I reach for you .

deviantart.com

I know you are up there just out of sight I know you are looking down on me, my darling tiny might. Why were you in such a rush to leave my arms, why only look upon me for so short a time then leave with all your charms.

I have this empty aching hole deep inside my body and my heart. Why did you have to leave I want you so much I am broke not sure if I can full fill my part. I ache for you, I long for you, I need you. My body does too.There is an emptiness in my womb and my milk flows for you, why are gone I am so empty and lost this is true.

This world with all it woes and pain was too harsh for you and so your soul did not remain. You are back with the stars , cosmic dust in God’s hand, he took you back again. I guess I was not what he had planned . No doubt God has a path for you to take  and so my dear lost babe I wish you love in all that you may do what ever of life you make..

The hole in me

There is a hole in me. I know it is there but it is somewhere that I can’t see.

I feel it is slowly eating me but I don’t know why.

Something bad has a hold it will not let me fly.

There is a hole in my stomach and it is eating me. Growing and growing devouring me .

Why am I suffering what have I done wrong the pain has been gnawing at me for so long.

Suddenly I realize that the pain is not in me, the pain is in my child why could I this not see.

I bore them, I love them I have set them free. So why does their pain keep plaguing me.

Journal For Poetry Challenge# 13/05/2012

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Today’s poem is different again, last week I used a poem by one of our wordpress  bloggers  Maggie Mae it was different and inspired. This Sunday’s offering is immediate, of now, today.

It is set Afghanistan and is written by a soldier who was there. It tells his life story, his friendship and the sudden cruel end of that friendship by death.

How many times do you hear ” He was proud to be a soldier” or “he was brave and died for his country” …………. You do not hear, he cried himself to sleep, he wet himself in fear, he wanted his Mum as he died. You don’t, do you? No one really tells the truth. Oh! yes there are many  big and brave men and women out there  but they are out numbered by the normal and the weak.

War, now in 2012 is not any better, cleaner or more honourable than any other war we have been caught up. Many still ask why are we out there..good question.

Today 13/05/2012 it was announced that to members of British forces acting as mentors for the Afghan police died today, shot by the very men they were mentoring.  Whether they were insurgents in disguise or someone with a grudge it was pointless. More deaths …the news of the deaths never stops..

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TOM

Tom was a young lad

From where I grew up

We went to the same school

Then both joined up
We became Commandos together

photo credits google

And never looked back
We met again in the desert
Had a laugh and a chat

I heard it over the radio
Surely it wasn’t him
I chose to deny
Until we got back in

After an hour back on base
Drapes asked for a private word
With a tear in his eye
It all seemed so absurd

I’ll remember Tom forever
And raise a glass in his name
A soldier to the death
We cry and cry again

Alex Cockers,
2010

THIS IS NOT A PHOTO OF ALEX COCKERS.

Alex Cockers was born in April 1985. He was a Royal Marines Commando from 2005-2009 and served on Operation Herrick five and seven in Helmand province for a total of fourteen months.

How he came to write his poems. He explains, “During my fourteen months in Afghanistan, I had many feelings and thoughts that I was unable to share with anyone.  Under the stars; in the desert, rhymes would manifest in my head.  I would write them down, construct them into poems and somehow I felt better for getting it off my chest.”

These are the other poems by Alex Cockers.  The Brutal Game, Last Stand,
Bad Dreams, Tom, Morals . . .  two for a pound  and  Mortal Combat. and they can be found  here  they are full of the truth.

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I am sorry I just have to and another of his poems. It says what I am so frightened of. Young men return damaged not only physically  but deeply physiologically too. These lads have to fight for help for it is not easily given. Some take it out on their  families some just run away fear inside eats them visions of what they have seen eats them….. we must try and help them. They were there for us whether we believe it is a just war or not they were there for us! I have added the photos after a lot of thought I hope they do not upset you . I think they fit well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bad Dreams

When you send a lad away

photo credit google

To a foreign hot land
To fight in a war he doesn’t understand
When he comes back
He brings more than just a tan

He’s probably not ok
He’s probably not all right
He’s probably in a dark place
Whether it’s day or night

Governments and Media
With their pack of lies
Will never tell the truth
But try to convince you otherwise

photo credits mailonsunday.co.uk/america/

It feels like my eyes
Have been stretched wide open
Now and then
I have trouble coping

Images of memories
Imprinted on my mind
The boy they knew before
Is what they’ll never find

Alex Cockers,
2010

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As my friend ‘ginger ‘ would say ‘nough said!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

Journal For Poetry Challenge#7 06/05/12

This week I have broken with my rule of using the war poets and have for a change used a poem written about the The First World War, what is more  it was written this week.

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The poem is hard to read, hard hitting, cruel and it cuts like a knife. The death depicted here is not the stuff of “Jonny Hero” dying bravely stiff upper lip and jovial words for his friends, his pals. No here in is the mud, guts, defecation,urine , blood, bone and tears. The gut wrenching agony of death from gas. The young man lying with his guts/ bowels hanging out or a leg or arm blown off.

Soldiers rotting from the feet up smelling of death, sweat, urine and cheap whores praying they will survive and get home to family and hearth ..hoping to get rid of the lice, fleas and what ever extra little gifts they may of picked up on their last 24hr leave.

Yes the poem below says all that and much more and in much fewer words. maggiemaeijustsaythis  I thank you for this truly beautiful War Poem. I am not sure if beautiful is the correct word for this work of art.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Charge

By maggiemaeijustsaythis

Hard back pages, stained with

time and aged aroma.

photo credits http://flickrhivemind.net aroma.

1915. A battle is painted.
Acid slashing,spitting.

Direct eyes leap from a tiny cliff
onto young bodies. Bloodied. Abandoned.

Somewhere, some mothers stand as sharp
as shrapnel,
bullets piercing their wombs,
their children’s supple homes.

Trembling hands
find a gun
and a buddy. A soldier. A boy.
Death has no time in
these fields. He is hurried.

Frontal attacks sweep
unprotected spots. Blurring instinct.
Blinding the Earth with a scarlet bath.

Burying dirt with
young boys, men.

1915. Hard back pages, stained with
memory and
the scent of suffering.

And this….
just the beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

maggiemaeijustsaythis   wrote the poem above after reading an article for the news papers Mons  later publish in a book of short stories . written by W Douglas Newton. I can find no information on W Douglas Newton himself apart from the fact that he was a prolific writer who wrote fiction and fact about war. His books and articles painted a truer picture than any of the propaganda released at the time.  maggiemaeijustsaythis  called her poem  The Charge

maggiemaeijustsaythis  says this about herself .

Maggie Mae I On Words: “I love them as if they were children, discipline them as if they were students.” ~ Maggie MaeI write for THE INNOCENTS: the depressed, for the wicked, the sad, the pained, for the bipolar, the schizo, the anxiety ridden nail-biters, the nervous twitchers, the PTSD’s that wake up 5 times throughout the night in a shaken-paralyzed-panic. I write for the suicidal, the manic, the hyper-active, the creative, the angry, the irrational. I write for the guilty, the pleasure hunters, the hookers, the addicts. I write for you alcoholics, you misunderstood, you a/bi/homo/hetero – overly sexual beings. I write for you thinkers, you crooks, you educated, you street-laced whores. I write for you gossiping, backstabbing, ruthless, conniving bitches. I write for the part of you that wants to speak up but is too afraid of what other people will think.I write for me! I am an INNOCENT. I write for the depressed, wicked, sad, pained, bipolar, schizo, anxiety ridden, nervous, PTSD, nightmared, panicky, suicidal, manic, hyper-active, creative, angry, irrational, guilty, pleasure seeking, hooker, addict, alcoholic, misunderstood, a/bi/homo/hetero-overly sexual, thinker, crook, educated, whore parts of me! I write for the gossiping, backstabbing, ruthless, conniving bitch part of me! I write for the part of me that wants to speak up but is too afraid of what other people will think….

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Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

Running for my life

I am lonely I am lost I have run away but at what cost.Thankfully the door was left ajar so I ran and ran, oh! so far. He had forgotten to secure my rope so now I run, escape is my only hope.

Running for my life

I ran down to the beach I needed to hide and get out of reach. I don’t want another day hungry and cold praying he will stay away.The sound of his voice makes me shake and shiver, the feeling of his angry blows make me quiver.

I can see lights up ahead, lets get off the road if it is him he will beat me until I’m dead. OH! I feel so cold and weak  I can’t go on I just want to sleep.All my body racked with pain I fear and dread being caught and taken back again.

I hated that filthy dirty shed were soiled wet rags were my only bed. Sadly I was always hungry I only ever got scraps that stank and water that leaked from the outside rusty tank.

I just long for any love, not cruel hard fists reining on me from up above. A nice dry place for me to sleep and some food that I can eat. I swear I would honour and love someone to earn my keep.

I need a rest

It is no good I have done my best this corner looks safe I need to take a rest. I Just hope he is not around I am so scared of being found.  Sleeping the sleep of the scared I remember all the kickings and beatings, all my howls,yet, no one ever heard.

What’s that noise, is it a car door Oh! No ,Oh! No not him I can’t take any more. I hungry and cold and my paws are so sore. I can’t bare to look I shall just stay still.If  it is him I give up I have no more will.

Hello boy (a gentle voice) let me see , Oh! you are hurt let me help, you need not fear me. Kindly hands stroke my painful back a gentle stroke not hit or smack.

Look at you, you have been through the mill you are a strong one aren’t you, all those injuries and you are going still. Let me take you along with me and we will soon have you looking better and happy.

Gently hands pick me up and lay me cosy in the back of a truck. Covering me with a blanket giving me a gentle kiss is this all happening is it real it feels like bliss.

Can we keep him Daddy please he is so lovely, a little child is hugging me knelt next to me on it’s knees. Careful Jake we don’t know what he is like, careful in case he bites. I shall never bite the hand that loves me these new humans I could never hurt.

Bending down the new man says your okay boy you can stay.

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