Poems about Belgium

I cant think of anything that's sadder
Than the life of a weekday gambler
I'd catch the bus but i need a train
I'm going where it never rains

I know what it's like to be a loner
Run around like a secret smoker
Always on the edge of town
I had a shot once got shot down

And i tell you this, it sure hurts to be back
Spent all my time trying not to think about that.
Then the day comes like it always does
I always figured i'd be back in the trenches.

I dont care about the nights in Belguim
I often wonder what you're going to tell them
When asked about the new title track
Hey man where'd you come up with that?

I never minded being left behind
I sort of laughed when i was robbed blind
So it goes so it goes so it goes so
I turn off my radio

We arrived
At Zeebrugge
Then drove to
Our first
Base camp
At Bruges
Only to find
Our tents
Were not there
So we slept
In a caravan
Over night
In cramped conditions.

In the morning
I was up first
So walked
To the nearest shop
And bought a small loaf.

I nibbled it
On the way back.

I was the first one in
The cafe
Had a coffee
And croissants.

The girl Dalya came in
And sat at my table
She had ordered
The same.

She complained
About the caravan
And overcrowding.

I listened
As she moaned
And lit her a cigarette.

We sat talking
And smoking
Until the other members
Of our group came in
Each one was moaning
To our guide
And driver.

He explained
About the reason
Said we'd get
A discount from
Our overall charges.

Then our tents arrived
We loaded them up
On top of our mini bus
And set off
Through Belgium.

I sat next to Dalya
And the Aussie guy
Who said little
But gave her
The smile and the eye.

It was Belgium versus Poland.
The teams were exquisite
Both ferocious and skilled
Nothing if not the sweetest exhibits of creation
Each in their own way.

If only I had been equipped
For what was coming my way.
The flesh is weak and I'm nothing if not human.
Yet your Slavic features quickly made way
For whatever it is, that Belgium is made of.

I lost myself that day...
Not to either of you but to myself.
To whatever it is
That my mournful past is made of.
I suffered my pain for months on end
To one day find the pain missing.

I was no longer a victim of anyone.
Not myself nor was I any longer
A pawn in a game
That had been played in various minds for years.
Most of all in my own.

All is fair in love and war...
But why does there have to a war
To make something so right happen?
Who's Yin and who's Yang?
Or are we all just storms
Colliding in to each other
Time after time
Until justice has been served?

And why would there have to be a war in order to establish justice in the first place?
I've been in over my head for years.
However I'm in deep gratitude
That my lunacy has been made to look so peaceful.
Suffered in silence like I said I would
But there's a paradise in my head, in my heart,
The kind I've touched before...

He was soft and warm
Everything I ever wanted but was never blessed to have or to hold.

It was outside Bruge
In that first base camp
And Dalya said about the tents

Not arriving and having to sleep
Nine of us
In that cramped caravan

And no privacy.
We were in the bar
Waiting for the mini-bus

Driver and guide
To come and arrange
Our outward bound trip

Through Belgium.
She swore at him when he came
And her Glasgow accent

Tore into him
But he took it in good part
And said the tents

Had arrived and were
Loaded on top
Of the mini-bus

Ready to go.
I liked her pluck
And her neat body

But didn't tell her so.
We finished our booze
And smokes and climbed

Aboard the mini-bus
All nine of us.
She was next to me and Bill

And we set off on the road
With us and the load.

Yaakova said the caravan
We slept in
Was too crowded.

It was Belgium
On the outskirts
Of Zeebrugge,
Some base camp,
No tents
Arrived for us.

Couldn't move legs
Without touching others,
She said.

I'd seen her in the night;
I had slept on the floor,
Near the door, draft,
Chill, legs stiff.

Frightened I kick
Some one in my sleep,
She said.

We were in
The base camp cafo
Eating breakfast
And drinking cokes.

No tents, why is that?
She asked.

Cock up, somewhere,
I said.

What is the cock up,
As you say?
She said.

Poor planning
And execution of plans,
I said.

Execution?
She said,
My father he talked
About executions
In old days.

He said his uncle executed
In Stalin's time.

I lit a cigarette
And inhaled.

I didn't mean
That kind of execution,
I said,
I meant the carrying out
Of plans made.

I like to sleep
With more room,
She said,
At home I sleep
In big bed.

I can imagine,
I said.

I could.
Even what type of bed
It was and what
Colour sheets
She'd have and covers.

She ate her bacon and eggs;
I sipped my coke.

How you imagine
My big bed?
She asked,
You not see
My big bed.

Imagination,
I said,
I can picture it.

She looked at me
With her big brown eyes.

You think of me?

No, your bed,
I said.

Although I could imagine her
In her bed
All laid out there
Arms spread wide,
Legs too,
But I didn't
Tell her that,
I just sipped
The coke
And inhaled
My cigarette.

She talked of her home,
Her family,
But she lying there
In her bed,
That image,
I couldn't forget.

Brussels Bruges or Antwerp.

A slow-moving river
Streetlights

Rain, but not anymore,
The concrete will shine.
Darkness, but not quite,
It'll smell like dusk

I will cross the street to where you are waiting,

Then the rush:

I will have a wrinkle or two parenthesizing my mouth you will have bags under your eyes perhaps your hair will be going and a few whiskers will be gray and you will still be thin but no longer afraid,

Every empty night and single meal will be forgotten and Peter Gabriel will play and I'll start to laugh and so will you because it is funny that we knew it all along,

You will be older and so will I but all those years years years years gone by is the time it took for the seeds to take,

The river will creep past us up and off into the great wide distance towards all the cities that we will live in,

The sun will rise every morning over you and then over me and we will get old old old old

No words can express the hurt
The pain and disbelief
A country under attack
People around the world are in grief
Lives are sadly lost
Things can change in the blink of an eye
This goes to show you
That we need to be aware as we pass on by

So let's consider what is meant
By rolling heads and bodies splattered...
Time for Truth to represent
(as if such inconvenience mattered...)

Such events disturb our sleep
And force us to compose, on waking,
Lullabies for drowsy sheep
As predators are overtaking.

Flags of doom and holy slaughter,
Sons of Ishmael filled with rage
Are coming for your wife and daughter
And yourself. You turn the page.

Rising now to storm your tower
(7th century back to bite you),
Allah brings satanic power
To convert you or to smite you.

Dimwit dhimmis would have us think
Such rage is due to unemployment;
Pure confusion on the brink
Of funding further troop deployment.

Meanwhile, mullahs sip their tea
While tenured academics prattle
Watching MSNBC
As soldiers die in battle.