A poem should not mean
But be
         'Ars Poetica' 1026.
         
         MEMORY OF THE DEAD
         
         They lie so quietly now in heroes' grave,
Those eager youths who were short months ago,
So gaily passed through village and through town,
To gain renown.
         
Nor dreamt they then, that Fate's grim hand,
Decreed that they should die in foreign land.
With tear filled eyes we watched them all depart,
Their heads held high and courage in their hearts.
         
When called upon, each played a brave man's part.
Oh You who mourn, in pride hold high your head,
Forever shall be cherished the memory of the dead
And Children, in the long, long years to come,
Will read - with eyes so grave,
The Royal Tribute by their country paid.
         
For Royal were they all, who now lie still.
They died - the King of Kings' words to fulfil,
Peace on Earth, and to all men goodwill.
         Author unknown 
In memory of the Niemba Ambush.
         
         The Princess
         
         She sat on her throne a-holding court;
A vision of beauty and grace.
Her flowing robes a joy to behold
For her subjects who flocked to that place.
         
They offered their homage their heads bowed low
Save some who peeped a mite;
Knowing she saw but would forego
A transgression so harmless and trite.
         
She lifted her gaze to the fields beyond.
She claimed all she could behold.
Then lowered it down to the treasures below;
Silks and diamonds and gold.
         
Soon all of these wonders would fade away
And innocence youth and play.
And life may be harsh or tender or plain
And never be good as this day.
         
No real princess had a reign like this
Or subjects ever finer.
Among the rags and the plastic bags
And the jewels made of broken china.
         © Bill Sisk 24/8/96
Published in the anthology - "A Lasting Calm" by the International Library of Poetry in 1997.
         
         The Swift
         
         A tuft of feathers lay on the ground;
Pathetic and lifeless and still.
Whatever misfortune had brought it down
Had struck with vengeance and will.
         
This was a bird who lived in the sky.
Feeding and sleeping and mating
Aloft in the heavens except to lay .
Now here for death awaiting.
         
Lifting it up I could feel its cold.
What hope for survival here?
But care and drink and warmth told,
And its eyes began to clear;
         
Then opened wide as life returned;
The mighty breast was firm.
I held him forth in the open field
He arced aloft to heaven.
         
Few would care what would befall.
A creature rare descending.
But He who sees the sparrow fall
Would see the swift ascending.
         © Bill Sisk. 5/2/97 
         
         Brother
         
         Half into our supper the door-bell went tinkle.
My Da gave a glance at my Ma.
A long learned look without nodding or winking
Told him he was expected to go.
         
Chewing a sausage he rose from the table
Not wishing to cause a commotion.
His footsteps clipped out through the hall to the doorway.
Then came that awful explosion.
         
I mourned him and missed him; a decade passed by.
They said, "You must join us for freedom.
Our country's divided , one day we'll unite.
Now you're a man and we need you."
         
"Tonight to this house you must go on a mission
A traitor to Ireland to punish."
I remembered my mother and brother and sister
And the loss and the grief and the anguish.
         
I can't help unite us by killing and maiming.
How could that make me their brother.
This can't be the way to our glorious day
A wise man must think of some other.
         © Bill Sisk. 24/8/96
         
         Dark Cynic
         
         Dark cynic hold your worthless words.
The tale you tell is pointless.
We too see and know the worst.
That in itself does haunt us.
         
Your constant whining tale of woe
Does nothing but destroy.
A hive is built by busy bees
With no time to annoy.
         
For millennia what men have built.
You would now see crumble.
Far better you put brick on brick.
Construct and then be humble.
         
The dark and evil things that are
Must certainly be righted.
'Twill not be done by litanies
Or heroes or be-knighted.
         
The little man who sweeps the street,
The nurse who cares her patients,
The soldier risking life for peace,
Can do without your ratings.
         © Bill Sisk. 30/12/96 
         
         My Clone
         
         Ochone, ochone! my own dear clone
Made from out my flesh and bone.
Never greater did I own;
My likeness but not paint nor stone.
You are now as I was once;
Not so clever yet no dunce.
Working hard with puffs and grunts.
Earning a few measly punts.
Will you make the same mistakes.
Will there be the dearth of breaks.
My advice on what it takes
May take you to the Golden Gates.
Did I wear such awful clothes?
Have I got that crooked nose?
Did I hang with friends like those?
Did I fall as others rose?
But you are you and I am I.
Before you I must surely die.
And I 'll observe you from on high
Make the same mistakes as I.
         © Bill Sisk. 2/4/97
         
         Padraig
         Padraig stood in the midday sun
No shadows going out from his feet.
"A fine day there, a fine day here;
'Tis all the same to me."
         
Padraig looked at the venomous snake.
A terrifying thing to see.
"A worm there, a worm here;
'Tis all the same to me."
         
Padraig looked at the fireflies bright
Flitting from bush to tree.
"Jackie the Lantern, there or here;
'Tis all the same to me."
         
When Tshombe seceded Katanga rich
Its ore and its jewels to grab.
"A border there and a border here;
We can't have that," says Pad.
         
The bullets and arrows cracked and flew.
Hot blood to hot earth did seep.
"There's trouble there and there's trouble here;
But the job will be done," said he.
         © Bill Sisk. 27/8/96