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Field of Dreams

World War One Poem)

Field Of Dreams

The World has stated our freedom,
the worms shall share a soldiers fears.
To look above my trench
is to be a thief in the night.
Life shall lurk, afraid of what is above.

My brothers wait for their moment
the maverick shell will deal the deck.
The queen of spades shall flirt with all,
hoping to sear our blood against this iron of hate.
War treats victims with the vindictive pain of foe 
for non are welcome on this battlefield.

The steam from burning bodies is wine to the party,
this thrill of reality a true russian roulette.
A link  between man and beast, 
for we all take part in this unifying glory of slaughter.

Refugees are we
the artists and the poets,
fraudsters and scam artists
We manipulate waist paper and propoganda,
for the legacy of death is ours.

Bully beef is king for contentment is rare,
we give thanks to cattles sacrifice.
I share existance with comrades temporary, 
my ghosts exist In Gods lungs.
Their  memories haunt my sanity
the last sinners refuge to comrades condemned,
for we shall never tell the truth.

We are and were common men,
obey is what we do.
Threatened by a lieuftenant boy,
but  all will cry this night.

No home shall know this fear,
for we are the blood of England.
Our betters will try and sanitise our demise
in  poppies and salutes,
which  will heal in public memory
but poppies are meant to bloom
not to fall from cathedral skies. 

Pour our blood on sacred earth,
drink, disciples of this last supper
for our humanity resides in you.
Paint your galleries in gallant charge
and hold the hand of fallen star. 
Unknown corpse shall not linger
for the spirit must moves on.

Life is fleating, the logistics of killing a fact.
Blood will dry before a baking sun
or hide in in monsoons quagmire
and somewhere in the lost,
 lies a forgotten smile
a lovers heart  and a dream
of a generation gone.

Dreams belong to our time, 
and forever is a deightys dream.
Do what you will with this gold.
Fill your coffers with tomorrows hunger
for harvests will come again.

Our final moment has arrived,
a cold micro second within a distant universe.
We are ready to leave this trench,
talk is quenched by silence.

The voice of shell will play the stage.
Maim and confirm the kill,
 in the light of demons 
and give your applause to God.
Blood will sign the death certificate
and reaper will overplay his hand.

An easy day for him, for this is the tsunami of man.
Reaper wil dance on corpses surrendered,
though he still has to tango with flies
for they have no respect for him.

The lead will rant a blazing tune
like  lovers ill matched,
arguing who shall live or die.
Daffodils felled for market,
a mothers day greeting in the morning post.
And the milkman will deliver the milk
to doorsteps old and new

The tears will be washed in corporation water
for the lead pipes have not yet been stolen,
and the trams pass by oblivious.
For grey  faces dead read the lies of man,
humanity needs another day.
Another hero  insanity dictates,
for tommorow promises to be
another glorious day.


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  1. Date: 3/27/2015 3:58:00 PM

    Nice to read your poetry once again, thank you for sharing Steven