Cordite Poems

Blindfold

BLINDFOLD
I hear childrens voices
filled with laughter and noise,
hopscotched in endless streets,
mingling in sometime dreams.

I hear childrens laughter,
pitching above the hum drum,
of spectacled, so called carers all !
For your own good merchants.

I hear childrens tears falling,
In a rain storm of scary thunder,
beating a retreat in bricks and mortar.
Those merchants of care, no where.

I see the gaggle of childrens tongues,
burning in that mist of cordite,
spectators; comment do nothing.
Carers eyes burn in guilt and greed.

I see children, i see children, 
I see nothing, commiting to human!
In hells morning, in flames of religion,
I see dead children, i see nothing.

Bookshop Osmosis

The glossy acrylic smell of new editions
is cordite to my nose,
an explosive mixture of - need to know.
I finger trawl over dust covers
mindreading unread masterpieces.

Movies ransacked many of these novels,
hearsay and word of mouth
account for aisles
of open secrets and
commonly revealed revelations.

I should obtain a dozen or so acclaimed sagas,
display them on a prominent shelf –
because, well, one really ought to,

or maybe just read last chapters,
if not too long.

Called Too Early

Walking to class with an expectation not allowed for the innocent.
An uneventful day was expected, but never promised.
My intention as pure as could be with the expectation of the same from a weary society.
Graduation within reach keeps my sanity intact for yet another day.
As I walk to the lunchroom I smell a mixture of meat and cordite that suppress my appetite. 
Running from the sounds of horror to a false safety shall be my undoing.
Why can't I unhear the screams from my peers that perforate my ears?
Why can't I unsee the hate that introduced my fate?
I've wronged no one to deserve such an end to a story barely began.
If nothing else I pray that the torment of those left behind can give some peace to another of their kind.

Summer 69

Before the day turned into night
when morning dawn seemed clear and bright.
Before, the taste of spent cordite
lingered around one more bomb site.

We sang of love, no war, but peace
why should we fight Vietnamese;
it was just but summer’s caprice;
for we were watched; secret police.

We hate your God! We hate yours, too!
I hate you’re green. I hate you’re blue,
I said it first. Well, go f**k you!
We’ll send a gift, b52!

Before we took our hardline stance
did we ever give peace a chance?

I'M Too Tired To Dance

** An exercise: write a sonnet in iambic pentameter.

With heavy heart, I offer my remorse,
for I'm too tired to dance this weary eve.
The echoes of my workday's tireless chores
linger, leaving naught but fatigue's relief.

Oh, believe me, I hate to disappoint,
for the music tempts me to sway and dance.
But the hours I've toiled, each task and each point,
have drained me to a tired nudnik, perchance.

My spirit, once bright, now longs for respite,
to find solace in rest and heal my self.
Though my love for dance burns hot like cordite,
exhaustion demands I stay on the shelf.

Forgive me, my friend, tonight I must rest,
but once refreshed, we’ll fete and dance with zest.
.
.
Webster: Nudnik = a boring person

A Warning

A warning

National day, every country has one, when they are allowed
to wave their flags, get drunk, and indulge in latent xenophobia 
When the people (otherwise kept in the dark) are allowed
to think they are the free people, the most democratic
the beautiful people in the whole world.
These free people, full of propaganda, not seeing they are sold
down the river to the encroaching fascism in Europe
This country that wants to see a green and pleasant land
wants to eradicate petrol-driven cars and replace them 
with electric-driven cars has, nevertheless, been induced to pump
more oil from fields in the North Sea by Europe’s fascist regime 
to fight -and as always, the Russians, leaving the small country
squeezed between great power politics.
The flag wavers are not told of the betrayal, but a few are aware
their demonstration is drowned by the day of jubilation.
The mild spring weather continues, and the sun smiles from a blue sky
for now, but if this fascism takes hold, the skies will be murky  
and the air will smell of death and cordite.

Armament

The armament 

Awakening into the harsh light
of blinding loyalty.
Jubilation and flags.
Soldiers synchronized 
Stirring talks, hateful lies told
La vie en la rose
someone sings to stall time
The unthinking holler
Daring, the long night
The thinkers know the score
The smart knows too
but join, bet on the winner
Among the ruins, the unthinking walk
The scholars write books
the smart knows when the smell 
of cordite is gone, the world needs 
more weapons

The Days of Our Discontent

The days of our discontent

The rain had fallen sharply and heavy flooding roads
fields had become lakes, and cars looked like toys thrown
away by an unrestrained boy child.

From the inside looking out, the sea is calm and subdued 
by the cold that makes the sun as ineffective as yesterday’s
horseshoe on a smithy’s floor.

The forecast is more rain, just as well, the water reservoirs
are after a long rainless period, almost empty, should 
tells us o that future wars will be about water, not oi

The wind that blew brought Sahara’s sits on the window sill
yet it is better to swallow gritty sand than smell cordite
from an unjust war that thaws the ice on the ground.

Our hears ran over in sympathy for those who fled the war
we opened our homes and wallets and nailed their banner
on our masts and proudly displayed our love.

As the ghost of inflation sat in, our goodwill struggled rigidly 
wallets are empty as a market trader’s leather pouch
their banner no longer hangs on flag posts; we are tired.

A Small Bookshop

Ranks of glossy printed editions
squeezed into a concertina of space.
The acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose.

Then in softer contrast,
the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed,
a well used dust on dust-covers.
A tactile nosegay of leather-bound
classics.

Fact or fiction,
all are revelations revealed.
The appeal of the alphabetically ordered,
arrayed in an athenium
of only passing inquiry.

Movies have usurped many of these stories,
as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books,
and word of mouth accounts.

I crouch and stretch
in a confined alcove for a few volumes
that have kept their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf;
speed-read my way through,
read the blurbs and the last chapters,
just in case I am ever asked.

August Promise

August Promise

Every year I say, come August and I will go to Norway
but every you’re the flight ticket goes up, when mulling this over
it is suddenly, September wonder-full is the weather 
of the sun, clouds and occasional rain.
The rain in Spain does not fall in my vale the lake is dry has for years
nevertheless, in September, there is a new spring
green grass and flowers more demure in colours
So, what, I hear you say, and I agree beauty does not need to be explosive
as we have had enough of car bombs and other colourful devices
killing people whose only crime is a lack of dress sense – a black bra under a white blouse
and tasteless golf pants.
Long walks for us elderly we look up and for a fleeting moment
Ask rather banal questions,
 something told at bible classes we endured at school
“who created this wonder?”
God never gets the blame when storms sink ships, and there is landslide
volcanic eruption, not to forget the endless war the smell of cordite drifting afar.
We have the fallen angel (the devil) to blame for that.

Valkyrie

None to comfort none to save
Broken splendid total naïve
Battle worn and leather bound
Gasping groaning final sound
Mixing rapid blasted fine
Frontline wasted shattered mind
Fusing cordite steady burn
Starflight wonder past return


July 19, 2019

Bookshop

The ‘classics’ section is not small.
Ranks of tightly printed editions
squeeze a concertina of time.
The glossy acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose,
I dodge a graphic array of explosive masterpieces.

Movies have usurped many of these books
Wikipedia factoids précis lengthy sagas,
Hearsay, and word of mouth
account for whole aisles of masterpieces.

There are just a few left,
books that keep their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf –
speed-read my way through,

or maybe just read the blurb and the last chapter
just in case I am ever asked.

Fading

The roar in his ears was fading now,
Not much longer the sergeant said.
The stink of cordite was fading now,
As he looked around at all the dead.
The shroud of smoke was fading now,
The gunfire that caused him to fear.
Machine gun chatter was fading now,
As the advancing enemy drew near.
All went quiet as they passed him by,
His thoughts were fading now.
He lay there wondering what to do
His mind was fading now.
He stood once more in that hell.
Looking at himself amid red snow,
All has faded for him now.
© Dave Timperley 24/10/2019

Take the Kings Shilling

''Take The Kings Shilling''

   Volunteers  brisk march to a drumming refrain, 
   Men to war some inches to gain.
   To ''Not forget''; we now chose to review,
   Why did they go? Three feathers! from whom?
   Couldn't see the problems! didn't have a clue.
   Changing their place from a mundane to a new?


    We can’t feel or smell what was revealed,
    Rats gnawing their muddied meat meal.
    Duck boards washed by insistent rains, soak,
    A haze of cordite laced with decay, choke,
    Dry socks, no cure for feet rotting in soggy clay.
    We shed the tears they dared not display.  

    Man vibrates in fear at what they hear.
    Oh! to watch the grass blades grow,
    to hear the chirp, to see the crow. 
    Don't pick the life or shoot what fly's
    They too have created lives.
    What do those monuments realistically say?

Third Light

July moon, third quarter, patrols the night.
Pierces smoky haze, phosphor and cordite.
No crump of shell or rattle of gunfire
just stillness, man made brambles,
wooden posts and wire.
Not so much a breeze, more a draught
carries distant murmurs.
Someone laughed.
A sudden spark, and glow-
sentry had lit a match.
Breathe slowly. Unlock the safety catch.
Flame moves left to right as he watched.
Gaze down the barrel, through the sight,
line up the V-shaped notch.
A brief flicker of face, then silhouette,
not quite time to pull the trigger yet.
Light moves right to left,
match handed back.
Face number three aglow, and then-
crack.
Extinguished.

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