Where there is no Peace there is Poetry

STORIES YOU WON’T READ ELSEWHERE BUT WE NEED FINANCIAL SUPPORT. IF YOU WON’T HELP WE CLOSE Please contact Michael Walsh for easy transfer details keyboardcosmetics@gmail.com

During war and peace, every conflict creates the perfect inspiration for releasing one’s thoughts in poetry. As is pointed out endless times on People’s Media (social media) the current war against the rapidly advancing hideous totalitarianism is war by other means.

A war without shells and bullets but a war that as surely will also leave in its wake tens of millions of casualties and dumbed down obedient survivors of the depopulation holocaust. Rather like World War II.

Ours is a divided world but as in George Orwell’s predictive 1984 novel, it is an endless war to keep the people in their chains intellectual and otherwise. Wars are never intended to be won as otherwise national economies and the interests of investors would be destroyed.

It is said the pen is mightier than the sword. The first casualty of war is the truth and so the first to be silenced are the writers, the poets and the novelists for peace.

As infantrymen release hails of rounds we writers fire away with their wake-up words. Some hit home and some will not. It is life and it is otherwise. Perhaps the otherwise is the better, perhaps not. Only the survivors of the current conflict can answer such a question.


I fought and sought a cadre,

Brigades of fine young men,

And then I looked behind me,

And only when and then;

I realised I was on my own,

The seeds I sowed were all ungrown

They never fell behind.


I set a fine example,

It’s what we leaders do,

And then I came to realise,

The many men are few;

A marshal less an army,

Folk wish to stay asleep,

The purge is loose among us,

And many men will weep.


I tried but fell unto my knees,

But then I rose again,

So many watched me struggle,

Perhaps they thought me lame:

Inside my broken body,

My spirit rose erect,

Yet still I faltered, struggled,

But what did men expect?


‘No pain no gain,’ they told me,

Do rise and save our Race,

Whilst many who applaud you,

Stand silent as you pace;

What of our fallen heroes?

Where once great armies trod,

It’s sad those men of yesterday,

Are sleeping ‘neath the sod.


I wonder what the charge will be,

Of mason’s words in stone,

When I lie six feet under,

And rest my weary bones;

Should I stick to R.I.P.,

Just thank the gods that I was me,

Count my blessings now I’m free?


I wonder what the mason’s charge,

If I should speak my mind,

If first I scroll my final thoughts,

And let my heart unwind,

Better words are left unsaid,

And mason’s etch is left unread.



Michael Walsh Awarded  ‘Writer of the Year’ 2011

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