franwords

By franwords

December 28, 2014

Category: Uncategorized

Leave a Comment »

After The War

After the war was after the war.
There was a big long sigh
And a belch
A bit of sick in aftertaste
But everybody was glad
That it was over.

Everybody said it was
After the war.
Is what everybody
Who was there said.

During the war
Was a reason for after the war.
Completely BIONIC.
And then peaceful

But that was long after the war.

Long after the war
They decided that during the war
Had been a real struggle
And they all went home
Without souls
All got married

Without hope
All worked together
In despair

Because at least the war
Was interesting

I was born so long after the war
That my grandparents
Were practically dead.

When I was young
I took extra classes
In everything
Felt tired at bed time.
And grown ups had gone
Through so much
That they couldn’t sleep.
At least the young inherited sleep.

I heard it was after the war
That it was generations ago
It was something for book people
And wintry churches.

Now it means walking sticks.
It means bread and butter pudding.
Sitting in sunshine with pigeons
Is what the war means now.

Arguing about the war
Is a bit dull
When half the people aren’t
Here to say their piece

Apparently its an experience.

My C.V. is terribly dull
Because I haven’t
Been through the war
If I had only been alive
Fifty years ago
Perhaps I could appreciate
What the word means

The chosen association for war
Is sacrifice
No it’s not
Is love
Not just
Is freedom

Who chose word before the war?

Love sacrifices freedom possibly
Because masochism
Is battenburg fourth
Of all reason

When Jesus has the gall
To publicise pain
One sense is departure
And one sense is lounge

The idea of cake without tea
Is not that fond of cake.

Old people are holy
And far from hearing

After the war there was lots of cake
Lots of petrol and salami
Chips were exchanged for holidays
And all the young people
Felt better that they were
After the war

And all the old people
Are so annoying
Because they just rot
And live in discomfort
Like the ageing war
And the slow Chinese burn
Of sorrow without release

Surrey is rather built up now
But it is still nicer
Than Gloucestershire
In some ways.