To Bleat or Roar

TV in the comfort of home secure with key and lock

Shows columns of semi-naked captives herded as sheep

As armed shepherds taunt and bully the doomed flock

The world yawns as to slaughter the prisoners creep

 ISIS

Freedom stolen; genocide on the move again

Haunting nightmares stir from not so long ago

Young and old wearing Stars of David in cattle trains

Enticed to showers and murdered by swastika foe

Heads buried in sand and mute is our voice

Life’s lessons ignored from previous strife

When will we learn that with such evil there is no choice?

Never to compromise our precious values in life

Turning the cheek is a respected discipline

Yet given the threat to us and those who follow

Converting ploughs into swords would be no sin

For lions with courage and purpose for our tomorrow

George Mansford © August 2014

Sweet, sweet urgent love


Sweet, Sweet Love

The comforting blanket of night

Masks the first gentle touch so light

Shyly, love’s rousing begins

How could such romance be a sin?

 Stars

Exploring, sharing

Giving, caring  

 

On Planet Earth with bright burning stars above

Two breathless pounding hearts with fire now spent

Both in awe and no reason to relent

 

Resting, reflecting, both together

Happy contented lovers, now and forever

Such is God’s beautiful gift which needs no special key 

Simply sweet, sweet love as it was always meant to be

George Mansford ©April 2014

To Hell With The Iceberg

As our Nation sails forward to where it has never been

There’s a very large blip on the radar screen

An iceberg of large proportions ahead it seems

Several Senators recently elected and at the helm said

“We’re in command and today it’s full steam ahead”

Other crew, authors of long past broken promises still sleep

Onwards steams the bonzer ship Oz with its cargo of sheep

Titanic

Can someone take real command before all is lost?

None of those on the Bridge are qualified to be boss

Yet these novices can decide to stop or charge

Unfortunately their combined experience is far from being large

So why is it politicians don’t have pre-entry tests?

Like commoners do, be it driver, trade, military, police and the rest

For Canberra Suits, why not start with IQ ratings and literacy tests?

 

Throw in honesty checks and ensure no hidden shame

Provide a financial penalty if they quit early from the game

Past record of leadership and love of country is the call

No blinkers to mask the truth and common sense shines above all

A belief that election promises are solemn and not to become a farce

They stand up to be counted in crisis and not sit on their arse

On second thoughts, man the life boats, cos very few would pass

George Mansford © July 2014

A Way Of Life Slowly Lost

I often think of warriors who fought the fight
To ensure that our way of life was kept right
In arenas of cruel harsh terrain, day and night
Desert, jungle and mountain height
Their bed a mattress of rock or muddy ground
Home a shell scrape or behind a dirt mound
A smothering dark bunker of sandbagged earth
Perhaps seeking cover behind a hardy tree of large girth

Hungry, thirsty, weary and desperate for sleep
Keep going forward into hell; no time to weep
Heart thumping, adrenalin rushing and scared
Yet still wondering how mates had fared
Cooling a fevered brow or holding the hand of a dying mate
Restless dreams of love, fear, death and hate
Offering life and limb for a precious cause to the very last
There was no turning back and the die was cast

They returned to a hard won life with new dreams begun
In time did they wonder who had really lost or won?
The cause defended with such pain and loss of life
Slowly being corrupted with greed and social strife
Drugs; suicides; I’m right Jack and a Nanny Land with more red tape
Few walk the street at night for fear of thugs and rape
Home invasions, car- jacks and a justice system gone mad
Thieves, con-men and child molesters go free; it seems no one’s bad

Selling land to foreign interest and even buying back our water
What’s bloody next? Selling off our daughters?
To ignore political correctness is considered a social sin
Xmas trees and Easter eggs could soon be in the bin
Where is the vision for our tomorrow neath the Southern Cross?
Given our national debt, perhaps under the thumb a foreign boss?
Religious hatred brewing where it never used to be
Lest we forget; what happened to our precious life style so free?
George Mansford © May 2013

Broken Dreams

Suddenly, bright blinding light from a bursting flare
A weary soldier woken from bliss to living nightmare
Sweet dreams of his wife stolen by the uninvited glare
In a pulse beat he senses new danger on a hill of madness
A crowded noisy theatre complete with death and sadness
Stumbling footsteps are near and shouts of “Stand To”
Then dreaded words “They’re on the wire and coming through”

That same hour his lonely wife does write
‘How I miss you so, day and night
I know it was your duty to go
Please hurry home; I love you so
So many dreams yet to come true,
A home to be built, children and a life together
All my love forever and ever’

Next morn, life in our nation is the same
Traffic jams, work, ticking clocks, more bills again
Then breaking news of casualties from the war
Viewers shrug and murmur “what the hell for”
Others switch channels to check cricket scores
Canberra speeches are prepared by writers paid in gold
Caesar then orates on duty, sacrifice and “we must be bold”

Government suits, friends and family gather at the grave
A grieving young woman tries so hard to be brave
Politician lay wreaths and ensures the act is seen
An aide signals time; a curt farewell then they leave the scene
That night the bereaved is alone with her broken dreams
The nation yawns as Caesar speaks of why we’re over there
Yet the hill of madness is now deserted and few do care

George Mansford ©February 2013

Tommy (with apologies to Kipling)

From a British soldier in Iraq.

 

Written by Patrick Campbell

They flew me ‘ome from Baghdad with a bullet in me chest.
Cos they’ve closed the army ‘ospitals, I’m in the NHS.
The nurse, she ain’t no Britisher an’ so she ain’t impressed.
It’s like I’m some street corner thug who’s come off second best.
Yes, it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “You’re not welcome ‘ere”.
But when Saddam was collar’d, they was quick enough to cheer.

 

They’re proud when Tommy Atkins ‘olds the thin red line out there,
But now he’s wounded back at ‘ome, he has to wait for care.
Some stranger in the next bed sez, “Don’t you feel no shame?
You kill my Muslim brothers!” So it’s me not ‘im to blame!
An’ then the cleaner ups an’ sez “Who are you fightin’ for?
It ain’t for Queen and country ‘cos it’s Bush’s bloody war!”
It’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, what’s that smell?”
But it’s “God go with you, Tommy,” when they fly us out to ‘ell.

O then we’re just like ‘eroes from the army’s glorious past.
Yes, it’s “God go with you, Tommy,” when the trip might be your last.
They pays us skivvy wages, never mind we’re sitting ducks,
When clerks what’s pushing pens at ‘ome don’t know their flippin’ luck.
“Ah, yes” sez they “but think of all the travel to be ‘ad.”
Pull the other one. Does Cooks do ‘olidays in Baghdad?
It’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, know your place,”
But it’s “Tommy, take the front seat,” when there’s terrorists to chase.

An’ the town is full of maniacs who’d like you dead toot sweet.
Yes, it’s “Thank you, Mr Atkins,” when they find you in the street.
There’s s’pposed to be a covynant to treat us fair an’ square
But I ‘ad to buy me army boots, an’ me combats is threadbare.
An’ ‘alf the bloody ‘elicopters can’t get into the air,
An’ me pistol jammed when snipers fired. That’s why I’m laid up ‘ere.
Yes, it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, “We ‘ave to watch the pence”;
Bold as brass the P.M. sez, “We spare them no expense.

“But I’ll tell you when they do us proud an’ pull out all the stops,
It’s when Tommy lands at Lyneham in a bloomin’ wooden box!

The Regimental Sergeant Major

Inspired by the departure of WO1 Brian Moore, RSM,  51st Battalion, Far North Queensland Regiment and dedicated to all those ugly bastards who wore galloping horses and carried a pace stick

 

 

Imagine so many ghosts marching past

From the original senior soldier to the very last

One after the other in single file

Then reflect on their service for awhile

They began as recruits to learn the tricks of trade

In time, unit RSMs they were made

 

Watchdogs of their respective band of brothers

So erect and proud alongside others

Setting standards for all to emulate

With eagle eye for errant soldiers to berate

Be it in peace or war, these mentors set the scene 

Demanding soldiering skills which otherwise would not have been

 

On the parade ground the RSM shouts and screams

God help any idle soldier in a dream

Blink, scratch a nose or lose step marching with a Band

Then watch out for The Terror with pace stick in hand

Always the master with often just one sharp word of command

And all on parade obey as one to his demand 

 

When duty done and this mentor bids hooray

The cycle still continues forever and a day

A new RSM arrives and no change other than name and face

Another generation is prepared for Mars frequent bloody race  

So, as that long ghostly single file from yesterday marches past

Perhaps you’ll hear a familiar scream “Idle soldier, stand fast “

George Mansford © September 2012

A Soldier

 

Places of pain, sorrow, blood and death by foot by sea and air they come to fight and die not for glory our sons. In tropic sweat on desert sand in rain and snow on any land by day and night in rain they’ll wait for enemy to come an uncertain fate.

 

In assault they stand a line so thin between life and death and none will win. Now and then one will ask a mate to stay, till death the task. Joining again to push their fate for family and friend but mostly mate. Fear in heart and steel at hand the battle rages hand to hand an uncertain fate.

 

Death will call to some, to few, to many and all when some will cry, some will pray at battles end the dead will lay. Torn at heart and soul flayed bare they mourn the loss but this they bear. In fear and shock bury their mates then move along to uncertain fate.

 

At home no peace will find them here alone again they stand in fear torn away from all held dear. Cast again to uncertain fate with mind so full of rage and hate for land and friend but not of mates who stood the line for an uncertain fate.

Craig Hannan 2007

No Wall Around My Heart

 

The sun cracks through the windows four days no sleep, body weary mind still racing. Can’t close my eyes horrible things taunt me; Things seen and done where have these thirty years gone.

Lost in anger, rage, self loathing and fear ripped from a soul happiness, love, humour, warmth and generosity cast aside, I don’t want to forget just peace of mind is that so much.

 

These demons strike when unprepared with family, friends, in shopping centres, car anywhere anytime they rip you apart struggling to regain control a battle lost. Violent reaction to a touch terror on the face you turn away in shame and fear. Not at what you have done but what you are becoming, compassionless, remorseless and devoid of emotion.

 

No peace, a mind at war. No tears cannot cry not possible who are you going to cry for, mates maybe. Dead, empty, no love, friends no closeness just there nothing more just there the words they speak like rain on a roof. Anger, rage, guilt, recrimination, sadness, self loathing, shame and fear.

 

Alone together she tells of her love and you feel nothing, empty words spill from your mouth but without meaning, feeling or passion; Lost forever it seems. There is no wall around my heart just nothing there for any to share. Anger, rage, guilt, recrimination, sadness self loathing, shame and fear.

 

Shutting down exhaustion taking control, sleep forced on you. They come to you speaking with no voice, no face mutilated and horrible, seeing them as they die watching the last dance of life taken one step at a time, your hands covered in blood. Friends smiles frozen into death, then the chase begins, running in your mind never getting away bullets hitting you smashing your body the pain real, intense, locked in cannot wake can hear all around me cannot move or speak still the nightmare with me.

 

Awake, how long two hours still shaking, sweating nausea to bathroom vomit over and over, sit and shake. Anything to help remove the images in your mind, anything, anything nothing works. Anger, rage, guilt, recrimination, sadness, self loathing, shame and fear, time to end it. No suicide not right, not honourable and my family, my only way of redeeming these thoughts. The sun rising again another PTSD dance has begun how long this time and so it goes.

Craig Hannan 2012.

Through Their Eyes

“What have you seen my son and what is that look in your eyes? ”

“Nothing;” Why do you ask this of me mother you turn away when I speak of it.

 

“What have you seen my lover and what is that look in your eyes?”

“Nothing;” Why do you ask this of me my lover you turn away when I speak of it.

 

“What have seen my brother and what is that look in your eyes?”

“Nothing;” Why do you ask this of me my brother you turn away when I speak of it.

 

“What have you seen my friend and what is that look in your eyes?”

“Nothing;” Why do you ask this of me my friend you turn away when I speak of it.

 

“I know what you have seen, I have been there too and I will listen to you my brother and share my experience.”

 

“Why are you so angry my son?“

”I am not;” Can you not see this pain is mine.

 

“Why are you so angry my lover?“

”I am not;” Can you not see this pain is mine.

 

“Why are you so angry my brother?”

“ I am not;” Can you not see this pain is mine.

 

“Why are you so angry my friend?”

“I am not;” Can you not see this pain is mine.

 

“I know this pain of conscience you are in I don’t know why either but I will listen and we shall share this pain.”

 

Only those that have seen with your eyes and know your heart can understand.

Craig Hannan 2012.