House In CovThe theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Ghosts“.

Good afternoon Jon

This week I finally packed up and moved out of the city to a small village just outside of Coventry, into a six hundred year old farmhouse, which means it was built roughly around the time Ed started primary school.

Our landlady informed me there are supposedly two ghosts resident in the attic and loft – and by the way, they don’t like being referred to as “paranormal” preferring the more sympathetic “borderline personality disorder” – either way, I spent two nights sitting in the attic in pitch black hoping for an introduction, but not a sausage – no strange lights, no groans or sudden drop in temperature – nothing!

Perhaps, as has often been suggested, I’m just not sensitive enough.

What was that?

False alarm – only the toilet flushing in the attic.

Hang on, there is no toilet in the attic!

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20130602.mp3]

Also have a listen to the tracks on the new EP “Once We Were Kings Of The World


Ghosts

Sways of blood red poppies rise from fields of verdant green
A picture beyond beauty: an almost too perfect scene

Winds tease clouds cross skies, the most opulent of blues
As though an artist, overwhelmed, exaggerated hues

Yet the splendour masks a sadness: despondency remains
Scars from shells and trenches pock mark hills and plains

The iron harvest, ever ripe, still yields it’s lethal fruit
Helmets, rifles, shells and wire: the earth gives up its loot

This fertile land nourished by a swill of flesh and blood
Millions died upon these fields, swallowed by the mud

Countless lie beneath the crust, buried where they fell
Sacrificed, as flippantly as pennies in a well

Some, discovered decades on, and carefully exhumed
More dignity and reverence than when they were entombed

Laid to rest in cemeteries: pristine, ordered rows
Guns silent, near a century, and still their number grows

Spotless, marble headstones: no hint of blood and gore
A purity, perversely, that lends sanctity to war

Comfort for the living: The fallen do not know
As trees care not for right or wrong, or flowers for whom they grow

There are ghosts roaming no-man’s land, still fighting, so they say
Tortured souls, for whom the war will last till judgement day

Poltergeists hold no fear, I think perhaps instead
Ghosts are the living , the haunted are the dead

© Copyright 2013 Ian Bland

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