Death,Cause and Effect.

I wrote this story in 2014 but with the news of yet another, gang related killing in London last night. There have been more than 50 tragedies so far this year.To learn more read here. In light of this I thought I would repost Death, Cause and Effect.

DEATH

It was quiet and dark and the sun through the window was warming him just enough to keep him alert now his fight had begun.

The bench was hard but he could take that, it was the pain in his side and chest which filled his being, everything else was flat.

Fear gripped his mind, he was so cold inside yet a sweat was rippling down his back.His sight was blurred was he going blind.

Slowly a long hidden memory came to the fore. His mother had taught him it long before he had changed. “Gentle Jesus meek and mild look upon me a little child”

OH! Jesus if you are there help me now, I did not need you then but I do now. Jesus this pain is f###ing killing me, help me help me please. Slowly he slipped forward onto the floor a darkness washed over him and he knew no more.
~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where are you going son. No, out, will not do! Listen to me boy I am asking you. Why must you run with that pack it seems to me now there is no coming back. What has happened to you, you were such a good boy at school I had hopes that you’d go far but your just like your brother playing the fool.
No your not wicked but you are not a fool and I am telling you this, in my book you’re not cool.

What are you doing with that? Give it me back , don’t you threaten me son I’ll give you a smack. OH! Please will you listen to me don’t take that knife it will not set you free from the boredom in your life. It will not get you a job, it won’t make you a man what has happened to you and your world changing plan? You had vision and hunger for work a decent and pleasant boy not as you are now , just a jerk.”
~~~~~~

Clearing up quietly the priest approached the the last row when something on the floor that caught the suns last glow. Red and sticky he knew what it was but he prayed to his God that it would not be true. The boy lying his arms out wide blood flowing from his side. A thought crossed his mind but he dismissed immediately. He looked like Jesus did, you see. Arms out wide , blood from his side a cut round his forehead dripping, blood in his eyes.

He took out his mobile and took a deep breath as he dialled , ambulance , police he begged his mind running wild. The operator was telling him what to do, “Keep him warm and stem the blood is what I want you to do.” He ripped off his cassock and swaddle the lad he then notice blood on his jeans ( the best ones he had) He cradled the boy and prayed in his ear “keep trying to stay ask now, Jesus will hear.”

It was half an hour until anyone arrived the paramedic crew gently moved the priest to one side. It was too late the boy was gone, then with their radios crackling loud, the police taped the area off,with people from everywhere arriving, such a crowed.

Standing back and looking around the priest said a prayer with out making a sound. “Dear God take the soul of this boy who died here today and give him some peace, and if you have time help me find words to sooth his family, at least ” Then sat down exhausted, he was just a man even though he was called priest.

A woman on her way home from work regretting an argument at the start of her day was wondering how to fix things and what she could say. She always said never give up, never leave a good word unsaid. Never leave things, sort them before you go to bed. Passing the church she saw her youngest boys friends , he wasn’t there perhaps they could make amends.

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

THE CAUSE

Photo found Here

He awoke with a jump. It was his brother rolling in drunk! Damn only 4am please don’t go over what’s to happen again. I know I must do this. I must prove myself.

It was all too easy a year a go when his best friend introduced him to the boys “you need to know” It had been simple things at first making old ladies jump, stealing traffic cones all laughing fit to burst.

When he was really trusted, got himself a name.Things became more serious it suddenly was a whole new game. They met the older boys, the ones with big fast cars. They all wore hoodies, bling and they all had facial scars.

It was money and messages that he had to run he was fit and had a bike.Now that is how easily it had begun. He often skipped school though not always willingly. There really was not any choice, what the big boys said, had to be.

His teachers all asked him why his work had slipped away he had a brilliant future and he had thrown it all away. He was a little worried but he shrugged his shoulders and wondered off, his teachers called him back but his friends told them to f### off.

Mum, she was desperate working on her own doing all she could to keep the house,the boys and make for them a home. The oldest she had lost him he had gone to drugs. She had tried so hard but he just robbed her blind and made her look a mug.The young one she had dreams for she had prayed to the Lord each day but now he was on the wrong track and now he was slipping the same way.

He knew he had become a waster, he knew that he was bad . It was the only way to be accepted and safe but the pain in Mum’s eyes made him feel bad. So he just avoided contact and hardened to her pleas. He was knocked back the other day when she begged him to stay home down on her knees.

He tried to ask his brother who ran with an older crew but he was useless as he was trapped there too. What chance was there, his brother asked, what was there for them to do there was no work or opportunities running with lads was at least something to do. It was all about status and how hard you are , what clothes you wore , what trainers and did you have a scar.
~~~~~~~~

His brother had one, on his face, from a fight with a rival gang. Okay it hurt , six days in hospital 17 stitches but he was now a big man??

Today was his chance to join the glorious crew. To take part in the big ruck was all he had to do.

Two weeks he had known about the fight , where and exactly when. It was on his mind both day and night . His thoughts were full of dread , through his blood ran pure fear it was nearly six now, the day was finally here.

Later in the kitchen when he was taking the knife , his mother caught him and shouted at him. He raised his hand to her for the first and last time in his life. Luckily she was small so he pushed her to one side as he crashed through the door and out the gate . His mother sat on the floor and cried.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Later he met the guys when mum had gone to work , they knew a squat they could use to complete their plan. By 4pm they were jumpy they were ready to a man.They left the squat and through the railings ran. Jumping , punching the air and making feral calls they had it now they all knew the plan, they had all the balls.

He wished he’d picked a smaller knife this one was too large . As he was changing it’s position. Into him a couple of the lads all barged. At once he felt a sharp and stinging pain as he fell to the floor, it felt worse again. His side felt wet and his forehead was cut where he had scraped along the floor..

By Banksy

What’s wrong man, stop messing we haven’t got the time it’s 5 o’clock now hear those church bells chime. Oh! hey you’re hurt man what did you do. You stupid f### you stabbed yourself. We have to leave you here, no good to have a burden on the crew.

His best friend helped him in to the church and sat him at the back , hold on, he said, laters. then ran off to join the pack.

So he alone now, life ebbing from his side thought of mum, school his brother and he cried. He asked the lord for comfort but comfort did not come. He prayed a childhood prayer from deep inside his mind. The priest found him,and he was very kind. He wrapped his chest and held him and asked him not to go . He tried to but he couldn’t stay he felt too tired, too low.

He heard the priests’ desperate call as he slipped away forget the ambulance he though and just pray for me today. The priest felt him go, but he would not loose his grip he felt he needed to guide this lost boy, some mothers pride and joy.

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THE EFFECT

Image found Here

Getting off the bus and heading for home, she was tired her feet ached but she was determined not to moan. This was important, it had to be done she needed to put her whole being into saving her youngest son!

Pushing the front door shut behind her putting the bags down on the kitchen floor she looked into the living room but there was no one there. No television no shoot’em’up games standing in the hallway she called out both boys names.

OH! well, she put the kettle on and maybe she’d ring around she had both their mobile numbers but they did not always want to be found. The doorbell rings , damn she had only just sat down she, walking toward the door the phone begins to sing.

There it is the sight every mother dreads, a policeman and a policewoman , OH! god she thinks someone must be dead.
~~~~~~~~~

The hospital was noisy but she didn’t hear a sound her lungs were filling up as she were about to drown. She had been waiting for an age now, would no one take her in. She was feeling really sick now and and felt like things were crawling on her skin.

It was so cold in there and he only had a sheet on . God he looked so pale but she supposed that was what you would look like when all your blood was gone.

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

She woke up with the headache she had had since that day the shock of the police visit and what they had to say. She she knew she had to get up she knew she must today, it was the funeral and that would not go away.

Things had been different her elder boy had staid home he seemed to want to help his mother and not leave her on her own. She dare not hope he had changed but she was glad that he was there. She slowly put her face on and then she brushed her hair.

His friends were at the church like they had been that day , he was not not with them. Would this pain ever go away. The priest seemed glad to see her and he offer his support, she felt close to this man who was with her boy when for his life he fought.
~~~~~~~~~

His favourite track finished and the last notes drifted away she stood up and looked at everyone and said she had something to say.

She knew that there was no work and that there was not much hope but joining gangs and using guns and knives was not the way to cope. Please listen she pleaded you are slipping away too many lives are wasted too many die this way. Something must be done and it must be soon we are loosing a generation it might be two if something is not done soon. How many more mothers have to suffer like she was. We really need to sort this out……… her voice trailed off to silence as she repeated, how many more mothers like me.

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

God Bless Harry

Is he the stuff of fairy tales this handsome young soldier by the name of Wales.

Photo credits BBC

He is off to prove he is a common man to join the ranks and fight for his grandma queen in Afghanistan .

He’s climbed mount Everest with veteran amputees, he gave his best.To highlight  their plight  for you and me they are not treated too well you see.

After fighting for their country and their queen, disabled they are left without jobs though to work they were keen. For many who return life can be lean and mean.

He has his faults that is true and he has done things I would not want to know my son might do! He likes and drink and maybe a smoke and pretty girls he does not need to coax.

But what ever his faults I do not  care, he really is just an honest brave lad with ginger hair. I am so grateful that he should go out to fight in a far off land with strange names like Helmand and Bastion. I would not want my sons to go, neither does his nan or dad, I know.

photo credits google images

So thank you Harry  this is a good thing you do, going off to war when you know you do not have to do. I don’t know if this war is wrong or right  that is something we could argue on all night. I have one thing more to say. Harry, may God protect you both night and day

Is he the stuff of fairy tales this handsome young soldier by the name of Wales.

Poetry Challenge #7 05/08/2012 THE BELFAST CHILD

When my love said to me
Meet me down by the gallow tree
For it’s sad news I bring
About this old town and all that it’s offering
Some say troubles abound
Some day soon they’re gonna pull the old town down
One day we’ll return here,
When the Belfast Child sings again

Brothers sisters where are you now
As I look for you right through the crowd
All my life here I’ve spent
With my faith in God the Church and the Government
But there’s sadness abound
Some day soon they’re gonna pull the old town down

One day we’ll return here,
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again

google images

Some come back Billy, won’t you come on home
Come back Mary, you’ve been away so long
The streets are empty, and your mother’s gone
The girls are crying, it’s been oh so long
And your father’s calling, come on home
Won’t you come on home, won’t you come on home

Come back people, you’ve been gone a while
And the war is raging, in the Emerald Isle
That’s flesh and blood man, that’s flesh and blood
All the girls are crying but all’s not lost

google images

The streets are empty, the streets are cold
Won’t you come on home, won’t you come on home

The streets are empty
Life goes on

One day we’ll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again

written by KERR, JAMES / MACNEIL, MICHAEL JOSEPH / BURCHILL, CHARLES

A song by Simple Minds The Belfast Child was a NO1 in 1989. The song talks of the times when the troubles were at their worst .

This is a very poignant portrayal of the worst of  The Troubles. It is set to the tune of the Irish folk song “She Moved Through the Fair“, but has completely different words. Jim Kerr wrote the song a few days after the Enniskillen bombing  a bomb planted by the IRA exploded during a Remembrance Day service at Enniskillen in County Fermanagh, killing 12 people and injuring at least 63.

A Sad and poignant song telling of the grief and waist of a country divided, family on family senseless pointless war faring.

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:

Poetry Challenge #7 03/06/2012

photo credit google

“War Child”

Who will save the war child baby?
Who controls the key?
The web we weave is thick and sordid,
Fine by me.

At times of war we’re all the losers,
There’s no victory.
We shoot to kill and kill your lover,
Fine by me.

War child, victim of political pride.
Plant the seed, territorial greed.
Mind the war child,
We should mind the war child.

I spent last winter in New York,
And came upon a man.
He was sleeping on the streets and homeless,
He said, “I fought in Vietnam.”

Beneath his shirt he wore the mark,
He bore the mark with pride.
A two inch deep incision carved,
Into his side.

War child, victim of political pride.
Plant the seed, territorial greed.
Mind the war child,
We should mind the war child.

Who’s the loser now? Who’s the loser now?
We’re all the losers now. We’re all the losers now.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The words were written by  Dolores O’Riordan  when asked about the song she said : “I love children and I received a letter from Brian Eno who asked me to design something for a War Child fashion show that didn’t happen, but I was moved by Bosnia and that morning in my hotel room I wrote the song in about 10 minutes – children suffer most of all whether it’s Bosnia or the Bogside. It’s sick. They’re so vulnerable.” (in article written by Jayne Margetts, 1996

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Dolores Mary Eileen O’Riordan (/ˈrɪərdən/) (born 6 September 1971) is an Irish singer, guitarist and songwriter. She led the rock band The Cranberries to worldwide success and fame for 13 years before the band took a hiatus in 2003, but have since reunited in 2012.[1] Her first solo album Are You Listening? was released in May 2007 and was followed up by No Baggage in 2009. O’Riordan is notable for her unmistakable lilting voice and strong Irish accent.[2]

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Children have always been the silent casualties of war. They become the annihilation of the future. In every war from the beinning of time from the first cave man to throw a stone in anger through all wars up to ww1,ww2 and every war since. Whether they be child soldiers, refugees, orphans. Scarred mentally or physically or both we should weep, we should hang our heads in shame for what we do to the war child.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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:

photo credits http://cache2.allpostersimages.com/p/LRG/15/1555/GFHDD00Z/posters/rowan-carol-vibrant-poppies.jpg

Blood on their Hands

No need to ask from where they come , those bloody men with their shells and guns. No need to ask from where they come, dropping their shells and firing their guns.

Governments are suppose to protect their people not kill them. You have blood on your hands, you have blood on your hands you bloody men with your bloody shells. 90 bodies left lying there including 32 children now is that fair.

In the came the men with hats of blue, their hands are tied what can they do. Yes they have plenty to say  but will they stop this fighting for which the children pay.

Empty playgrounds empty schools is often the legacy of the tyrant’s rule. Why why do the people die while the governments cheat and lie.

No need to ask from where they come , those bloody men with their shells and guns. No need to ask from where they come, dropping their shells and firing their guns.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

All right of the video belong to the BBC.

Journal For Poetry Challenge# 15/04/2012

Michael Brett

Michael  Brett was born in Accra, Ghana in 1955. He was educated in England at Cranbrook School and the University of Reading, where he read English. He worked in the City of London for over ten years, has a background in financial journalism, and continued to write throughout that period.

During the Civil War in the Former Yugoslavia, Michael worked in the Press Section of the Information Centre of Bosnia-Herzegovina in London, promoting US and NATO military intervention in the Civil War in the Former Yugoslavia. He believed in the ideal of a multi ethnic Bosnian state and that it would stop the widespread massacres of civilians that were taking placing at the time.

He is currently Head of English at a school in South London. More information at Michael Brett

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DEAD MACHINE GUN CREW

The gunners’ green faces are crowned with flies
And their grey arms flung, across the barrel of the gun,
Like drunks around some girls.
They lie sliced like lemon into strands
By holidaying shells and rockets.
They are brothers in arms, in decay, mingled
Next to their brassy, live and gleaming bullets.
You cannot tell which foot, which hand
Goes with which dry and tearless eye
Filled with dust and scraps of leaves.
Around them, tracers lace the upper air.
Raindrops drum on helmets, hearts and broken glass.
Shells plod their way across the street.
Some soldiers looting beers from the shop next door
Spare them no second glance.
For now they are neither friends nor enemies.
They are part of a different army,
Whose drill is stillness, whose bond is silence.
Their new country is the greatest secret.
It is more secret than their map that lies beside them, still,
With its scribbles in red, its lines and times of attack.
The clouds burst. Naked, face uppermost, dead,
Its paper crackles in the rain.

Michael Brett

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The war in Bosnia between Neighbour and Neighbour from 1992/1995 split the people apart. Those who and for years lived amicably alone side each other suddenly, Muslin, Christian, Serb, Croats and Bosniaks all turned on each other.

This Poem again shows how low humans will go in the name of what they see as right. The sad pointlessness of a machine gun who’s crew are dead. It is just a piece of metal rusting in the rain. Draped in dead bodies and slime. It is stilled and no longer dangerous and is so ignored by looting soldiers .

It shows that again nothing is learnt in war. The old, the ill and the young are thrown out of their homes or made virtual prisoners in them. Shells and bullets trying to rip them in two. Starvation gnawing at them, cold nipping at them disease waiting on every corner to claim all, soldiers and civilians alike!

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 26/02/2012

                       Henry-Allingham-in-2008-001.jpg

The Poem is nothing to do with HENRY ALLINGHAM  but he was the oldest survivor of the 1st world war. He died 18th July 2009 age 113yrs. As the oldest man in the world. His legacy will be the memories he shared of a lost generation

BACK

by WILFRED GIBSON

THEY ask me where I’ve been, And what I’ve done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn’t I, But someone just like me, Who went across the sea And with my head and hands Killed men in foreign lands . . . Though I must bear the blame Because he bore my name.

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

Wilfred Gibso

Wilfred Wilson Gibson (1878-1962), a close friend of Rupert Brooke and a protégé of Edward Marsh, was born in Hexham, England in 1878.

Gibson worked for a time as a social worker in London’s East End. He published his first verse in 1902, Mountain Lovers. He had several poems included in various Georgian poetry collections prior to the war. He also wrote a play, Daily Bread, which was produced in 1910.

After the outbreak of war, Gibson served as a private in the infantry on the Western Front. It was therefore from the perspective of the ordinary soldier that Gibson wrote his war poetry.

His active service was brief, but his poetry belies his lack of experience, Breakfast being a prime example of ironic war verse written during the very early stages of the conflict.

Following the armistice, Gibson continued writing poetry and plays. His work was particularly concerned with the poverty of industrial workers and village labourers. Collected Poems: 1905-1925 was published in 1926, The Island Stag in 1927, and Within Four Walls in 1950.

Wilfred Wilson Gibson died in 1962.   http://iwvpa.net/gibsonww/index.php

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I honestly think that is one of the most honest  poems I have ever read. It is straight from the heart and I believe many, many men who returned from the war would of dealt with memories by saying this to themselves…it was not me  it was just someone with my name.

The poem is as true today as it was then, men and women returning from Afghanistan and Iraq  could easily say the same. War and what men and women have to do in it’s name is as I have said before evil.

There is not much more I can say about the poem as the author says it all so very well. This poem touch my heart and made me cry.

Getty Images

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This the Poem I should of published last Sunday, hence the discrepancy in the dates

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:

Death by Aid

Tiny little fingers in the dust, huge eyes so sad begging for your crust. You are so hungry you need it for you but this is your child, who you can’t deny, true?

Hunger gnawing at your bones like cancer spreading fast. You worry if you’ll be strong enough to find water, as what you have just will not last.

No one is going to help you, your sons and daughters gone for soldiers.These two left will escape that fate as they will not grow much older. Your milk dried up, your belly empty. It hurts so much to walk but walk you must, you can’t stop. The baby at your breast has long since ceased  crying. This sweet young child clinging to your skirt is dying.

the child at your hem. instablogsimages.com/images/

Where is the help  that was promised where is the aid that you need. You have walked days now with no hope of helping your children not even to feed. The baby needs medicine the western doctors dispense  you have to flee from your home just were is the sense.

War at your left side famine at your right , politicians and corrupt leaders uncaring of your plight. Had you stayed they would of killed you or worse …OH! my poor children your birth is your curse.

Standing at the top of the hill you can see a straggling encampment a red cross flag flying still. You put down the baby his soul already flown to your husbands arms now, at least not alone. You need to rest  but your aim is in reach . You lay in the dust next to your babes, close your eyes  just ignore the flies.

Tiny little fingers in the dust , huge eyes so sad finally closed. Where is  the help that was promised where is the aid.War on your left side famine at your right they no longer threaten you Death has arrive to erase your plight.

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