Throwback Friday, Return the Bullets, by Ivor Steven

Whoops .. the ‘Go Dog Go Cafe’ reblog action didn’t work again, so here is a copy & paste version of my article on GDGC ...

During the last 2 weeks I have posted a few poems about the futility of war … I’m not very accomplished at writing about the wars of the world, I get far too angry and confused to write something sensible, but this is a poem I wrote about my recollections of the “Gulf War” in 1990.

Return the Bullets

The mind awakens to secret cannons shattering my bed

All the violence of the worlds pounding inside my head

The killing and the maiming of all the innocents who fled

What happens when all the little lambs are slaughtered?

When the peoples of all religions and creed are dead

And we cannot return the murdering bullets back into the barrel

I am afraid

The backyard stairway is far too steep to climb

The handrails are way out of reach to find

And the public change-room windows are covered with bars

Now encircling the city hall, the security backdoor is ajar

Entering the marble aisle, the White room appears vacant

And guileful leaders have run, leaving a chasm of gloomy dark

I am wandering

Where to go, the healing house is full of ugly holes

The citizens cowering in shadows behind splintered lighting poles

And the crumbling streets are awash with rivers of leftover blood

Now the warring bosses have to fight amongst themselves

Throwing poison pens and paper darts at each other

Niether bruised nor battered, using ivory towers as cover

I am terrified

The dusty mushroom cloud slowly settles on the barren ground

With sands of distant lands, shifting into every nook and cranny

We need the good Doctor, to help us cure these alien scourges

And foreigners arriving upon waves of our neighbouring seas

The deathly TV images, wrongly implanted for all to see

As the press only gossip and drivel with selfish glee

I am stupefied

The guns of freedom lands haven’t even stopped the cull

Death to friends or foe, no matter, to the rulers from above

Their only rules, the poor and weak to be kept totally downtrodden

One day the surviving meek shall inherit their radioactive dirt

The rich will feast upon their own contaminated bread

But we will never return the murdering bullets back into the barrel 






Ivor Steven (c) May 2021


Flying Bricks

Featured ImageAbove: Gaza Strip border, Kibbutz Netiv Ha’Asara, Israel © Kai Wiendenhofer


Flying Bricks


There is a divisive brick wall

That stands harsh and tall

To stop people breaking their fall


Then the leaders in ivory towers

Ceased talking about peace and flowers

And hurled bricks into that sandy strip

One brick after another brick

Flew from one side to the other

Crashing innocent children and mothers


Flying bricks crumbling to dust

Creating dirty clouds of mistrust


The walls of Babylon fall again

As brick upon brick adds to the strain

Brick upon brick fills the bloody drains

Brick upon brick kills and maims







Ivor Steven (c) May 2021

Plastic Man, Plastic People

My headache woke me early this morning, and I rolled over to look at my plastic clock, to see it was 4.00 am, so here I am typing away on my plastic keyboard, thinking about our synthetic world……

Plastic Man, Plastic People

 

There’s a plastic man in charge, of you

Politically, he twitter’s us the news

There was a racist called Hitler in 1942

And everyone thought he was crazy too

They didn’t take him seriously

Nor listen to his rants of jealousy

‘Til he pulled the pin, on humanity’s hand grenade

Pure white supremacy, his raving crusade

From his chants, “Pow”, World War II

And, “death to the Jews”

 

There’s a plastic man in charge, who’s rude

Financially he’s just a plastic money dude

Soon to be impeached for his glad-wrapped lies

We’re not to worry about his plastic eyes

That only see plastic smoke in the skies

Nor his yellow teeth that eat plastic mounds

Spitting out live human’s upon his plastic grounds

And the plastic people, still listen to his plastic sounds

 

And to think, Ray Davies of “The Kinks” wrote this wonderfully inventive song 50 years ago,  way back in 1969….

“Plastic Man”, lyrics by “The Kinks” (Ray Davies) 

“A man lives at the corner of the street,
And his neighbours think he’s helpful and he’s sweet,
‘Cause he never swears and he always shakes you by the hand,
But no one knows he really is a plastic man.He’s got plastic heart, plastic teeth and toes,
(Yeah, he’s plastic man)
He’s got plastic knees and a perfect plastic nose.
(Yeah, he’s plastic man)
He’s got plastic lips that hide his plastic teeth and gums,
And plastic legs that reach up to his plastic bum.
(Plastic bum)Plastic man got no brain,
Plastic man don’t feel no pain,
Plastic people look the same,
Yeah, yeah, yeah.Kick his shin or tread on his face,
Pull his nose all over the place,
He can’t disfigure, or disgrace,
Plastic man (plastic man).

He’s got plastic flowers growing up the walls,
He eats plastic food with a plastic knife and fork,
He likes plastic cups and saucers ’cause they never break,
And he likes to lick his gravy off a plastic plate.

Plastic man got no brain,
Plastic man don’t feel no pain,
Plastic people look the same,
Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Kick his shin or tread on his face,
Pull his nose all over the place,
He can’t disfigure, or disgrace,
Plastic man (plastic man).

He’s got a plastic wife who wears a plastic mac,
(Yeah, he’s plastic man)
And his children wanna be plastic like their dad,
(Yeah, he’s plastic man)
He’s got a phony smile that makes you think he understands,
But no one ever gets the truth from plastic man (plastic man)

Plastic man (plastic man).”

 

Ivor Steven (c)  Dec 2019

Feeding Them Up On Bullets Instead

I wrote this poem last night, when I woke up at 1.30am. The featured image above, is looking up at the Geelong hills north of the town, they are called the “You Yangs”. I suppose my poem below is about, how our politicians, should look up , to see what’s coming down on their heads. This post is for the Weekly Prompt, Photo Challenge: Up  <<Click on, to view The Weekly Prompt site…..

Feeding Them Up On Bullets Instead

 

How hard must we hit the nail

On their heads

Before the white house wooden hearts

Finally count the living-dead

 

How hard does the rain have to fall

On their heads

Before the farmer’s empty buckets

Only fill via tears from the living-dead

 

How hard shall the sunshine burn

On their heads

Before the number of extinct birds

Light-up the dark gap between government heads

 

How hard do crumbling icebergs break

On their heads

Before both polar ice-caps melt

Flooding our storage silos and sheds

 

The answer my friends, rests

On their heads

Before all the starving arise from earthen beds

Crying out, stop feeding us up on bullets instead

 

Words, Between the Lines Of Age . Neil Young.  Lyrics

Someone and someone were down by the pond
Looking for something to plant in the lawn.
Out in the fields they were turning the soil
I’m sitting here hoping this water will boil
When I look through the windows and out on the road
They’re bringing me presents and saying hello.

Singing words, words between the lines of age.
Words, words between the lines of age.
If I was a junk-man selling you cars,
Washing your windows and shining your stars,
Thinking your mind was my own in a dream
What would you wonder and how would it seem?
Living in castles a bit at a time
The king started laughing and talking in rhyme.

Singing words, words between the lines of age.
Words, words between the lines of age.

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

Heavy And Hollow, The Whitehouse Door

I’m too tired to continue

Carrying this Olympus torch

The flame is not staying alight

Under my sheltering porch

All I want to do

Is watch the birds

And selfishly forget

The hungry and dying herds

My bell has become too hollow

To ring against the war

Too heavy to lift

High above the floor

Too wide to pass

Through the Whitehouse door

Too noisy to tell

Humanity the real score

Soon we’ll all board the Ark

Row away from our shores

Fly our rescue flag aft

Explore the sky with Thor

Listen to the heavens

Hear the peace-bells last encore

Proudly ring the bells that still can ring

Chiming so loud, no-one can ignore

Ivor Steven (c) 2019

A Picture Story

Every picture tells a story

I will not show the bloody war pictures

No need to add to the gruesome tale

Everybody knows the score

Our leaders know, how many were lost at war

Instead, I’ve a different photo, of a tablecloth

A wedding gift of my parents

Now my family heirloom

Aged over seventy years old

Embroidered Peacocks on fine linen

I wonder how often the tablecloth has been used

Not as many times as nuclear bombs have been fused

How many people have sat around the tablecloth and eaten

Not as many people as the war’s have maimed and beaten

Ask world politicians and know-all dictators

They’ll all know the forgotten bloody score

That’s my enduring tablecloth picture story

Same old hidden facts of hell and rancid glory

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2019

 

Against the Next War, The Next Hell

Against the Next War

Hello dear Readers, I’m presenting this important poem written by, Sarah, of Fresh Hell Poetry, for you all to read.  An absolutely outstanding piece of poetry, definitely one of the best anti-war poems I’ve ever read. 

In response to CafePhilos’s call to make peace viral. A noble effort, and worth a try. Please give his post a read.

“Trying to do a slam-style poem. I really hope the audio turned out OK on this. Apologies if it’s too quiet, I’m still figuring out how to make videos.” – Fresh Hell

 


 

Don’t Feed Them

 

If I imagine them
Taking my brother away to war

I shatter.

I don’t want to lose anyone.
Especially not to something as stupid
As war.

Maybe you like the idea of war
Because you’ve confused real life with action movies.
Maybe you hate another group of people for what they have done.
I can’t convince you to forgive another’s atrocities
That is something you must grow into on your own.
But I can beg you this:

When dogs of war bark
Don’t feed them.
You will be told it is the honorable thing
To die for your country.
You will be told you have enemies abroad
Monsters in human flesh.
But the monsters are in your back yard
Baying for blood.
Don’t
feed
them.
You will be told
That if you love your family
You will abandon it
And submit yourself to the state.
Give up your mind, body, and soul
To be consumed.
Don’t feed them.
You will be called weak
You will be called subversive
You will be stamped
Kicked
Drowned
Thrown into jail
Dumped in the gutter.
Still,
don’t feed them.
They will scream about the chaos
Unleashed in the world
They will plead for your aid
They will put weeping women before you
They will show you the bodies of children
They will appeal to your humanity.
But if you join them
You become the monster.
You will rape the women
You will bomb the children
You will force them all into the machines.
Don’t feed them.
They offer you money
Insurance for your families
Early retirement.
Ask your wife how she feels
When you go abroad.
She may smile then, proud and supportive,
But when she gets the letter,
Insurance will be a cold comfort
A reminder
That her loved one was eaten alive.
Don’t feed them.
The politicians get fatter.
The generals get fatter.
Our fearless leaders
Have little to lose.
What is noble
About sacrificing yourself for these people?
Are they so wise, so just?
They have enough.
Don’t feed them.

  • Written by Sarah, of Fresh Hell.