One of mine that changes occasionally.
A POEM TO END ALL POEMS
The blind leading the blind
One man’s bloody hand
On the next man’s shoulder
A line of sightless uniforms
A queue of shattered young lives
Superfluous to General requirements
Dreading the homeward march
Towards unsuspecting families
We are lucky they blithely say
Our brothers lie in Flanders meadows
Rotting in the shadows of righteousness
Anonymously abandoned to the earth
But inside they know that life is over
Never to see their loved ones again
They are kept forever in the dark
As they trudge in the terrible blackness
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Who will dare to love them now
Their unripe bodies savaged
And spirits fractured and torn
By the creeping and heartless gas
That dreadful callous medium
Relentlessly searing and burning
A foul and unwelcome guest
On the fields of stench warfare
Unfallen comrades stumble alongside
Despicable wounds their handicap
Withered limbs their testament
To the Great War to end all wars
The sites of scarlet outpourings
Now dried stains of barbaric evidence
Bear witness to unhealed savagery
Reluctant badges of conscripted valour
Barely surviving their physical tragedy
Tortured minds wander in the void
Locked out in the dead of night
Shocked by indiscriminate shells
Apprehensive at their home-going
Bearing tragic gifts for their households
Some voicing gladness to be alive
Others desperate for oblivion
All maimed by the machine of war
Their existence eternally disfigured
By mankind’s lowest degradation
And perceived hatred of foreign brethren
And lest we fail to remember
This misled band of brave sons
Were a fraction of misguided conflict
A small snapshot of human atrocity
Peter Preston
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If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week.
Charles Darwin
Other poets' works that change.
I AM ANGRY TODAY (2017)
This was the first book that I published and within its 82 pages could be found 43 poems.
The Divine Undiscovered contains all of these from the above book plus another 18 poems rendering I Am Angry Today redundant.
Here is a short one.​
THE LAST GATEWAY
This gateway has no empire
No space for evil forces
But fertile lawns and fragrant flowers
And courtyards of cobbles and horses
This gateway has no guardian
No troops keep foes at bay
No people crowding round its portals
Yet dogs and cats and children play
This gateway has no lock and key
No choice of passing through its door
No way of knowing what waits there
No pain is needed, any more
The DIVINE UNDISCOVERED (2022)
This collection of poetry opens with a remarkable example of automatic writing before Peter gets angry about the things that affect most of us. Trains, arthritis, ageing, deforestation... But within the anger are moments of passion, of heartfelt sentiment, of humour, of joy and pain. The agony of war, the threat of global warning, and the many faces of death are all examined in Peter's own personal way. The poems in this book are drawn from a finely tuned power of observation. Many of them are autobiographical revelations. He gets inside the minds of both men and women, gives us a front seat at a Spanish thunderstorm, attempts to understand the highs and lows of love, and questions the impossibility of such an understanding.
Available from Amazon HERE or from the author via the Contact page.​
Dylan Thomas 1914–1953
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DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
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Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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Dylan Thomas 1914–1953
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THE SONG OF THE MISCHIEVOUS DOG​
(Written at the age of 11 & his first published poem)
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There are many who say that a dog has its day,
And a cat has a number of lives;
There are others who think that a lobster is pink,
And that bees never work in their hives.
There are fewer, of course, who insist that a horse
Has a horn and two humps on its head,
And a fellow who jests that a mare can build nests
Is as rare as a donkey that’s red.
Yet in spite of all this, I have moments of bliss,
For I cherish a passion for bones,
And though doubtful of biscuit,
I’m willing to risk it,
And love to chase rabbits and stones.
But my greatest delight is to take a good bite
At a calf that is plump and delicious;
And if I indulge in a bite at a bulge,
Let’s hope you won’t think me too vicious.