Memory Lane

[Chas Lotter]

Sitting here tonight with a whisky in my hand, remembering and thought I would share a few thoughts.......


REQUIEM
Tonight, we mourn our dead. Those brothers
Who still lie; wrapped in camo shrouds
Beneath Rhodesian soil.

Chase those strangers out; bar the door
Charge your glasses, wait while those murmurs die away,
Listen.

Argent; Arvic; Homan; Brading.
These are my dead.
Lost in ambush, mine, attack
In a time when a flag
Flew green and white
In a land which is no more.

I drank with them
In Rhodesian days, before
We trekked to foreign lands.
I drink to them now.
Argent; Arvic; Homan; Brading.

You, too, all have your dead
Who still laugh and shout
In the dim, far reaches of your mind.
Name them. Let their shades walk free
Tonight. We mourn our dead.

---------- Post added at 21:13 ---------- Previous post was at 21:12 ----------

and when Ron Reid-Daly died.....


Requiem For The Colonel
A slow, sad wind mourns your passing,
Winds its lonely notes around me
As I stand the last watch
By your grave.

The dry, brittle leaves stir, swirl slowly, round
Your last resting place.
Bare autumn trees quiver
In parodied grief
As if nature itself
Shares my loss.

The Colonel is gone.
And a corner of me
Which was filled
By his vibrant charisma
Is empty and dull and gray
And dead.

---------- Post added at 21:15 ---------- Previous post was at 21:13 ----------

....and one for Mugabe


GUARDIANS

The dull, red Zambezi sun sinks into sunset mode, drops
Below Kariba’s waters, drawing
A bloody cordon round this misty, hidden isle and
Its unknown, eerie camp, while
Off the silent shores, Nyaminyami swims on beat.

A bloated moon hangs high in the cloudless sky, glints off
The bugles as they sound their urgent call, lights up the drums
Harshly beating out their summons in this lost and lonely camp.

As the mist begins to clear,
A band flows forth from within the tattered tents,
Spirit soldiers, drawn forth from all our yesteryears
Hearkening to the people’s call, answering
To the nation’s need in this, our darkest hour.

Throughout that silent troop
Skeletal hands take hold of ghostly FN-FAL’s as
Eager, waiting hellfire fills their magazines.

They stand, they wait, while, silhouetted by the looming moon
Bullet-riddled boats grind upon the shore and
Ragged wraiths, clad in commie cammo, flow off, onto this destined shore
Lift AK’s to the sky to load that retributive light.

The shapes of all our honoured dead swirl, eddy – and merge. Enemies who once before
Clashed in combat’s deadly zone
Murmur to their brothers as they join in common ranks

On a nearby rise, faces form in well-remembered shapes as
Their commanders -Tongorara, McIntyre, Walls, Chitepo - confer
Then, orders ripple through the ranks
And the guardians of this ancient ground move out
To succour this bleeding land of ours.

Old man cowering in the stolen splendour of your presidential home,
You Chefs who stole the farms, you Congo looters, you who stole your millions from the masses.
You who beat the people, killed them, robbed them, starved them
Fed them lies instead of food.

You parasites still tightly clinging to the old man’s fading shadow. All you
Who stole our nation’s future.


Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Our ghosts are coming -those shadows who, years before
Fought for this nation’s soul, spilled each other’s blood upon our hallowed soil. Now
They are one, in the service of our land, searching
For the nation’s soul.

You stole it. They know it. And now
They come to bury you.

[Chas Lotter]

MEMORIES OF HOME PLAY MY TUNE AGAIN

Ahead lies home, my youth,
And the land I left behind.

My lights caress the rolling tar
As I carve my lonely way
Through the ancient African night.

I flash through this silent land,
Nine hours of journey done - three still lie ahead.
My singing wheels churn up the k=s, burning
My homeward path away, away
From my new-found southern land.

Nature calls. I stop, spray water, look round.

A full moon glows, dimming the clear, far stars; rags
Of dainty cloud drift in a bright, sharp sky. Kopjies
Loom - dark, low, near. Small, stunted trees
Mark the open bush between.

The smells, the sights, the sounds
Of Zimbabwe's open spaces
Whisper, softly, in my ear -

AA name does not define the land. The land defines itself.
When your days are done, when your children lay you down to rest
Your bones should lie
Beneath the soil you claimed.

---------- Post added at 22:34 ---------- Previous post was at 22:24 ----------


CALLING UP MY GHOSTS

Back home. In Harare town.
The book launch over; the signing done :
When
Carlos, popped
Into my life again. Same
Easy smile. Same
Dangerous glint in those same hardened eyes.

He brought photos - of Recce days.
Him, me, Jim and Yank. Dressed
In those filthy clothes
That walked out of Mozambique.
In all
A dusty look back
To years, faces, places
Long since lost in the corners of my mind.

We drank coffee. We talked. And talked.
Cups were whisked away. Replaced. And replaced again
As we talked. Of him. And him. And him,
Who’s dead. How. When.

It’s sad to see
How few of us are left.

Our mood blackened as we
Walked down those old roads again.
Coffee lost it’s flavour. Alcoholic solace
Called. But, instead, we parted
Walked our separate ways again, to where
Homes, wives and children waited.

[FrankH]

[Lance76]

Thank you sir,

[G-force]

Nice post Chas.

[Bushboy]

I like it!

[abhm]

Chas
sitting here drinking coffee and eating spring rolls, feeling nostalgic following the loss of a good friend I just wanted to say thank you! these words can speak to my soul on so many levels!

so here is something for you


What a time it was indeed!