No Man's Son

a lasting evolution

still throbbing in this heart of mine

a gin and tonic translution

for the love i'll never find

a dream is just a fairy tale

read in books when i was young

i never had worry in dieing

for the good are the ones who die young

I trampled over lost souls

who've trusted in my thoughts

I'd beg for their forgiveness

but the battle's yet to be fought

if i'm to die a lonely death

which i'm sure is yet to come

then by the grace of that who holds me

dust me off when my time is done

don't speak of how my life was good

how I spent my time here well

remember I can hear the lies

just as well in heaven as i can in hell

dont waste a tear for my lost soul

just smile and carry on

for the years were bitter but they were kind

to this lad who's no man's son

View chubbsmahone's Full Portfolio


Thunder in a stormy night

Amidst the tempest oh so wild

Never leaving this muddy site

To hug the tombstone in your heart

As the wind begins to mourn

Piercing anguished heart in two

Forever you will be

A solitary figure under this tree

The wisps of her hair

The softness of her hands

Her perfume lingers

The memories she left behind

Though she’ll never hear you say

Still you utter that love and care

Thunder in a stormy night

Amidst the tempest oh so wild.

View serene's Full Portfolio

Flanders Fields [Book Collection]

Flanders' Fields


Ugonna Wachuku 


(c) 1997: Ugonna Wachuku 












Flanders Fields 




The Lamp


In Your Eyes




New Hope


Let me Be


What Have We Done


Racism and Injustice


Sky Blue


Once Again





When I'm Gone


Landscape of My Soul


Take Me Home


Still Waters




The Author








To the cherished memory

of John McCrea and all

those brave souls who

"lie in Flanders Fields"








"Tell them this, if ye

break faith with us who

die, we shall not sleep

though poppies grow

in Flanders' Fields."


~John McCrea


These deeply moving words by John McCrea

just before he died on the French Channel

coast in 1918 with the British coastline

in view, could not be more essential and

meaningful than now and ever.


Conequently, it is in keeping faith with

the dead that I write this collection. Now,

what does keeping faith with the dead mean?

Keeping faith with the dead is to do our

very best to make peace. In making peace,

our basic task  is to embrace the truth of

the brotherhood of humanity - so that,

together as one, we will make the world a

healthy and beautiful home. This is the most

valuable legacy we can bequeath to humankind.


Future generations will undoubtedly be glad.

In unequivocal terms, let us join hands with

the strength of love. We must denounce the

devastating reality of hatred, racial injustice,

poverty, deprivation, under-development and

war, again and again - and again!


My narrative poem: `Flanders' Fields' explores the

fatal problem of war, life and death with a visit

to the graveyard. This ballad is symbolic of life,

hope, beauty, love and the passing reality of the

often sad human condition. Flanders' Fields takes

us on a journey of realization and awareness -

the wisdom in allowing our earthly life to grow,

to love in humility and bloom like the poppy which

will flower forever.


Subsequently, from `Crossroad' to `Heaven', join me

for a humane, creative voyage into love, care and

beautiful rejuveneration in nature. Experience those

fears, tears, dreams, riddles and hope we have in

common. Surely, beloved friends, my deep-felt hope

is that you will personally find meaning, joy and

soul healing inspiration from this collection.


My simple prayer is that our ever loving God will

grant us deep faith to hold hands together and affirm

our believe in a peaceful world founded on the brotherhood

of humankind and clothed in the brilliant blue garments

of love:


May our longing and search for a peaceful world lead us

to the saving meadow-land and green pastures of that

heavenly storm stopper: May this age old yearning of

every human soul find uplifting expression in that living

love and unfathomable peace that will flower and bloom like

the poppies of Flanders' Fields!


Ugonna Wachuku

Wednesday 10 August, 1997

Geneva, Switzerland






Flanders' Fields


My maternal grandfather: 

Amos Odu fought in jungles 

and trenches of Burma,

now: Myanmar.


That day, tears clouded

my young eyes as

he told me stories of

life in the trenches.

In great sorrow, I

listened as he told

how friends and loved

ones fell side by side

through the fatal heat

of war.


I could smell the

breath of human blood

mixed with mud in

those deadly trenches

of Burma where uncaring

men fought with one

another from dawn to



With the warmness of

that cold harmattan

night, we sat by the

traditional mud hut

kitchen fire.


The sweet smell of

the roasting corn

filled the air with

the smell of the

roasting local pear

and yam.


A keg of sweet palm wine

stood by, as well as a

bowl of palm oil mixed

with pepper.


I could feel tears

in his eyes as he

told me that most

of them did not

even know why they

were killing one



They had no clear

idea of what it

was they were really

fighting for.

Outside, the wind howled

and whistled through

the dark noises of the

night, silently

heralding the cold,

dry dusty desert wind

from the nothern



Amos Odu:

for that is my maternal

grandfather's name

told my young heart

the horrors of war.

He taught me the

beauty of peace

flowered with the

fragrant breath of

loving hearts all

across our weeping



He told me not

to loose sight of

the real dream of

hope founded on

peaceful handshakes,

smiles and kisses.


Then, on that warm,

cold harmattan night,

beside the kitchen

fire, my two younger

brothers: Uchenna and

Ikenna, joined us for

the story.


Together, as one,

with the lost love

in human hearts, we

symbolized a new



I, whose name, Ugonna

means Eagle of God, the

precious large bird of

prey, with keen eyesight,

vision, strength, majestic

essence, princely profile

and dignified endowment,

called myself: Birth.

Uchenna, whose name

means: God's thought

or Father's thought

called himself: Life.

Ikenna, whose name

means; God's strength

or Father's strength,

called himself: Death.


Together, since blood

is thicker than water

or even crude oil for

that matter, we formed

a circle of love and

peace. It was a new

heartfelt beginning: 


We formed a circle of

human experience and

began to ask why

mankind must kill one

another. We began to

ask why blood must

form river beds in

trenches, jungles

and cities before

humankind realizes

the shameful


of war. 


We came to affirm

our belief in love;

our caring belief

in the brotherhood

of humankind.

Our circle is a

continuing one,

lovingly reaching

out to touch every

human soul - for

peace; for tolerance;

for the respect of that

bountiful, divine worth

within each human person.

Later, my grandmother,

my father's mother,

taught us the wastage

in war:  


Her story was not

of ther trenches of


But of the trenches

of Biafra, flooded

with the blood of

our tribesmen on war

path with the bigger

land of my birth.


With tears in our

little eyes, we

asked questions.

She told us about

our uncle called


a brilliant soul

who was studying

engineering at the



The day he left

home for the war

front was the last

they saw of him.


The wind whistled

past while trees

swayed to the rhythm.

She told us that

stories were brought

home, of how Victor

her fourth son died

at the Abagana sector

of the war front in

the heat of war.


My tribesmen were

called the Biafran

rebels. In turn,

they called the foe,

Nigerian vandals.


We could feel the

pain in her eyes.

We could feel

the bleeding heart

of such a loving

and caring mother,

when she said:


"We mourned him

so much because

none of the family

saw his body to

this day!"


My grandmother turned

to me and told us how

I was born a year after

the Biafran war ended:

She believed I was

Victor's soul renewed

since I was the first

child to be born in

the family after that

bloody and devastating

civil war.


My father, whose name,

Maduadighibeyanma, means:

Man hates his fellow human

beign, is her second child.

Then, my grandmother,

whom my two brothers

and I call Ne-nne,

blessed me:

"Vikitor (Victor) died

in the biafran war; but

you are soul renewed -

his soul, born into the

the family as a heavenly



My grandma, a brave

woman of hopeful

strength and grandeur

prayed further: 


"May you seek

peace and build

peace. May you

build peace from

home to the ends

of the earth."


In the hidden tears

of her love, she



"May you, your brothers

and your generation never

see war. War is evil. No

one ever wins. No life is

left unhurt or shattered.

No family is left unscared!"


The wind rose and

whistled past.

Trees bowed as if

in agreement to my

grandmother's prayer

and chant.


Yet, wars are planned

and made by mankind

in the hateful darkness

of his mind and heart.

But no war is

ever won.


The deep, bloody

scars are left to

the living;

to cherish;

to care and

to heal.


The cost is too

heavy a burden.

Human resources

plus divine,

earthly bounties

are destroyed.


While poppies

glow and bloom.

humanity stunts

in gloom.


Should we not learn

from these Flanders'

Fields poppies ever

in bloom and with the

glad birds, in the nude

beauty of nature, sing:

Poppy forever?


Then, in pain and tears

of destroyed hopes and

loving dreams did I leave

that green land of my birth;

that vast heart of the noble

Niger and benign Benue - those

two radiant rivers on inspiring

ancestral landscapes.


I walk this Alpine land

in search of that peace

which passes all understanding.

Would I not find it in the

reassuring bloom of the

precious poppy

flowering flower?


Zurich kissed my yearning

feet in glad welcome; and

passed me on to the warm

winter whiff of glorious

Geneva's fresh february

coldness coddling.


In April, Geneva

saw me alive.


The spring's sprouting

spirit went with me

on a visit to the

graveyard in remembrance

of those brave souls who

lie in Flanders' Fields

and elsewhere:



[present tense




On a walk through

lofty Loex's woods,

side by side with

the river Rhone,


I come to you,

graveyard, to wonder

at these souls lying



You walked with us.

You came with us.

You breathed of this



Now, in silence,

you lie still in

this graveyard,

sleeping on green



I wonder at you,

grey tombstone wtih

a cross and rounded



I wonder at the

green earth that

now stands on these

bodies that were

once mine.


I watch in solemn


I stand still in

remembrance of you

all who lie here

and in Flanders'



I too will come

your way.

That way, none

can tell:


We cannot tell the story.

We cannot tell the beauty.

We cannot tell the suprise.

We cannot tell the sense.


I sit in you, graveyard;

near the war, I sit.

Bees circle my head

and take off to your

flowers, graveyard.


In spirit, I watch you

who lie here now.

You walked this earth

like little me.


I remember Flanders'



I remember Burma

where my grandpa

fought in the trenches.


I remember Biafra

where I lost a

promising uncle Victor 

at the war front. 


I remember all those

places across the

world where men

lie in graveyards -

slain by deadly hands

of war.


In spirit, I watch

you who lie here



I watch you in

the silence of

my sober heart.

In you, graveyard,


I sit still;

in all mortal


Should we not learn

from these poppies

ever in bloom, and

with glad birds in

the innocent beauty

of nature, sing:

Poppy forever;

for you;

for me?


Gentle winds walk

my bald eagle head.

Sweet air from the

river Rhone walk

in front of me -

a man in quest for



in search of love;

in search of that

hopeful birth;

in search of that

joyful death;

in search of all

natural bounties

and life.


I pay homage to you

who lie in this



I pay homage to you

who lie in Flanders'



I deeply remember you

who lie in:












El Salvador,








Korean Peninsula,


United States of America, 




Middle East,










Sierra Leone,

Falkland Islands,

The former Yugoslavia 


and all other places

with bloody trails

of war and human

conflict, globally!  


I pay homage with



I pay tribute with

that spirit of love

which will always

conquer hatred and

war in the fleeting

minds of humankind.


On a walk through

the lofty woods of

Loex, side by side

with the river Rhone,

I come to you,



I have come to be

with you who sleep

here. I have come

to feel with you. 


Your flowers are

blooming. I watch

the evening sun

glitter on these

flowers and on me.


Yet, in this green

earth, you lie so

still and quite.


Only the birds

sing and fly past.


Humanity walks you by.

You do not know the

smiling sun on us



These fragrant flowers,

you cannot smell.


I sit still in you,

graveyard. In

contemplation, I

remember you who lie

in Flanders' Fields -

the handsome hope and

home of our poppy



Let us care.

Let us love.

Let us keep

faith with the

dead -

our dead!


Should we not learn

from these poppies

ever in bloom, and

with the beautiful

birds of God's nature,


Poppy forever;

for you;

for me;

for our children

and their progenies?


Now, I walk this

Alpine land in

search of that

peace which passes

all human





[present tense

narration ends]




Would I not find this

peace in the reassuring

bloom of the precious

poppy flowering flower?


Remember, my maternal

grandfather fought in

the jungles and trenches

of Burma, now Myanmar:


With the warmness of

that cold harmattan

night, we sat by the

traditional mud hut

kitchen fire.


The sweet smell of

the roasting corn filled

the air with the

mouth-watering smell

of the roasting local



The yam which I had

chosen from grandpa's

barn also roasted with

fragrant flavour mixed

with that of the roasting

bush meat.


I could not wait to

eat the corn with

the pear; nor could

I wait to dip the

yam or bush meat

into the bowl of

fresh palm oil

mixed with pepper.


In great sorrow,

my brothers and I

listened as he told

how friends and loved

ones fell side by side

through the fatal heat

of war.


I could smell the

breath of human blood

mixed with mud in

those deadly trenches

of Burma where

uncaring men fought

with one another from

dawn to dusk.


Should we not learn

from these poppies

ever in bloom; and

with the inspiring

birds of God's nature,




for you;

for me;

for our


and their









On the crossroad,

down the labyrinthine

path through life,

the journey to you



I behold the pastural

path I have to follow.

In the unmarked


I meet your soul.


I go back to the past.

I go back to the

beginning of a journey

conceived with these

inspiring lush pastures

from the land.


That cherishment of

the beginning cuddled

in smiles of motherly

waterfalls embraces

my being.


A new clouds walk in.

Fresh dews draw the

marvellous morning to

a towering start.  


In the soul that is

mine, I breath of

your caring cation;

life from your

purifying heaven.


It is catharsis.

My journey begins



A yeaning in me



The moment flees

from me.


The present yawns

for a meaning lost

on the narrow road

to this fleeing



Soothing breath is



In your heart,

windy waterfall

is met.


Life is given.


Refreshing hope

is born.


A new dawn



I search for your



I search for the

love you hid in

pastural plains.


I long to see the

glitter and the

greeness while

dawn lingers.


Nothing is lost

on these plains.


You walk barefooted

through sands of hope;

just on time, to

fulfill a destiny

in my soul.


You walk me through

the dark.


You lovingly take

me through those

deadly tunnels in



The love you hold

outweighs all!

Love on the



Crossroad to

channels of

new discovery.


Live is given.

Love is embraced.


Your journey in

me unfolds.


This good journey

is your name.


Crossroad of

discovery and



Your love makes

me loving on this

journey through



Crossroad of


Crossroad of



I behold your




The caring,



I have














The Lamp



Through dark




a lonely heart

on hopeful

life trail

wander afar

into your

watchful being






In dark woods and

pathways, moonbeams

hide behind grey, blue

clouds on star empty



Yonder, on the radiant

river road to noble

nature, blue birds sing

on bloomed garden flowers

to herald the coming of

your lamp.


Raindrops journey through

windy woods and nature to





From my long-hand manuscript collection: 

Flanders Fields 

(c) Ugonna Wachuku 

August 1997 

Geneva: Switzerland  


View ugonna's Full Portfolio

My Dad Has Passed Away


Richard Haesche

When I first heard those words I knew

Would someday come along,

An empty feeling clutched my heart

And stifled every song.

I prayed that I was dreaming

Just as I had often done,

And when I woke up screaming

I'd still be his youngest son.

But the truth of death is awesome

When a loved one fades away,

And you have to go on living

Just as always, day by day.

I remember so distinctly

Every moment of that night,

Every sadness, every teardrop,

Every hurt that clutched so tight.

It took awhile to realize

My Daddy's gone away,

And I hope and pray my Dad and I

Will meet again some day.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I think my words are

View taleteller's Full Portfolio

-If I Should Die....


If I should die....

...would you write me to death?

Help me on this great journey into the unknown

with comforting words written down in a poem?

Calm my all my fears and allay all my sorrows....

Tell me of a place full of forever tomorrows?

Of warm rain and sunshine and nights full of stars

No jackhammers,  no tv's,  or horns blaring on cars.

A place of serenity and peace,  a soft place to lie down.

This place they call heaven  with my family around.

Where the grass is so green,  a sky the bluest of blues

Where family awaits, like they did me,  and will you.

The dark days have gone now,  my heart shall not fear

I take with me the love of those so wonderfully dear.

Say Good-bye  and send me, on this journey alone

For my heart holds on tightly  to the words of your poems.

View kat's Full Portfolio




My broken heart is bleeding.

My flesh has been torn from my bones.

I just want to die.

You couldn't wait anymore for me

while I grew into the person

that I needed to be.

To survive in this world.

I have been waiting

for so long to be me.

Now, when at last

I can see my reflection,

you leave,

you can't take it anymore?

This is an ultimatum?

You wouldn't really want me

if I wasn't me,

would you?

Now that I can finally think for myself

you no longer love me?

Are you really the man

I placed my future in,

my dreams,

my everything?

Or did you only recognize me

when I was lost and broken

with no direction?

Do you like me insecure and fearful?  

God help me!

this hurts so much!

take this pain from me.

Or else I shall die.  

He was the air I breathed.

the thoughts I lived for,

the man I loved.  

Am I finally awake

and seeing the world as it really is,

or is this still some kind of a dream?

Help me get through this!

Let me finally think

and live for myself

and for today.

View artist60164's Full Portfolio

Epistle Of Grief


Richard P. Haesche

Viewed from afar, in abstract,

war is but a headline, a caption,

a sketch, a new draft call...

to be read about during your daily routine

of going to and from work,

or after the supper dishes are done and you're

settled in your overstuffed chair

reading the evening paper.

Fire flickers low in the fireplace

warding off the chill of the wintry cold.

Kids are busy with homework or

just watching the tube.

Viewed from afar, untouched by its grim

realities, war is like an abstract painting...

or a far out folk tune...

or a metaphoric poem that touches you not.

You're worried about taxes, your mortgage payment,

your welfare check, or the price of butter.

You think `What a shame! Where will it all end?'

Then you turn the page to a sports editorial...

or Ann Landers

...or the comics.

After all, don't we all need laughs?

Evening ends. You retire to a sound sleep

untouched by the demand for more troops in Iraq...

Across town...

or across the street...

or down the block, a mother sits, crying unashamedly

while a tight-jawed father,

fighting to hold back his own tears,

drops the crumpled telegram to the floor...

an epistle of grief!

Two hearts, ripped from their moorings,

by a war that made them wonder...

Two hearts, touched by the war, and a son,

Too damn dead to care anymore!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this poem during the Vietnam War after hearing so often of families receiving telegrams from the US Government "regretting to inform them of their son's/daughter's death." And now, we're embroiled in yet another war... Iraq. When will it all end?"

View taleteller's Full Portfolio


I could stare into her eyes & see my future die.

A girl that I thought would one day be my bride will turn out to be my killer instead.

I can't look my ghost in the face.

I need to put my head down & run away from this place.

View thomas's Full Portfolio

An Unborn Life

As I sit and think about life

I can't help but think about

the unborn life of my own

my own flesh and blood

A life that I could have

brought into this world

The one and only person and thing

in this world that could have turned my life around

So that I could have been the man that I should be

The one that I could show them how to live

in a world that is so unjust and impure

As I lie awake at night

I can hear

little foot steps running to my room

to jump in my bed

Looking at me to see if I'm awake as they lie

next to me to go to sleep

Could this have been

The son that every father wants

A son

to bring up to be a better man than him

To be able to show him how to play sports

How to hunt and fish


Could it have been daddy's little girl

The daughter that I could spoil

and protect with all the love a father has

to give

As I think about the life

that I will never be able to hold

I can't help but cry and think

Could I have been the father

that they would love unconditionlly

Knowing that I may not be the best father

but knowing that I gave them all the love that I had

and taught them all that I could

I wish I would have know then

what I know now

So I could have stopped their mother

from taking their life

With out me even knowing

that I was going to be a father

Even though I never got to see their face

I still love them with all my heart

To my unborn child


Jeremy Conn


Author's Notes/Comments: 

I found out that my ex left me so that she could have an abortion.

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