The Sunshine

When the blood flows of innocents it has no colour, race, or religion,
Far away few hear their cries but at home it echoes throughout the land.
The sun is a spotlight to these hideous crimes with a ruby tainted glare,
Scarring those it touches with marks that will never be washed away.

Some sing songs of revenge with a bitterness as sharp as any sword,
As the hate boils inside them as it did those that struck the initial blow.
Never learning that violence is not an answer to this twisted circle,
For those that teach do not know the real question from spin and lies.

Dealers will always have the aces but never the joker in the pack,
Laughing and dancing to their old Machiavellian rhythm and beat.
Empathetic love would deafen them but few now know that path,
As follow distractions with false gods into darkness far from light.

On and on this tainted sun will shine on across this broken world,
Stranded in a desert wishing for but one drop of tearful rain to fall.
On and on this tainted sun will burn those that try for the moon,
In a dystopic reality that is far from a fantasy written by the stars.

© Fi S. J. Brown

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The song of war

On this the 11th day of the 11th month I think of those that have given their lives physically and mentally in the name of war. Generations old and young lost in rivers of blood that flowed through Flanders Field and continue to this day. It is not only the fallen to think of but those that returned and replay the events in their minds unable to comprehend how and why.

The picture shows many crosses: I wrote one for Mr Glasgow, a childhood neighbour and prisoner in Japan that could not tell me of the horror he saw and heard; I also wrote one for my great uncle George that documented Africa through the lens of his camera with images of sadness and happiness; and finally I wrote one for the innocent bystanders that are nameless but not forgotten that war’s name has taken from their families.

A dreamer and ponderer I may be but I do not want to hear war’s red song, singing it as though it was glorious feels quite wrong. However, I thank those men, women, children and animals the song has called their name, those that returned only to be haunted by it, and those right now live in fear of his song. I hope one day you and I may sing the white song of peace.

© Fi S. J. Brown

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A poppy, a teardrop, a memory

On the 11th day of the 11th month at the 11th hour each year we remember those who gave their lives in times of war with a two minute silence. The closest Sunday to this the UK traditionally marks to remember all those who have given their lives for the peace and freedom by wearing a red poppy. These are almost our blood stained teardrops as we think of innocent lives lost in the senselessness of war. However, we should also shed a tear for those that did return home but are forever scarred by the sights and sounds they witnessed.

This year is extra poignant as marks a 100 years since the start of what is known as World War One, which those that fought would be the biggest war of all time but sadly it was not to be. Even as we pause in remembrance, many globally have their every day marked by seeing seas of red and hearing the battle drum get louder and louder, as the songs of war continue to be heard louder than ever as the words of peace and understanding become almost footnotes of history themselves.

Will we ever learn that the rivers are not meant to be red, but to run clear, free from the red, let it flow with love and understanding?

© Fi S. J. Brown

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