2017 03 – poems


  • How immediate is war history
  •       history
  • served with breakfast lunch and
  •       dinner and always the mystery
  •  of no victims
  •        it is the essence of cherubim
  •  embedded in the medium
  •        cryogenically applied to live again
  • in some pandemonium
  •       don’t stay too cosy with peace
  • nor too humane with the rest of the
  •        world
  • that touch of death increases
  •       since over-the-top they were
  • hurled
  •       and hurled again on to that hotel
  •  reception board
  •       with its million white-cross keys
  • each one fits a grave
  •       or opens a war memorial to its
  • dead hoard
  •       live on myths live with death
  • death
  •       as your only kith

Wilson John Haire.


  • Torn shirt, suit buttons gone.
  • In Iraq where he belongs.
  • Ripped flesh, broken bones.
  • And he’s all alone.
  • Two shoes on swelling feet.
  • And still they beat.
  • Black and blue on brown skin.
  • Now not alone in the body bin.
  • Soaking shirt, choking collar.
  • His life’s work ends in squalor.
  • An office in the High Street.
  • All alone, near defeat.
  • The Army, the Government had its say.
  • A civil rights lawyer flayed.
  • From the liberals, not a peep.
  • Society’s frightened  back to sleep.

Wilson John Haire.