Taken

Taken

We who are left behind do not know, taste and smell the real horrors of war. It is relayed to us. We see it in those who return. Occasionally, at times like Anzac Day, we are given a rare gift of empathy with those affected by war. We are somehow taken into their experience. We are also taken to a place of raw emotion ourselves.

Taken

(i)

They were taken

By a cause

By ‘the Services’

To the front.

They were taken

And some

Were never given back.

(ii)

Some returned,

Some with spirits broken,

An innocence in them

Taken away.

As we think on them

We are taken

By their courage and sacrifice.

We are taken

By their pain

Their listless, wistful

Half-lived life.

(iii)

At memorial services

We are taken

As the hymns play

And we are taken

Somewhere deep within.

Where we hear:

Whistling shells,

The crack of guns,

And booms of cannons,

And drones of aircraft fly by.

The sound hits upon us

Like a torrent of rushing waters

And we feel as if we

Are taken

Under,

Drowning in a sea of war.

(iv)

At Dawn Services

We are taken

In the silence before the dawn

By the solemn flying over

Of planes in peace time,

Like sentinels,

Guarding our ritual remembrance.

We are taken by their care.

Simon C.J Falk           25/26 April 2015

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Preparing for the Morning Service this Anzac Day by Remembering 2013

Preparing for the Morning Service this Anzac Day by Remembering 2013

We are approaching another Anzac Day here in Australia. A day where we remember.  By way of remembering I was asked to go over what I said at our local gathering two years ago.  What follows is a paste of my words at the Morning Service that follows the march.

Anzac Day Morning Service 2013

Earlier today we gathered in the dawning light and remembered our brave Anzacs.

Now, approaching the noontide of our day

We have moved on.

Like pilgrims, or like soldiers marching, we come to rest at a further spot.

After our brave Anzacs valiantly served us in what we called the ‘Great War’, we sent some   Again…. later.

In the Second World War, our people excelled once more.

The Kokoda legend began and many people still travel that track.

But the ones who originally blazed that trail

How did their boots fall upon the duckboards?

Or how did they slip in the muddy mire

As the tropical sun and pests beset them?

Did they feel something of the ancient Israelites leaving Egypt

But traveling to a new land with foes nearby.

We hear some stories, but not all.

My mother’s uncle,

A supply soldier in New Guinea, seldom spoke of his tour of duty.

War saw new developments in this conflict

As technology advanced the bombs borne by sea and air,

The guns shattering the silence, the cities and the sanctuaries.

Farming families of Europe

After centuries of sieges

On their grass and in their barns

Again saw their fields and pastures invaded by the machines of war

As they became battlegrounds for territory

resting places of the fallen,

Atolls of asylum for shot down pilots.

Mighty cities near the ocean

We’re massacred in moments of mushroom cloud.

Pens and prisoner of war camps

Housed slave labour for rail lines in tropical paddies in icy tundras.

Back home families continued on coupons,

And mothers at times had to be fathers for their children as well,

Not knowing if the fathers would even come home,

And the state they would arrive in if they did come back to their families.

The home front were consigned to waiting

Yet their anxious wait gave energy to their work

As they kept our shops open, our classrooms filled

And our farms fielded.

As the sun rises higher in the sky

And the dial moves on

More names fill our roll call…

Korea

The Vets of Vietnam

Peacekeepers of East Timor

Aussies still in Afghanistan as we gather here today.

We remember them all.

As our youngsters, and not so youngsters

Take the Kokoda track today

What happens for them?

As the ground speaks its stories to them

Do they burn with revenge

Or fan a resolution

To not repeat the history?

As thousands of tourists pace over the pebbles of Auschwitz-Birkenhau,

Do they rejoice that work today can be free?

Travelling Eurostar trains over the green fields of France

Do we hope those farms will not become forts again?

May the courage of those before us put courage into us,

May their valour teach us to vie for peace instead of conflict.

As we stand here today by our own choice may we be thankful for those who freely chose lay down their lives for others.

May we find peace in our hearts and be ourselves peacemakers

That those who cross our way may know peace,

Even in times of conflict.

And may our families still tormented by past and present war know that we stand with them sharing their sorrow and willing them hope.

At the going down of the sun

We will remember them

And we still hope

That one day there will be a dusk to the devastation

And all will be made new.

Simon C.J. Falk

Anzac Day 2013

Preparing for Dawn this Anzac Day by Remembering 2013

Preparing for Dawn this Anzac Day by Remembering 2013

We are approaching another Anzac Day here in Australia. A day where we remember.  By way of remembering I was asked to go over what I said at our local gathering two years ago.  What follows is a paste of my words at the Dawn Service.

ANZAC DAY DAWN SERVICE, TEMORA 2013

As we greet the rising sun this day, a new day dawns on us –

a day to remember

And a day to hope.

As shadows clear and shapes appear

We begin to see

And find our way

From our slumber

To what is before us.

We remember as our brave Anzacs woke all those years ago

What shapes did they see

emerging in the shadows of the dawn?

With the grit of the Turkish coast against their brow

How did they see the mission lying ahead of them?

How did their ears encode the echoes

Of gunfire and orders and cries around them?

We will remember them.

But, as another day dawns further from that action

How will we remember?

Gaining more help by second-hand means

Of television or computer screens, film reels,

And pages of text and photographs.

As more days further from the Anzac Cove Landing dawn,

we hope we can faithfully pass on what we have received that others too may remember.

As this new day dawns we remember as light falls

Upon the graves of the fallen

That light, ever older,

Then illumines the graves

Of the those who fell upon the beach

All those years ago.

And also, a light, younger one, that drifts upon the graves of those who fought,

Came home, marched and have since fallen.

And we remember those who stood longer

And whose hearts were fallen upon,

Who experienced something of a dying within

And lived a lesser and wounded life,

Harrowed by the horrors of their experiences.

May their broken hearts be raised up whole again.

And we recall those blessed ones who

Buried the dead, tended the sick and wounded,

Supplied food and clothing, and

Delivered letters to and from the front lines

They too fell

Into line with great and noble service.

As the psalms tell us:

from the rising of the sun to its setting

A perfect offering is made.

In the rising of the sun

May we be mindful

And remember

Those who lived and died

In the hope of a day yet to dawn

Where there would be no more fighting or weeping

But peace at last.

May God’s peace rest upon them

and in our hearts and homes.

Simon C.J. Falk

Anzac Day 2013

Technology Fail!

Technology Fail!

We all have those moments when we fail.  Later on we see the funny side of the experience.  What I saw in the night light was truly beautiful.  But it remains only in the memory.   Our cultural compulsion to capture the rapture was unfulfilled.   Perhaps I was being taught to savour the moment and to not focus on recording it for posterity.  I’ve attached the dodgy photos for the ‘cringe factor’.

Technology Fail!

On a recent rainy night,

A glow of vibrant orange streetlight

Shone

Through

The leafy canopy

Of a rain-soaked tree.

Vision

Strained through

The dropping drizzle,

Beheld

The amber-esque event.

Exquisite moment

In the night light.

Like any haplessly compulsive modern:

Have smartphone

Will have pic!

But

Alas,

Technology fail.

The photo was…

A blur of mist.

So

I convey

A moment in memory

No longer for display.

Simon C.J Falk                  9 April 2015

Resentment

Resentment

Resentment

Re-sent-ment.

Does that mean

What was meant

Is

Re-sent

Until

Its toxins dissipate?

Does it mean

All those past

Frustrations –

‘wish I’d said’,

‘wish I’d punched’,

moments –

come back to us

for round two, three, four…

to hassle us some more?

Why do we not

Deal with it then and there?

Resentment

Is the domain

Of the dutiful,

the loyal,

those who stay in, but

are gradually ground

down

and down

by demands –

within and without –

they cannot meet

but greet

with a smile,

hoping

that the cheery veneer

is opaque,

at least, for now.

Resentment

A re-read, or perhaps, a re-listen, of Henri Nouwen’s book ‘Home Tonight‘ reminded me of the Christian ‘Parable of the Return of the Prodigal Son’ in Luke 15:11-32 .  The resentful character of the Elder Son reminded me of myself and many of us who, at times, feel we are doing our job but not really thriving in it nor being life-giving to others. 

Simon C.J. Falk          8 April 2015.

No

No

There are times in our life where we simply cannot say ‘yes’.   The reasons do vary.  For those of us who have had to say ‘no’ for our wellbeing, or, for the wellbeing of others, here is our little ‘no’ verse.

No

Arrr … sorry…

But no.

no.

No.

NO!

The dirty, little

Two-letter word.

How we find

It hard to day.

The guilt:

Shouldn’t I have

Said ‘yes’?

But

No

Means no;

Yes

Means yes.

When we cannot do,

We just have to

Cross that chasm,

The tremulous terrain,

And drop it.

That dreaded ‘n’ word.

No

More

Will

Be

Said.

Simon C.J. Falk           8 April 2015.

The Art of Flight

I find this poem fascinating. The final two lines bear much pondering.

O at the Edges

The Art of Flight

What wings accumulate is not air
but space, an exemplar

of restraint defied. I listen
and hear feathers

ruffling in the shadows,
a vibration that swells

until it becomes flight or
regret, the retrieval of our

bodies from this dream of ascent.
The art of flight is one of

disturbance, of angles and lift
and touching what can’t be seen.

What we hold carries no meaning.
The beauty lies in the gathering.

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The Preacher on the Clydesdale on Palm Sunday Night

The Preacher on the Clydesdale on Palm Sunday Night

In Barellan NSW there is a Clydesdale Festival each year. They have teams of bullocks and horses and it is a great day out!  This poem was prepared for a school assembly at Barellan Central School to celebrate Easter.  The idea was to make the Christian Palm Sunday connect with Barellan Clydesdales, Barellan Beer and country life.

The Preacher on the Clydesdale on Palm Sunday Night

When you go to bed at night,

And close your eyes, switch off the light;

Tuck up the bedclothes real tight,

For when the dreamtime comes.

The dreams come even in Holy Week,

When sleepy mouths do not speak;

And we never in the darkness peak,

So as not to disturb the dreamtime.

I heard a dream a while ago,

Something about a horsey show;

And a preacher, none who we would know!

Was one of the main characters.

It tells of a night within the calm,

A horse came up but did not harm,

Any person waving a palm,

On that Palm Sunday night.

In that week that we all call Holy,

There’s a story of Preacher Foley,

Who came a riding a Clydesdale foalie,

All the way in to town.

The people stood out on the street,

Waving their palms and tapping their feet,

To the beat of hoofen feet,

And of Foley astride his mount.

There was no donkey, mule or ass,

That the preacher could find after Mass,

So, to cheer up lad and lass,

He came upon a Clydesdale.

But that’s the way these Holy Days,

To celebrate Easter in Barellan ways,

For those olden times of gigs and drays,

Are what will steal the show.

As Foley’s Clydesdale came up near,

The crowd they gave a mighty cheer!

One said: “Get ‘im a Barellan Beer!”

As he trotted by.

He trotted past the young and old,

The aloof, shy ones and the bold,

He touched the hearts both warm and cold,

Bringing to all his cheer.

A kelpie’s bark made Foley look back,

But his plucky Clydesdale had the knack,

To keep his head upon the track,

And no one came to harm.

So the message of Christ’s great trip,

Along Jerusalem’s royal strip,

Still managed to find a grip,

In peoples’ hearts that day.

If you can’t find ass, donkey or mule,

Don’t worry, you can play it cool,

Get a Clydesdale to come past the school,

For Palm Sunday Barellan Style.

Simon C.J. Falk           31 March 2015