Auckland Poetry.com

Child of War.

I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.
When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated
by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory
and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back
joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and
teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me
the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.
I was there riding, alongside the commandant, saluting
the troops who indulgently smiled. What they did not know
any talk of sedition from them I reported to my leader, but in
the end they knew and they feared me greatly…War is in my blood, and I’m not even British, peace didn’t bode me well it
made me tired I slept for forty five years and luckily for me
the Iraqi war came along, in itself nothing much, but it is
the ember that will set the world afire and once more we will
have world war. Sweet blood and heavenly light let me be consumed by your fire, let me see the earth burn and let me
once more sit on a steed and lead men of iron into oblivion

The Fingerprinted.

On the highway stretching forever, beset by
dumped cars and weed that cracks up asphalt,
a gypsy family with their tough little horses
meanders slowly through a road that is a sad
testament to a civilization that lost its way.
War of resources, everyone lost, has ruined
the economy and social cohesion, the people
lack the will to start again after the fat years.
Begging, theft and robbery are the norm, and
as usual the itinerants are blamed by people
who still cling to their bankrupt dwellings.
For travelers this means nothing, they were
poor before, and feel no triumph. Nomads in
the landscape of shimmering time.