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DADT (1994 – 2011) – A Villanelle

DADT (1994 – 2011)

Welcome to one Private’s unprivate personal hell
Let’s drink a toast in honour of Benny
Shot through the heart by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”

A spiteful, misbegotten fear cloaked in a pious shell
Let’s drink a toast in honour of Denny
Welcome to one Private’s unprivate personal hell

Discharged to stop them tainting other personnel
Let’s drink a toast in honour of Jenny
Shot through the heart by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”

There’s no marker on the battlefield where they fell
Let’s drink a toast in honour of Kenny
Welcome to one Private’s unprivate personal hell

Just to speak their love’s name was to rebel
Let’s drink a toast in honour of Lenny
Shot through the heart by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”

They understood prejudice only too well
Let’s drink a toast in honour of Penny
Welcome to one Private’s unprivate personal hell
Shot through the heart by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”

——————————————————————

“Don’t ask, don’t tell” (DADT)

Mr Martin

MR MARTIN

At times I envision us
Preachers, side by side
Restating the obvious

In the forlorn hope
Our words might reach
Ears beyond the choir

Cum Laude

CUM LAUDE

He
Knew
Nothing

But
In
A
Highly
Articulate
Fashion

The Audacious Author

THE AUDACIOUS AUTHOR

Who needs a critic?
But then on the other hand
Who needs to be one?

A Season In Edge Hill (Repost)

A SEASON IN EDGE HILL

Self-important piddling patchwork college,
peddling half-regurgitated rote knowledge;
chiselling chaste gems into brute ashlar;
live surging forest stripped for lumber cash.

All of a piece: “Sit down, don’t rock the boat”.
Sing up: “Graded brains keep us in power”.
You know the drill. “Do keep up at the back!”
“Hands up if you know the answer.” “Miss!” “Sir!”

Meaninglesswhile in the college canteen
(“Starved a lot, blah, blah”; cabbage days again)
running dogs and other wage slaves drivel,
drone, mimic windmills uncomprehending,

grinning at their own expense, face polished
shiny, shiny, aloof, above all that,
admiring Handsome in smooth-tongued mirrors,
accolading lucky fortunate one.

What can I say? A dickens of a place.
Lancashire’s tundra; bleak without the house.
Overgenerous to call if half-life
One man arrived and only stayed for tea …

——————————————————————

A page of personal history.

Grouch

GROUCH

It’s not a poem
No rhyme, nor even rhythm
Prose with pretensions

Bloody-handed

BLOODY-HANDED

Thou hast slain sweet love
With thy posey poesies
Swimming in clichés

Betrayal

BETRAYAL

I diminish anything
I fall into the error of evaluating
With the tumbling from appreciation
That inevitably entails

So I suppose a job as a professional critic
Is pretty much out of the question

A Harsh Critic

A HARSH CRITIC

TV aerial
A bird’s temporary perch
It relieves itself

A Season In Edge Hill

A SEASON IN EDGE HILL

Self-important piddling patchwork college,
peddling half-regurgitated rote knowledge;
chiselling chaste gems into brute ashlar;
live surging forest stripped for lumber cash.

All of a piece: “Sit down, don’t rock the boat”.
Sing up: “Graded brains keep us in power”.
You know the drill. “Do keep up at the back!”
“Hands up if you know the answer.” “Miss!” “Sir!”

Meaninglesswhile in the college canteen
(“Starved a lot, blah, blah”; cabbage days again)
running dogs and other wage slaves drivel,
drone, mimic windmills uncomprehending,

grinning at their own expense, face polished
shiny, shiny, aloof, above all that,
admiring Handsome in smooth-tongued mirrors,
accolading lucky fortunate one.

What can I say? A dickens of a place.
Lancashire’s tundra; bleak without the house.
Overgenerous to call if half-life
One man arrived and only stayed for tea …

——————————————————————

A page of personal history.

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