January 2007

I have not known pain that causes suicidal thought,
Of such constant, never ceasing pain, I have thus far suffered naught.
Though harsh pain I live with every passing day,
The pain altering your thought brings me greater dismay.
What can I do as I watch you suffer such affliction so,
Your pain reaching new heights as the dreadful hours go
Eye recesses black and sunken as your pleading eyes withdraw,
Always asking, ever asking what this agony is all for.
And I say to you I know not, that I would change it if I could,
But you lie back on your pillow knowing my words will do no good.
And again I find I'm thinking that life is as the boulders fell,
Brief moments of what could be within the rudiments of hell.
For though we ask for simple blessings all we get in reply is pain,
That if there's really a creator, then I dub him the Lord of Shame.

Miscommunication is not really a very elegant word,
Though its meaning to most folk, though it's quite absurd,
Means communication was established but altered just a bit,
That with those receiving it, could not communicate with it.
That things went wrong entirely causing much abuse,
Giving rise to many reasons for its common use.
There is no lack of communication; as you can clearly see,
In fact there's plenty of it, of that you must agree,
It is not the way its gathered but the way it is received,
For in the end it is the way communication is perceived.
It might be lacking quality it might be just a lie,
It might raise men to fame and it might cause men to die.
Whatever! Miscommunication, at best is faulty truth,
Or unsubstantiated hearsay that communicates no proof
2
It was communication or it wasn’t on that we should decide.
Thus To claim miscommunication is to say somebody lied.
That the communication in its content was faulty or untrue,
Or favored a deception deliberately effecting me and you.
Me and you being the people whose ears it was meant to cheat,
That an act of false communication might successfully repeat.
In darker times from darker minds created from the day,
When a simple miscommunication led to the worlds decay.
Oh, it may seem insignificant; a sleight of hand, no more,
And ill directed communication that led nations off to war.
But for those who die and perish who suffer pain and woe,
For them a miscommunication turned good friends into a foe,
Which divides us all forever though we are the very same,
For with a miscommunication there is no one to blame.

Life is good while you live it.
When you don't you are dead.
Between the hells there's real joy in it
If you live the dreams inside your head.
While we dream they come to kill us,
Kill us in our feathered beds,
For reality never overlooks us,
And dreams bleed away in the blood it sheds.
No! You must not be happy,
More than a brief moment in life's time,
For you are destined to be unhappy
Your existence is much sadder than mine.
And we who lack the knowledge,
Think all will be fine.

Oh why should I pretend …
It is the beginning of the end
No matter what people say,
It is useless to pray.
I am part of the scheme of things,
Of that I am sure,
Hope, disappointment brings,
For death there's no cure.
The mystery is the truth
Mystery meaning we don't know
For absence there's no proof,
Dead seeds can never grow.
And I cannot believe,
To some place else we go.

I visualize sometimes the Woodfork smile,
Somewhat akin to a Mona Lisa grin ,
And wish that I could rest awhile,
On a park bench sitting alongside him.
Where the shadows on the close cut grass,
Stretch out from marble soldiers grand,
Frozen in action to show their class,
Touched often by this good mans hand.
Perhaps they’d feel the radiant pride,
That swells the heart inside his chest
And note the confidence in his stride,
As he moves with dignity from his rest,
Passed the magnificence of their form,
Humble in their shadows across the lawn.

Who are you mister
Did you live your life well
Before they sent you to war,
Before they sent you to hell.
Who are you mister
Lying there in the grave,
Were you proud of your corps
Were you noble and brave.
Who were you mister,
Were you a young man like me,
Did you have a brother and sister,
Who were happy and free
Whoever you were as a soldier you died,
Never forgotten ; remembered with pride

So now the tide of time begins to ebb,
Making wet, less sand upon the beach,
Things passed or lost still resident in my head,
Are dreams unfilled forever out of reach.
I cling to memories, reliving life's events,
More years have passed than those yet to come,
And as I suffer as a consequence,
I am well aware that what is done is done.
I am but one of millions on the earth,
Of millions gone and millions yet to come,
That I wonder what a single life is worth,
An ingredient of the whole beneath the sun.
I look and see no children in my past,
That I in absence will no shadow cast.

Having given, then received, what do you owe,
More have you served than that done for thee,
Do you not reap from the seeds you sow.
To a servant rewards are never given free.
Ah, gallant in thy role ‘tis your duty now,
To wallow in the public eye with those as you,
Who were rewarded for the fields they ploughed,
With selfless effort furrows straight and true.
Fan the flame so long as it doth burn,
That from its warmth the benefits are felt,
For soon enough red hot will glow the urn,
That despite its true intention it will melt
For every fire that burns destroys itself,
Losing all its righteousness and wealth.

(GOD AND WAR)
28 January 07
WHY ASK
1
Why ask for that which we will not receive,
Unanswered prayers and yet we still believe.
We write sweet words to elevate the dream,
Yet through the smoke more war is what is seen.
We expect our Gods to do what we can't do,
Tis from despair we think our dreams come true.
Yet still we die and suffer at the hands of hate,
Which will not wane and never has to date.
It might be kind to live the unreal lie,
But still we wage our battles and we die.
Hope breeds more hope bringing little more,
For reality is that hate still brings us war.
The harshness of the truth preserves our Gods,
With blood and bones that rot in sacred sods.

2
The seeds of hate are sown in the human soul,
Love is the seasonal Summer and hate the cold.
Those with implanted thoughts cause ill debate,
That the factions seeking power declare in hate.
The Gods of man the priests we fear to blame,
Despite the hardships still their powers retain.
And the more we live in hope the more we fail,
And fill with tears the ever righteous pail.
We who seek but love and peace together,
Cannot with hope the dividing seasons tether.
Nor with the cannon prove our culture right,
For every day must share its time with night.
Tis only by a central power of law,
That nations can at least some peace restore.
3
The love we have of masters is why we hate,
Suppressed and groomed we follow to our fate,
Every herd a leader must anoint,
But the individual man will never prove his point.
Every individual has a point of view,
Mostly not his own; they number few,
That we all think we're right, it must be so,
And all who disagree must be a foe.
Is it not the nature of the earth,
That we must struggle for survival from our birth,
Contest our right to life in love and war;
Is it not realities strong unwritten law.
Oh all those thoughts that gather in the head,
What are they worth to the soldier lying dead.
4
Look, as a beast goes about its daily deeds,
It has no worth unless it mates and breeds,
Breeding thus its race for life succeeds,
To live and sow more fruitful healthy seeds.
It must do this for its span of life is short,
Thus in a desperate plan it is thus caught.
A plan ensuring that its race survives,
For in its struggle are lost a lot of lives.
What of the human so oft reduced by war,
By famine sickness, part of natures law.
Prayers to God do not decide such fates,
The rhythms of life are as true nature states.
Why do we hope for something in between,
Realism replaced for the false images of a dream.
5
To one who's dying kindness gives one hope,
But one still dies and we who cannot cope,
With realism known as truth, for what we see,
Is not in its final moments of it free.
Through the vale we pass; but we don't want to go,
We've been defeated by a ruthless foe
We've lost the battle to evermore survive,
Alas, being dead we are no more alive.
The wheel turns, new flowers cast new seeds,
The old and withered aren't what nature needs.
They fight like hell, but in the end they fail
If all they leave behind is an empty trail.
Bless the mothers of this complex earth,
And those who guard them giving children birth.
6
The threat of fear of death that all men fear,
Used by the powers that be to keep unclear
The religious art of persuasion and deceit,
To charm with constant focus on repeat
Works on the mind that cannot reason death,
Its mystery the power that gives them bias breath.
Law that's claimed to keep us safe and free,
Protecting you from you and me from me,
Defies its ethic in preparing folk to kill,
Until with clouded minds it is their will.
Hate lives in the colour of the human skin,
It rises from the difference that is him,
And the God who made us all prevents it not,
For it is his will for he designed the lot.
7
War is designed by seekers of power and greed,
The desire resides within; a common seed,
We all possess it, needing to be the king,
For every animal to life must strongly cling
We can all ignore the truth, and so we do,
Design our myths and serve the bolder few.
We hide our savagery behind great pomp and fair,
Cry only for the dead for whom we care.
For the seasons by design define each year,
Birth and joy then hate returning fear,
All things have opposites peace and war and love,
The predator and the greedy little Dove.
The unity of human families with a creed,
To ensure the survival of the established seed.

8
Spirituality! What do you think it is,
A word, a thought, a moment filled with bliss.
An inner unity with surrounding life,
The love you have for your chosen wife?
Or is it just a word to fit a scheme,
That one can only find it in a dream,
Prompted by our mentors dressed in gowns
Of ancient times and later circus clowns.
Is it a predator dining on your brain,
Or a feeling that you have that needs a name.
Or is it just a platform built for hate,
Or sorrow for the dead meat on your plate.
Might every man know what he thinks it means,
While listening to the wail of a woman's screams.
9
Is there spirituality where those bodies rot,
Where children starve and beg that they do not,
Are the stenching carcasses just another lie,
Or did spirituality for some reason pass them by.
Spirituality! What is it supposed to be,
Some joyous myth these people cannot see
What does it do for those who lie in pain,
While it covers up the righteous neighbors shame
A feeling of belonging is more real,
A reliance on each other for a meal,
The bondage formed when fear in its extreme,
Defies the truth stark in a veterans dream.
Spirituality is a word invented by the church,
Where I found no truth in my passive search.
10
Fear that the boat might sail to leave us lost,
Oft is the reason one fears life's ultimate cost
Thus blackmailed by the belief that not to care,
Will bring us permanent death or long despair,
We serve a myth giving power to the few,
Who preach a consequence knowing it isn't true.
So we fear the truth, or at least to seek it out,
Though we long to know in doubt what its about.
It is a simple thing to believe a God exists,
Despite the way a priest with a child persists.
Without the laws and rules the church requires,
To ensure a spiritual winds doth fan it's fires.
Each of us are the results of what we learn,
Some read the books and some those same books burn.
11
Look how Gods children suffer in the heat,
Begging for a scrap of food to eat,
Where is the God they pray to every day,
Does he exist, or has he gone away.
Talk is simply talk and wondrous words,
Leave them competing with the hungry birds,
And still believing the love of God is true,
They lie down to die before their time is due.
What have they done; that they deserve to die
Except to believe the never ending lie.
How can one stand and praise one such as he,
An abstract myth that none on earth can see,
No man nor God with the power to offer care,
Would allow the misery that those sad children bare.
12
Primitive thought occupies the modified brain,
Belief in heaven, might well be quite insane,
Tis not a "normal" way to think and feel,
For heaven and God, are they really real?
How well we thank God for all things that are good,
Yet blame him not when we shed our blood,
As though he only made us with one leg,
And half a mind that might the other beg.
How can it be that all the ill on Earth,
Was not with all the good given equal birth,
Was killing not a part of what God made,
Can there be sunlight yet without the shade.
Why am I pink or white and you are brown,
Or black or yellow and subject to a frown.
13
I recall when red when worn was considered wrong,
Shirts of such colour ‘twas said to louts belonged,
And ladies who might bare a bit of skin,
'Twas said were committing some delicious sin.
Recall I when a crime was to be poor,
When only the rent man came knocking at the door.
And all those sinners who did not go to mass,
Would never live their lives with any class.
Religion was asked for before they asked your name
If we didn't have one, we bowed our heads in shame.
It was not our right to question or disagree,
What we were told was the way it had to be.
Be it a lie, the truth or just a fib,
We accepted what they said, that's what we did.

Billy Wilbond is a poet of stature,
A Canadian soldier through and through
Who was born with a vigorous nature,
To do the things that he has to do.
He is a courageous and fine example,
To all folk who wish to succeed,
Who have in their hearts so ample,
Great passion for those in need.
What more can you ask of a soldier,
Than to serve his country well,
Serve those who are ill and dying,
For he understands their pitiful Hell.
And he will keep on ever trying,
To get you to help as well.

Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork

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