Rusden Sonnet 2:

She said she read auras, mine she said, was red: I told stories and as we

lay on the ground and I recovered from the metaphor of an aura

said to be red I told her a story in the form of a poem of two people

living on two different islands and the journey it might take for them

to reach out and find each other and in that darkened room the red

forgotten my words floated out to touch the cosmic pressed tin ceiling

and her hand reached out as she told me red was not so bad after all

not of it came with  a voice as bright as any full moon and in the dark

I remember I smiled at that and thought my words were more like hooks

that the ideas behind them were the bait for her lips to nibble upon

and then she said but though red was fine for me it spelt only trouble

for her and before the next breath fell into the anchored lungs within

my shipwrecked chest she rose up like a leviathan in the night and left:

I remained an island drifting again through the ocean of another night.

Rusden Sonnet 1:

Sometimes I think about that strange place where we,

the mad children of the times collected in black caverns

of fantasy and desire. It was so long ago now when we let

our voices whisper and roar as we raced through love and lust,

our hands slipping and gripping even as the familiarity

wove an unbroken chain through the ensuing years.

The hurts we gave to each other were never intended

for we were the wild flowers that bloom in innocence.

I miss those times we spent together laughing and learning,

for though I have found many more moments in the light,

and many moments, too, alone before the howling abyss,

it is the first blossom in company with like-yielding wild flowers

that always fill memories stolen in the fading evening sunlight

with the strongest scent of both tears shed and laughter shared.

The Wild Flowers of Rusden Teachers College

beware, first edit so this will take a bit of editing/polishing...

The Wild Flowers Of Rusden Teachers College:

Sometimes I think about that strange place

where buildings collected as if they had fallen -

not a thought for rhyme or reason, apt for the times

before every shape took on someone’s importance,

while we, the mad children of the times

collected in black caverns of fantasy and desire

strutted under lights while we ingested or drank

and never gave a thought to time’s heedless passage.

It was so long ago now, so far away in time,

those lessons in limbo when experiences fell through fingers

like sand lifted up in the hand and we let our voices

whisper and roar as we raced through love and lust

our hands slipping and gripping even as the familiarity

wove an unbroken chain through the ensuing years.

It was a time of youthful energy, when the follies

and the hurts we gave to each other were never intended

for we were the wild flowers that bloom in innocence

as we climbed the stairs into adulthood’s light –

oh we thought ourselves so majestically grown then,

took ourselves far too seriously, as only the young truly can,

 and played so hard we fell alone or together, rose again

like starving Draculas seeking the next dramatic neck

to drain to the very last bittersweet drop then taking the bow.

I miss those times, that moment of blossoming,

for though I have found many such moments in the light,

and many moments too alone before the howling abyss,

it is the first blossom in company with like-yielding wild flowers

that always fill memories stolen in the evening sunlight

with the strongest scent of both tears shed and laughter shared.

Paul Adkin's latest novel

When Sirens Call

Follow the link and have a look. I can't recommend his writing strongly enough so do yourself a favor and have a read. Great get for threekookaburras Press I might add.

Regret 2:

He hates sailing now, though he must if he is ever

to find his way back to Penelope’s arms; arms

he desires even as he fears her serious eyes —

for Odysseus knows she will see the stain of Hecabe.

She will witness Odysseus’ eyes,

she will study Hecabe’s leap from the prow,

a Trojan rock breaking free from the cliff

and falling silent  into the utter coldness of the sea;

a leap to death’s green drowning
preferable to the supplication of his bed.

Regret 1:

 

Odysseus stands before another window,

his hands hold the weathered frame, framing

himself, a forgotten Samson about to suffer

the collapse of the temple. He breathes in,

attempts to catch a salt-laden breeze;

perhaps that might  blow away the regret

that lingers like a leech draining him dry.

He has dreamed again of that day after the horse

when he stood silent and watched

the slaughter of Polyxena and Astyanax,

children both, their small bodies no more than limp flags

waved by joyous warriors to signal the end the war.

The girl had her swan-like throat slit,

her bright blood flung upon the tomb of Achilles —

death to her, profanity to him,

greatest hero and never one who desired

an innocent’s blood to be shed for any reason.

The boy thrown from the highest Trojan wall

(like hay to the hungry horse’s stable).

While the drunken Greeks cheered and pointed

the boy fell, swift to death yet that fall eternal

in Odysseus’ mind: The Greeks cupped their ears

to catch the sound of his breathing body

colliding with the stones below…they savored

the crunch of his small death.

To the city below he whispers—How can I

return to Penelope and to my son Telemachus

when those deaths permanently stain my flesh?

Third attempt...

To All The Young Warriors

How say you, young men and women surging to fight,

Fleeing countries that may have bullied you

Or may have not,

Countries that might have invaded or at the least

Benefited by it?  Countries full

Of men, women and children who cannot

Guide those that choose to act upon

Lands far from their suburban homes and televisions set

While they watch the Politicians and Fanatics claim

Actions done in The Name of The One True God

(Who is not your God) to mask the stealing of oil or gold,

Or the acts performed out of fear of losing control.

How say you, young men and women who think you

Are the first? That this Righteous Fight has never been

Fought. That your blood lust is precious and original.

That the words you hear have never been heard.

That the swelling inside your chest fit to burst

Has never been felt before; has never bloomed

And you now think it does in your time alone?

Do you truly believe that your blood

Taking other blood will quench a thirst?

How say you, as you stand there with your weapons

Praying to deliver a victory by killing innocents?

And what of the terrorized women fearing rape,

For they know they will be, they always are,

And have no say in this?

And what of the children who will be maimed, killed

Or sent homeless and orphaned

Into the smoldering ruins of an uncaring world?

You think you are the first, but you are not.

Not even close.

Think of those ancient warriors who heard the call

And gathered before the colossal walls of Troy

With their shining armour, the lustre

As bright as the souls you claim are your reward,

Their swords catching the sun

As you think you catch the eyes of Your Lord.

Think of the littered dead of El Alamein, those broken bodies

On both sides, soldiers poor or ignorant or seeking glory

Or thinking they had only one life to give for God and Country;

Did they not heed the call as you now do?

Think of the Dixie greys running towards a slaughter

Or the Zulu warriors running against the bayonets

The Crow or Aztec, the Indigenous or weary transcript;

Each young man and woman, each warrior or farmer or son

Or daughter or lost one thought they had found the cause

And fought the fight that was Just, fought the fight that must be fought.

And what did they gain…these young men and women who flocked

As you now do,

To lands scattered as far as any bird has ever flown?

Death to themselves and to those they fought.

Peace sometimes but never for long.

Pain to those they loved and to those they didn’t.

And their Gods —

Did they rejoice in the death? Do you truly believe that?

Who profited from all those deaths?

Someone’s God? Or is it that He or She that has had many names

And many forms always finds Themselves as a banner

For those that go to war, is that what a God is for?

And what of those who say they fought for their Homelands

Desert or Forest, Farmland or Savannah? Do you think

A Country needs so much blood, that it needs a generation

To fall like leaves and smother the ground for Its cause?

Could it be those who have always profited on the dead,

Who have always fed the minds of the young, urging them

To chase the shadows, young minds

Led along by the cruel whispers of the hiding men,

The lurkers in shaded corners, the bean counters, the weapon makers,

The givers of orders, the heedless of consequences,

Might not they be the ones you are really fighting for?

I ask that you reach down and grasp a handful of sand,

Count the grains, each one a warrior such as yourself

Turned to dust, each with dreams that matched yours —

And while we may remember Achilles, remember

He knows nought

But blows across the ruins of Troy, mingling himself

With Hector and the bones of others who also died.

And think on this, young warriors wanting to fight,

Think of all those others who stood upon or beneath

Those mammoth walls of Troy and thought they too fought

The Good Fight that would change everything

And found, or died before they could, that it did not.