Tag: politics

What is Left

So a Brit wins le tour, a bit
like a Brit winning Wimbledon— not! A rare

thing and pretty unlikely, but
do I care? I’m supposed

to care about Olympics, about flames
and once in a lifetime things

but I don’t. It’s not me and like
Thatcher said, there is no society, no ‘us’

at all and certainly no UK because Scotland
is on its way and Wales isn’t far

behind. Little England is
left to carry the can, where all

the cash used to be and her castles
burn. And then, there’s me

© copyright David F. Barker

Poem ‘Another Day in Helmand’

Another Day in Helmand

He joined willingly
and has no complaints.
This is the life he chose.
He signed on the dotted line

knowing the score from day one;
about the low rates of pay
and the invisible enemy
who won’t play by the rules.

And show me where they said
all the equipment would be there,
that it would be all up to date.
There were benefits, too;

he was lauded several times by
flying visits of premiers and ministers,
who stood squinting in the sun
praising his courage, his skill,

in the best army in the world.
Yes, the cause was just,
his presence there directly protected
those he loved back home:

Our freedom, our democracy.
Yes, it was tough but he knew
he would have a trade,
something to contribute,

something solid to show
for his service to a grateful country,
plus a good pension to fall back on.
Now, not everyone has that.

I saw him the other day
admiring poppies in the sun,
to the clatter of pans and plates,
the warming sounds of Sunday lunch.

He’d been reading the paper
and that’s where I saw the
map of Helmand province
thrusting up into that rugged land,

where his life was changed
and such medals were won –
and where his legs were lost.

poem and image © copyright df barker 2012

* first published in poetry collection ‘Anonymous Lines’, which can be found at amazon.com

Poem ‘Mare Incognito’ (for J)

Mare Incognito (for J)

Somewhere between
Southwold and Saltfleet,
that’s all I’m prepared to say.

Where eastern seaboards
lose out each year,
glacial moraines fall away

with no answer to tides
that even kings couldn’t resist.
England crumbling in eye and mind.

Cliffs.
Now that could be a clue
but they’re not too high,

though high enough to sit on
and savour the grey seas,
the view, such as it is.

Does it matter?
Fine days won’t do, not to this mind.
Sea mists, fogs, or battleship skies

which leave enough to be imagined,
whose easterlies cut me into me
whatever I wear—they’re best—

when the only way to keep warm
is to keep moving, jogging
below the sleek aerobatics of herring-

and black-backed gulls,
super-marine harbingers of storm
doing their best to bring life to

Mitchell’s drawings of seaplanes—
and the spitfire.
Such an elegance in death.

But I’m here to forget about war,
about politics which can only
divide and kill.

Grey days mean I’m alone
in a moody make-believe.
I turn my back on all that was,

think about what might be,
where nightmares a few miles away,
that lost world within my right hand,

might just be gone when I return
or answer the bleep which says
I’m connected, branded for life.

Leave me now.
For a little while longer
let me say I’m free

image and poem © copyright df barker 2012

Thank Heaven for my Palette

It is a grey day indeed. Firstly, the weather, in England at least – nuff said!

Then there’s the ‘British’ Chancellor Osborne (is it Ozzy?) asking for our preferred method of execution. Funny, but I thought we elected him to do the dirty work? Anyhow, if it carries on like this, there soon won’t be the need of elections, just continual referendums, say one every few weeks in regard to important issues.

Think of the money we’d save. No MPs, no government departments… but I’m dreaming now. Thank God for oil paint and my multi-colour palette. At least there’s some colour there.