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Monday, 6 October 2014

There Are No Unwounded Soldiers


Reviewed by Lori M for Readers Favorite

I’ve had the privilege of reading one of David McDonald’s earlier books, “There are No Unwounded Soldiers,” and because it was so emotionally charged, I wanted to read another one of his collections of poetry. McDonald is a hero in my view.

In “I Never Raised My Son to be a Solider,” McDonald is angry and lashes out at the government and the politicians who vote to send troops into war in his pieces aptly named “A Politician’s Slaughter,” “A Political War,” and “Who Went to War?” His poem titled, “I Don’t Give a Shit” portrays a soldier being shot in battle, with his blood running into the dirt, considering the purpose of it all and who is waiting for him now.

McDonald beautifully and sadly portrays a battle like a concert in “The Orchestra,” where he writes with such vivid imagery that it makes you feel as if you are there. Take this stanza, for example, “A hail of metal falling like ice, high explosive, poisonous gas, Perhaps something nice in green sir? Rent ground and torn bodies. The start of the movement.” Comparing the start of a movement of music to the start of a battle is riveting.

If you are looking for pretty poetry with happy ending, stars, and rainbows, David McDonald is not your man. But if you are looking for an author with “true grit” who tells the truth about the ugly senselessness of war, then you’ll enjoy this book, as well as his other collections of poetry.
They are now gone


Friday, 20 June 2014



Where it all began !!!
Walk With Me

Walk with me within my mind, the fragrance from natures sweet blooms
Listen to the sonnet being gaily sang, sang by the bird in the tree as it grooms
A beautiful sunset burst before our eyes, a sky lit with fire an orange blaze
We walk within my mind my sweet; we share the beauty at the end of this day

Talk with me within my mind, talk of memories made before this time
Remembering the magical moment, in my arms you said you were mine
Tears you brought to my face that day, with happiness and laughter too
Knowing my life was now complete, sure that I would always have you

Now I must walk alone my dear, where I go you may not follow
Know my thoughts are still of you, I will dream again if I am here tomorrow
A whistle has blown down the trench, over the top just one more time
I go safe in the knowledge my love, I know your love will always be mine



‘the soldier carries his love wherever he may go’
My love to rest

When I lay my love to rest, her body no longer her host
What do I do with the feelings, all I feel for her I loved most?
A grave has been prepared, the coffin has been lowered
The physical remains of her, respectfully interred

Now I am left with emotions, enough that both of us live on
I can’t bury those along with her shell, which would see her all gone
I will carry her love along with mine, companion throughout life
The spirit and the soul of her, I will carry all that was my wife


‘we carry lost loves with us always’

Tuesday, 18 February 2014

Sorry for the absence folks but my health has dictated my abilities lately, I hope to recover soon and start regular posts again.

David

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

A small group of poppies

A small group of poppies

I tend to a small group of poppies; they come to blossom each year
To some I suppose their just a flower, to me something I hold dear
Five I have in my garden, each one has a memory and a name
One for every man I have lost, each one a soldier who earned his claim

Two I lost in the province, they stood by me and fought to their death
I saw each one go down that day, witnessed the courage as they took their last breath
Three you may think very different; each one of them has taken their own lives
If they had not carried out their duties, they would still be with their wives

Every year the poppies still bloom, telling me they still watch my back
No different from when we served, covering each other from attack
Now their spirits are watching, this is a squad that cannot be broken up
As the Cherokee blood brothers, those who sipped from the blood cup

In time another poppy will grow, you may want to give it a name
Should you decide to give it mine, be assured I won’t feel ashamed
I will one day join my brothers; they wait for that day together again

A promise given to each other, in life as in death with no shame