Neil Creighton Verse-Virtual 2017 July

July 2017

I'm a baby boomer and I've lead a blessed life, unlike my Dad, who served in the RAF in WW2, 12000 kilometers away from his young wife and the son he had never seen, my brother Duncan. Those men returned and were told to "get on" with their lives, easier said than done. They were heroes but they paid a great price and many of them, including my Dad, died far too young. Perhaps Dad, in many ways a good and generous man, unknowingly brought the war home with him. I blog at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au

Metastasis
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were
-Wilfred Owen - “Strange Meeting”

War courses through
the arteries of the world,
flowering in dark lumps,
lodging in tangle of wire,
muddy trenches, gas,
acres of green grass,
neat white crosses,
bleak eyes staring
behind razor wire
or skeletons uncovered
from shallow pits.

Young men, going home,
carry one cell or more.
It wakes them at night,
hisses in pills and booze,
flames in white rage
that scorches all
who stand too close,
shrinking wife,
sobbing daughter,
son trapped
between anger and love.

It evolves in corporations
grown swollen and fat
from feeding on corpses
and is then sold
by snake-oil salesman
who, salivating
for power and wealth,
offer it to the gullible
wrapped in a flag
or the promise of greatness
or the gross deceit
that the necessary cure exists
in multiplying the tumours.

See

See how
on a rainy day
the honeysuckle
dresses in cream and gold

and how
on frosty mornings
the humble wattle displays
her summery-yellow sprays

or how
through the gloom
of grey cloud's cluster
the sun pokes his bright toe

and know that,
in whatever darkness,
come splashes of yellow and gold
and descending columns of light.

First published in One Sentence Poetry.

Postcard from Lac d'Annecy

Lake, shore, mountain and sky merge,
light ripples and plays,
yachts float quietly,
a woman strolls with her dog,
stops, sits, gazes upon the water,
three boys play on the jetty,
peer, point, call "Regarde!"

Regarde! I stare into water and see,
beyond the snow-clad ridges,
that ancient rank beast rise again,
drag itself onto the land
spewing lies and empty promises,
the same old mirthless song
of deception, lies, self-interest
and hollow fairy tales.

Fairy tales. I sit in a story book scene.
Behind the lake a grand hotel
lazes by the shore,
a distant, turreted castle
squats on its protective cliff,
the mountain rises from the lake
to snow-clad, cloudy ridges.
Is not such beauty enough?
Is it not enough to sit in peace,
to sense the wonder of the world?

Why then do I continue
to stare into the silent water?

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