Trench Warfare
From trench to trench
You followed me, to speed
My penance at the midnight hour of life,
Once all was lost, and mine the greater need
You came again, to gloat, and turn the knife.
It’s always been the same
A thrust, then grief;
A few yards forward, then dig in, and damn the cost,
We worried at the borders of belief
To count advantage first, but never loss!
I can’t remember peace,
There’s never been
A time for me when war was not the game,
Each word a bullet, spat from lips that screamed;
You drank your deadly cocktails, then took aim.
‘Til I was sorely wounded,
Sick at heart,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Lost Bloom
You are God’s best-kept secret, Li Shaojun,
Your smile lights up the dimmest, darkest day,
And in your eyes, there shines a love so strong
That men are shamed, and look the other way.
For men are shallow, falling at your feet,
Protest undying love, then look a-stare
To see some dark-eyed daughter in the street,
And think that heaven has moved, to your despair.
While you provide what life has left to give,
Though age approaches, nothing turns your head,
Your eyes are fixed on what the elders teach
That love endures, until that love is dead!
Until that love is dead, or walks away,
Your love is faithful, fixed on one alone,
But this was never seen as quite enough
By those, whose feet were always set to roam.
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Old Wife's Mood
'Don’t grumble and growl and roar at me
Old man, when your temper’s turning,
I’ve long since tired of your vain disputes
In the halls of your lordship’s learning,
You think, old man, you can tame me now
By beating your breakers shoreward,
I’ve never put up with your antics yet
When your spume is fuming forward.'
‘Don’t shriek at me, ’ said the old man sea
As she whipped at his crests in temper,
‘It’s always the way that your humour turns
Each bleak and harsh September;
Will ever you calm yourself, you witch
And settle my troubled rancour,
Or shriek and howl like a grey old owl
At my spindrift’s sullen anger? ’
‘Old, I was old when the world was young
In my hallowed depths and deeps,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Ve Haf Vays...
'Why ith there thalt in the thea, ' he thaid,
'Why are there thtars in the thky?
Why hath an elephant got two tailth,
Why if he hath, haven't I? '
'Why hath a buth got four big wheelth,
Why hath a bike got two,
Why are you looking at me like that,
Like a monkey chained up in a thoo? '
'Why do you conthtantly thake your head
Whenever I'm athking you why?
Why do you thtutter and turn quite red
And anthwer me with a big thigh? '
'Thurely my Englith ith thimple and thtraight,
Ith eathy to underthtand,
Why are your fingerth thtuck deep in your earth
Like a man from Afghanithtan? '
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Bibles
You brought your Bibles and printed tracts
To a land that God has no heaven in,
For Tao, Confucious and Buddha, here
Had prior claims to the hearts you'd win.
You think you're holding a secret key
To truths that nobody else has found,
But minds far greater than yours despaired,
And you just cover the same old ground.
And pride lies heavy before a fall,
And vanity masks any truths you see,
The book you cherish is short on facts,
But lives in hopes, through eternity.
While all its chapters are written in blood,
The Jews, the Arabs, the Irish fools,
The swarthy Spanish Inquisitor
Who tore the flesh that he'd save poor souls.
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Terra Cotta Warrior
You stand with all your comrades in the van,
Unflinching, you survey the sweep of time,
Your eyes are sharp and stare, the man ahead
Does likewise, and your forehead wears a frown.
In darkness you were cast, you now appear
So sudden in the light, the dawn's grey wash,
The light is harsh and bright this time of year
And soon your colours fade, then turn to ash.
Then what alarm is this that breaks the spell
That Emperor Qin Shi Huang had caused to lie
Unbroken on your shoulders since he fell
And sought his bliss in heaven, on Mount Li.
What terrors brought his army to the light
Revealed the might of Qin to modern man,
The archers with their bows, when arrows sang,
The chariots and the horses in full flight.
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Tourist Plan
‘We have to rule on the Tourist Plan, '
Said Rogan Inchalot,
‘If we haven't come up with an answer soon
Then what have we really got?
The budget's stuck into overdrive
And the costs are going to balloon! '
(The future hung in the balance
On that Saturnday afternoon!)
‘We've always kept it a secret, ' said
The man called Iron Girth,
‘So what do we want with the tourists,
All those imbeciles, from Earth! '
‘We need to collar the dollars, ' said
Minerva Astropine,
‘We're never going to develop, if
We sit around, and whine! '
‘Our secret isn't as safe today,
With all those satellites,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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While I Write and Breathe...
Every time
I hold this pen
I feel some moving spirit stir,
Like mist in distant valleys, pouring
Down from Snowdon's druid lair.
Down along
The deep Welsh valleys,
Through the blood of ancient cells,
Seeking, ever seeking knowledge,
Stored within the Book of Kells.
Late at night
I well remember
You, hunched at your crystal ball,
Gazing ever deep at shadows,
Haunting you, from times before.
Born from out
The Mabinogi,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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White Horses
We stare at the rocks and shoreline
As if time itself has fled,
For the sea once lapped at our laughter
When he would go on, ahead;
But the seasons change in the counting
And the laughter fades from the eye,
He went ahead at the parting
Caught up in his own bleak tide.
Your hair turned white in the mourning
Your songs all died in your throat,
Your eyes turned wild, and haunting
As I looked for some antidote;
But age crept up and caught you
In a season of sad neglect,
We sit at the shore in silence
And think of some deep regret.
For the waves roll in like thunder
And the foam now caps the crest
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Burglar Dog
I have a dog called Harry,
He’s a Maltese-Poodle cross,
I don’t know how I got him -
(He saw me coming! – Of course!)
The little rat sleeps on my couch
And scatters his bones about,
His hair’s all over the washing pile
And I’m constantly kicking him out.
Then he goes for the doggy wounded look,
And lies in the sun, outside,
Rolls in the grass and the prickles, waits
For my temper to subside.
I say – ‘Who spilt the rubbish, then,
All over the kitchen floor? ’
He sniffs – ‘It was the Burglar Dog.’
- Refuses to say any more.
The Burglar Dog, the Burglar Dog!
That’s all that I ever hear,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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