saville was recently defiled by vandals, this prompted Vic to submit his poem.
Coxswain of the Cockpit
I have little doubt those young men thought it
momentary mischief,
stuck like rats and rabbits in airfield quarters,
about to half their life spans
& styles. I have no doubt
these young men bolstered themselves
to a frazzle with jokes cocktailed
by companionship,celibacy
and the silver screen of uncertain catastrophe…..
The Canadian was used to bigger spheres
of landscapes,
he had reject-seated his checked shirt
and Mountie mentality
for war zones not yet described,
not even half-truthed,
not even lied.
A five hundred pounder
the bigger hamburger,
not fried over Hamburg,
but rather on German radar, bleep,bleep,bleeping
on portend pleasant heights
of Guernsey...bleep, bleeping
like a bomb not yet unleashed,
though still spinning out an angst of cogwheeled anger.
And when duty called,
he dropped her,
heavy metal spilling down
in sentenced siren silence;
a snake screeching out of her lair
to thud silent, like a passive pledge,a pawky dream,
like a sleeping beauty kiss.
And he, the Canadian,stuttering,shot full of holes
his last icons banging though his brain,
painlessly,
splashed suddenly into waters
rolling out & across
his newly bequeathed blue sea-lady
of Havelet Bay.
Every worm turns,
at every turn it worms back,
a sly freeloader from history’s hold…...
and down in the blue blackout of breaking waters
the instant sadness will be known to all,
except perhaps that quiet Canadian,
once proud pilot,
now coxswain of the cockpit.
Vic Gamble
Unfortunately a plaque dedicated to Flight Lieutenant Saville was recently defiled by vandals, this prompted Vic to submit his poem.
Coxswain of the Cockpit
I have little doubt those young men thought it
momentary mischief,
stuck like rats and rabbits in airfield quarters,
about to half their life spans
& styles. I have no doubt
these young men bolstered themselves
to a frazzle with jokes cocktailed
by companionship,celibacy
and the silver screen of uncertain catastrophe…..
The Canadian was used to bigger spheres
of landscapes,
he had reject-seated his checked shirt
and Mountie mentality
for war zones not yet described,
not even half-truthed,
not even lied.
A five hundred pounder
the bigger hamburger,
not fried over Hamburg,
but rather on German radar, bleep,bleep,bleeping
on portend pleasant heights
of Guernsey...bleep, bleeping
like a bomb not yet unleashed,
though still spinning out an angst of cogwheeled anger.
And when duty called,
he dropped her,
heavy metal spilling down
in sentenced siren silence;
a snake screeching out of her lair
to thud silent, like a passive pledge,a pawky dream,
like a sleeping beauty kiss.
And he, the Canadian,stuttering,shot full of holes
his last icons banging though his brain,
painlessly,
splashed suddenly into waters
rolling out & across
his newly bequeathed blue sea-lady
of Havelet Bay.
Every worm turns,
at every turn it worms back,
a sly freeloader from history’s hold…...
and down in the blue blackout of breaking waters
the instant sadness will be known to all,
except perhaps that quiet Canadian,
once proud pilot,
now coxswain of the cockpit.
Vic Gamble
Bleak Thoughts For A Bleak Generation - Stephen A. Roberts
An eternal scream, ragged, raw
rises from the very floor
a despairing roar of misery
from the echo chamber
of history
Where now is the god you trust
in his house, or somehow lost -
a bullet fired into his head
a bullet
in the temple, dead
Kneel for worship,
kneel for death
the dividing line was never less
in this wholly,
unholy mess
Will you live to carry on
caring for the blinded son,
or perish in the next pogrom -
as others die in ecstasy
cursing your apostasy?
Will someone, somewhere
drop the Bomb,
let Mankind
face
what he has become...?
Stephen A. Roberts
rises from the very floor
a despairing roar of misery
from the echo chamber
of history
Where now is the god you trust
in his house, or somehow lost -
a bullet fired into his head
a bullet
in the temple, dead
Kneel for worship,
kneel for death
the dividing line was never less
in this wholly,
unholy mess
Will you live to carry on
caring for the blinded son,
or perish in the next pogrom -
as others die in ecstasy
cursing your apostasy?
Will someone, somewhere
drop the Bomb,
let Mankind
face
what he has become...?
Stephen A. Roberts
Media Propaganda - Ian Duquemin
Call me a fool but I don't understand
I wonder if someone might lend me a hand
Can anyone out there please kindly explain
Convince me that others are feeling my pain
I turn on the news and I'm filled with a rage
In newspapers "death" highlights each page
An advert on tv shows children in need
The next promotes football a sport rife with greed
Wars they are fought with no outcome in sight
This god and that god "You all can't be right"
Maybe you all need to live your own lives
And not play this game in which no one survives
I am sick to the stomach of seeing such hate
I guess that a time-out has been called too late
I can't close my eyes and pretend I don't see
Surely others feel similar to me!
A feeling so helpless and one of concern
The fact is that man is too stupid to learn!
His days are numbered, his ending is nigh
And he is too dumb to know why!
Ian Duquemin
I wonder if someone might lend me a hand
Can anyone out there please kindly explain
Convince me that others are feeling my pain
I turn on the news and I'm filled with a rage
In newspapers "death" highlights each page
An advert on tv shows children in need
The next promotes football a sport rife with greed
Wars they are fought with no outcome in sight
This god and that god "You all can't be right"
Maybe you all need to live your own lives
And not play this game in which no one survives
I am sick to the stomach of seeing such hate
I guess that a time-out has been called too late
I can't close my eyes and pretend I don't see
Surely others feel similar to me!
A feeling so helpless and one of concern
The fact is that man is too stupid to learn!
His days are numbered, his ending is nigh
And he is too dumb to know why!
Ian Duquemin
If I Had A Son - Alex Jones
If I had a son
I'd love him with my life -
I'd stretch the boundaries of my own health
just to keep him from strife.
If he was ever upset,
I'd comfort and scare away his fears,
I'd cuddle his little body
and love away his tears.
Upon the loneliest of days,
I'd mess around, tickle,
make him smile -
I'd run along beside him,
even if it was for the longest mile.
And in the darkest of nights,
I'd show him the sparkling Moon,
the glowing Mars -
I'd shower him with my undying love,
and thrust him to the stars.
Alex Jones
I'd love him with my life -
I'd stretch the boundaries of my own health
just to keep him from strife.
If he was ever upset,
I'd comfort and scare away his fears,
I'd cuddle his little body
and love away his tears.
Upon the loneliest of days,
I'd mess around, tickle,
make him smile -
I'd run along beside him,
even if it was for the longest mile.
And in the darkest of nights,
I'd show him the sparkling Moon,
the glowing Mars -
I'd shower him with my undying love,
and thrust him to the stars.
Alex Jones
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