Ukraine-2026

John Bartlett

Sing Out for Ukraine

-for Yuri Kerpatenko, Ukrainian orchestra conductor, murdered in the occupied city of Kherson over his refusal to participate in a concert put on by Russian authorities

In October
the plane-tree buds
burst pale green while
along the creek the ranks
of yellow Iris stand guard

In Mary of the Angels
the black-clad choir sings  siren songs
to seduce the hearts of tyrants

Do not mistake the organ’s trembling
groan for a missile’s deadly aria
or the sopranos’ high notes
for the widows’ ululations

So I will light a candle
against the sun                     quietly*
while all around me war
bullies                                    loudly

Fathers of Ukraine
as our foes press on from every side*
hold your children closer
so that they may live

Who else will carry flowers and prayers
to your own well-kept gravesites

*(Italicised lines quoted from lyrics of music at concert Sing Out for Ukraine at St Mary’s Basilica, Geelong on October 16^th 2022.)


sunflowers need full sunshine (for Ukraine)

when missiles cracked open the ribs
of sleeping Kyiv             children carried their colouring
books down into basements
sunlight was betrayed

when bedrooms exploded unexpectedly
like party balloons, then            sunlight
was betrayed

when blood stained the snow
around Santa Sophia     wisdom
was betrayed

when trains filled with fleeing  families,
carrying cats and dogs   sunlight
was betrayed

in Lviv cathedral when men in bomber jackets
and beanies bore Christ Crucified underground
reverently as if newly dead 
to wait out the resurrection

only then do  we command  you, the invading
soldiers, ‘place  these sunflower seeds
in your pockets so flowers will bloom
when you die and are buried in our soil’

John Bartlett is the author of eleven books of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. He was winner of the 2020 Ada Cambridge Poetry Prize, Highly Commended in the 2021 Mundaring Poetry Competition and longlisted in several competitions in 2023.  His latest poetry collection, Excitations of Entanglement was released in November 2023.

Gerald Seniuk

Them

Our peace upended by them.

It’s always them.
They start it.
They end it.

In between we fend,
we die, we suffer.

We begin to pray.
To what? To whom?
We do not know you.
We never see you.

But in distress, we pray,
while they press the world,
moving pieces as they wish,
while we sit in our measly nook,
our blessed kingdom overtook by
their strategies and guns and pacts
and deals they made with who? You?

Yes, we begin to pray to you, but only after
they took everything away do we beg you. First,
we begged our neighbours and our friends.
They came, then went away. Now, when there
is no one else to ask, we pray.

To you, even if you’re not there.
Even if you don’t care.
We pray to you.


The Tryzub

Where the strong and long river
joins the seas of black water are caves
wherein a gathering people carved
tryzubs on the walls millennia ago.

The tryzub, the symbol that heralded
a people tormented by neighbours and
traders, slave traders, traders of Slavs,
a people who remembered, persisted.

To help them remember, they secreted the
Yevshan Zyllia herb on their stolen sons,
daughters, sisters, brothers — the flower, like
tryzub, a reminder/definer of a people.

To help them remember, the poets and
the kobzari wrote and sang of these people,
who and what they loved, the sorrow and
happiness they shared in their oppression.

There was always oppression, century upon
century, from the west, the north, the east,
the south. The others kept coming to deny this
people. But the people remember who they are.

As soon as one oppressor goes, another comes
rising Phoenix-like from the ashes of the other.
Now, they have come again, and Ukraine, the
Borderland once again becomes the Bloodland.*

* Bloodlands is the term Timothy Snyder used to describe Ukraine in
his book by the same title published in 2010 by Basic Books.

Gerald Seniuk is retired, and resides in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada.

Martin Rieser

What cannot  be swallowed

There was a man called mange tout who ate everything
even an aeroplane. It took years, but he did it.

We are not that man, and the things we have to swallow–
too sharp and too hard– do us internal damage.

I will not swallow the bombs and drones,
or the lies we have been told. I refuse the foolish words

that bring destruction, that eat us out from the inside,
that make the earth a waste, and our lives less than nothing.

But we must eat something, so let it be the truth.
Be a truth-eater and ignore the salacious and righteous,

the gossip and the tirade. Be careful what you swallow
It might be sweet , it might be sour. It might be a grenade.



In Bucha
Ukraine April 2022

The tenement has a gap in its heart
through which blue sky is framed,
The old woman with a stick plays her part,
standing where the guns were aimed.

Heaving a sack, surprisingly at ease,
she’s prepared to weather any trouble.
The burnt-out flats, truncated trees
are aproned round with screes of rubble.

Is this really courage, or her tenacity of faith
that no more shells will fall?
Is her refusal to leave and migrate
because she’s already seen it all?

No one in the flats or on the street –
a stray dog stiffens at the smell of meat.

Martin Rieser runs the Stanza poetry group in Bristol. Published: Poetry Review, Write to be Counted, The Unpredicted Spring 2020, Magma 74, Morphrog 22; Poetry kit 2018; Primers Volume 3, Artlyst Anthology 2020. Alchemist’s Spoon 2022, Ink Sweat and Tears 2019/2023; Longlisted Erbecce Prize 2023 ; Shortlisted: Frosted Fire 2019/2022, Charles Causeley Prize 2020;, Wolves Poetry Competition 2022, Artemesia Arts Poetry Competition 2023, Geoffrey Stevens Poetry Competition 2023; Runner Up Norman Nicholson 2020; Winner: the Hastings Poetry Competition 2021.

Antje Bothin

I miss you
I miss her
And him
My friends
A shadow on the ground

I miss you
I miss it
And them
Fun things
A cloud in the sky

I miss you
I miss us
And myself – connection
A splash on the floor

Dr Antje Bothin is an author who lives in Scotland. She loves poetry. Her poems were published in several international anthologies. When not writing, she can be found volunteering in nature or drinking tea. Find her first novel Annika and the Treasure of Iceland here:https://www.amazon.co.uk/Annika-Treasure-Iceland-Antje-Bothin/dp/B0CD93WQ27/
Links: linktr.ee/languagedoc

Marie Papier

So that a fly cannot pass through

Putin’s sentence about sealing off Azov Steelwork
so none of the soldiers and their families could escape.
BBC News, May 2022.

The silhouette of a steel plant –
a spiky-tailed dragon whose fiery jaw opens
into a maze of narrow tunnels in the guts
of the underground.      Above
its black chimneys piercing a sky
heavy on the besieged city.

Consider Noah’s ark
where each beast was fed and prized   
or a messianic kingdom where the fox
will lie with the hens, the leopard
with the lamb, all content.

How the captives of the works might have dreamt
of a dove bringing freedom or been swallowed up
by a whale spewing them out on a shore.   Instead
they were mere flies trying to escape
this savage war.

A Blooming Rifle

My father’s rifle had been lying
in the attic for years when,
on a spring-clean day, we found
a plant had grown in its chamber.

Radicles had pushed through the barrel
giving life to a sunflower.
How, we wondered, could helianthus
grow without sun?

That spring, in the castle square,
the rusty canons from the last war
had turned into groves of bright flowers
giving a feel of harmony;           

cherry trees were sprouting
in minefields as they exploded,
spitfires changed into swallows,
grenades into fireflies

and people, looking up to the sky,
were surprised to find rockets
had become angels
flying down to earth.

Marie Papier was born and educated in the French language. She is a novelist and poet. Her English poems have been published with: Arvon/Daily Telegraph, The North, Agenda, Stand, The Lighthouse, Orbis, London Southbank Poetry, Fly-on-the-wall press, Ink Sweat & Tears and others. Smith/doorstop anthology Poems about Running; Online; On radio. In Calyx & Weather Indoors two anthologies from Bristol Stanza; Walking Words, Poetry Walks in Bristol’s Past and Present; Indigo Dreams anthology Voices for the Silent.

Lisa Lopresti

Staying                                

her blood rumbles with righteous fires
the family’s crockery and Molotov cocktails
as she shrugs on her grandmother’s cardigan

the open wall to the bathroom is immodest,
toothbrushes and shampoo stand guard against
the unexpected elements
whilst the missile dust settles
like dirty snow

bombs drop from the deflating notes of jets,
invaders who have been stopped lie face down
as if drowned in the land they wanted to conquer
their camouflage boot soles, bloom on dead legs

Lisa (she/her) is a poet from Banksy painted Bristol. Lisa has poems in magazines such as Crowstep and Acumen who said her pamphlet was ‘slightly uproarious’.  A member of the Satellite of Love poetry event team, a feature poet at spoken word and open mic events, Lisa is inordinately thrilled to be regularly broadcast on local BBC Radio. birdsongpoetry.com Bio
Lisa (she/her) is a poet from Banksy painted Bristol. Lisa has poems in magazines such as Crowstep and Acumen who said her pamphlet was ‘slightly uproarious’.  A member of the Satellite of Love poetry event team, a feature poet at spoken word and open mic events, Lisa is inordinately thrilled to be regularly broadcast on local BBC Radio. birdsongpoetry.com

Alison Hramiak

Peace by piece

Look around the world and try to find some peace.
It’s been elusive now, for thousands of years.
For thousands of years,
it’s been just out of reach.
Many millennia ago, we started to war
and tho’ we’d only just learnt to stand tall,
we knew what weapons were for.
The evidence lies in ancient bones,
displayed in our dusty museums.
Cut and scarred and long since cast,
there to remind us of our violent past.
Now, switch the vowels to see what we’ve been fighting for,
for a piece of what the other one has,
we keep on going and going to war.
Time it was we stopped it all,
swapped the vowels back around.
Time it was we swapped piece for peace
before we all end up underground.

Alison Hramiak is a poet and teacher educator living and working in West Yorkshire, England. She is published in several Forward Poetry anthologies, New Contexts 4 and 6, and on various poetry web sites. She blogs about poetry at Sunday Mornings at the River and for the Sheffield Institute of Education.

David Ashbee

Not me

I wouldn’t drive an ambulance to Ukraine
taking the relief a ravaged country needs.
Say I’m too old, or don’t have what it takes,
to fix a loose exhaust pipe in ten degrees below.
I prefer to keep my head down here in windy England,
not duck in body armour where lethal rockets fly.
Today, while rumours murmur on the radio,
I improve a watercolour, roast an aubergine,
and listen to Vaughan Williams
who drove an ambulance in war.
I didn’t put one item in the loaded trucks that left
(though I gave a bit online).
I wouldn’t drive a lorry to Syria or Ukraine.
It’s thanks to God, whatever bunker He’s in,
that all men aren’t the same.

David Ashbee, a former English teacher, has been writing, publishing and performing his poetry for over 60 years, with 3 full collections. He was born in Gloucestershire and has lived there for most of his life. His work can be found at luckycherryphotosandpoems.wordpress.com.

Edward Alport

Peace In Our Time

I fear peace that is not my peace but the peace of someone who says that it is what is made by the lack of something else but they don’t tell me what

Peace is a monster creeping up on us from behind it is something that can devour us if we don’t call it by its proper name so we can tame it and tell it what it is

You may give me peace but when will you tell me its name so I have power over it and can call it when needed or send it away to graze in other lands

Many people say that they live in peace but peace has already devoured them and squeezes them in leather straps and holds them upside down by their toes over a still lake

The peace you can buy in a supermarket has a pretty coloured skin and smiles as wide as a crocodile skin purse but it was not made for me and probably not for you

Do not please do not make me love peace unless I know its name and can send it away it may be your peace but I can’t take it away from you and make it mine

A Game of Chess

The Masters sit across the board,
eyes narrowed,
brows furrowed,
hands poised,
contemplating the positions
and the next move.
And the next.

The pieces see the hands as well,
as clouds, paused in the sky,
as winds blowing cold over the board;
and on the board
there is no shelter from them
and their commands.

The Masters shake their heads
frown deeply,
nod wisely,
and offer to shake hands.
The pieces have no hands to shake.
They have no say
and can only fight until The Masters,
 in irritation,
sweep the board away.

An Improbable War

There was no trumpet to announce this war.
Its sheer improbability made watchers doze
until the sound of churning gears were
no longer dreams. And even then,
the sheer improbability made watchers grasp
at small victories and small failures on either side.

If we don’t know hate,
how can we see it?
If we don’t know greed,
how can we feel it?
And when we see them,
when we feel them,
how can we stop them
when we don’t know them?

As time ticks by, the churning gears become
a part of background noise, and louder shouters
catch our eyes and flashing lights distract our ears.
But still the little victories go on and
now, we see them for what they are. To us.
But to the fighters for their blood and ground,
 the war is all they see for miles around.
And we must not forget;
the enemy is not beaten yet.

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, articles and stories published in various webzines and magazines and performed on BBC Radio and Edinburgh Fringe. He sometimes posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse. His website is crossmouse.wordpress.com.

Jennie E. Owen

An army takes the Dead Zone*

The Russians, they discover the doors to apartments,
the windows, open like invitations to the hot spots inside
tempting, when the thin spring sun offers no thaw.

But this sodden town is already full, overly populated.
The shadow sentries of shrubbery, birch and pine trees
choke and crowd the buildings in red and green.  The lichen,

buff fingerprints away, ring mark glades for invisible
creatures and wild horses scattering the concrete rubble. 
This land watches, it waits and works its way under skin.

Elderly men and bent women with ivy veins
wane and dissolve like embryos back into the woodland;
they exist only by faith and history, among blind songbirds

they forage the shrubland, the mossed brick of walls
that lean and hold their wolf breath, whilst today this new
pulse of boots and heavy tanks kick up the dirt

of mass graves: dust, and machinery rust and bones;
the contamination occupies, dries the tongue, cores
the mouth.  Lingers like warm lips on a woman’s neck.

When they trek home, these invaders will tread
the soil into rugs with elephantine feet.  Their offspring
meet them, lifting forth a sarcophagus with small hands.

*Chernobyl Exclusion Zone

Jennie E. Owen’s writing has been published online, in anthologies and literary magazines.  She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing for the OU and is currently working on her PhD with MMU. Her pamphlet The Horses Still Run will be published in 2024 by The Flight of the Dragonfly Press.

Katherine Davies

Weather

grinding wind, curtains black
dogs run through the train

how brief the smile
the farm boy from Privolnoye
and his 3 step plan
saw the sword above us all
several times the speed of sound
too late for sirens
no need for baby funerals
all the cemeteries are gone

bells and crosses
chesty plotters flagellate
horses splash in boiling water
louder and louder
red faces thump and terrify and titillate
and win
we even vote for them

scared
scared to breathe our first breath
to ride and revel in the wild
to see the universe of stars
in the mirror
in the stranger’s face
scattering our feed into the trough
silk-toes sliding by in the shallows
cartoon thin
insects in the ring

Rzeszow, March 28, 2024

Katherine Davies‘ biography is here.

Margaret Poynor-Clark

109

109 empty prams.
Each one a different shape.
Each one a different shade.
Each one a different size.
Each one a vacant space
in the cold spring wind.
They stand in line to make a stand,
a shield, a protest to stop
the killing and close the sky.
This is just beginning
there is more to come.

Lviv 18/03/22

Margaret Poynor-Clark is a poet living in East Lothian Scotland, she is a retired paediatrician. She is a feminist. She writes about misogyny and violence against women. She also writes about food. Margaret has had poems published in Ink Sweat and Tears and the recent anthology To Light the Trails by Sidhe Press. Forthcoming poems in Pennine papers and Dreamcatcher.

Vyarka Kozareva

In the Sweet Haze of Delusion
 
In a narrow mind
War is a paper boat
The wind easily throws away,
Rumbling is a confetti sound
That kisses the clown’s false nose
And colours our fingertips reddish.
It can make us stay awake
In some other’s bed,
In a wrong town,
Under the brightest sun,
Under the driest earth.
When we close our eyes,
What can we see ?-
Crossed roads,
Immaterial entities,
Sad tunes
That flow like rusty water
Into a freshly dug grave,
Mandibles and maxillae
Waiting
For someone to pick the light
By his hand
As if it’s an apple heavy with sins.
Empty spaces dreaming
Vital ozone.
Straw(berry) chairs, arranged,
Intended for the god
Who drinks blood.
Nobody knows
In which mollusc bosom
Is hidden the pearl
Named hope. 

Vyarka Kozareva lives in Bulgaria. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart, Poetry Pacific, Basset Hound Press, Bosphorus Review of Books, Mad Swirl, Ann Arbor Review, Fevers Of The Mind, Juste Milieu Lit, Trouvaille Review, Aberration Labyrinth, Triggerfish Critical Review, Sampsonia Way Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Toasted Cheese, The Big Windows Review, morphrog, Tipton Poetry Journal, Wildfire Words.

Chrissy Banks

Tango in the Park

in the bright icy air
of Kyiv’s botanical gardens

couples dance   hand in hand   
hip to hip   heads high

under the eye of Russian soldiers
they dance the milonga

dance for the together it brings
for the breathy joy of it

as sirens whine down Kyiv streets
they take hold   step, cross, kick

until the harried mind is eased
their feet moving to  a melody of flow

and resistance – that moment
all the body knows

Chrissy Banks‘s latest work is The Uninvited (Indigo Dreams) and Frank, a Poetry Business pamphlet. She lives in Exeter, where she co-hosts Uncut Poets. She runs Contemporary Poetry-Reading groups in Exeter and Somerset venues. “Tango in the Park” was written prior to a fund-raising event Chrissy organised in Exeter.

Stafford Cross

A Family Story

When I was young, I walked the fields and forest, chased dragonflies by the river.
Hawks soared high over ripening corn. Breadbasket of the world.
Great Grandfather said that once, Napoleon marched his armies through these fields.
So we burned the crops, and Moscow Town as well.
When winter came, the Frenchmen died in droves on the road back whence they came.
Winter passed, scorched earth grew green with Sunflowers, Wheat and Barley.
The Tsar’s breadbasket once again.

I was a serf, Grandfather said. The Tsar took what was ours.
When Kaiser Bill came to take his share, we said goodbye to both.
Then Serfs no more, our comrades ploughed collective farms.
A breadbasket once again.

But not for long, my father said. A madman in the West
Sent tanks to plough these fields, and swastikas to rule our skies.
Russia and Ukraine, “Brothers in Arms”, we took some beating.
At Odessa, Stalingrad, and Kursk. We fought, and paid the price!
And we put paid to Hitler.

“Brothers in Arms!” My wounded Son sobbed.
Aye, That we were! Fighting side by side and proud to do so.
But now a madman in the East commands that I should fight my brothers.
Though neither they nor I would fight, if we but had the choice.
Tomorrow, I return to those same fields, where Dragons by the river chase me with fire and shell.
Drones soar over fields of brown, and the forest’s shattered stumps.
To shatter Tower blocks … Markets … Lives.

I waited for my Grandson’s tale,
But answer came there none.

StaffordCross is a recreational poet and retired chemist who has dabbled in art (rejected by the Royal Academy Summer Show), campanology, folk song and dance (Ukrainian-style Cossack dancing), (finalist in Sidmouth’s Traditional Singer), Poetry (Prize winning limericks by the score) and story telling. Only recently published (Wildfire Words).

Hermione Sandall

Why should

Why should a small girl, loved by her father, yearn
to hear her name spoken
in a man’s deep baritone?

Why should a boy on his own
learn how to cry for his father –
his voice still a child’s, unbroken?

And what of the seeds that will germinate,
innocent seeds from an evil sowing, that wait,
in their own darkness growing?

What becomes of the seeds of sadness, sown
before we can feel
they are deep in our soil?
How do we carry this intolerable weight, not knowing?

Hermione Sandall taught English and drama all her working life. In 1971 she sailed to the West Indies with her husband. After retiring she volunteered with the Shropshire Wildlife Trust. She writes poems to understand the world and herself.

Christian Ward

Conducting Risk Assessments In Ukraine

Conducting risk assessments are important
Should you see Saint Olga of Kiev
to ensure the safety of any persons 
in a stained glass puddle,
associated with your workplace. It is crucial
consider it your lucky day.
to identify any potential hazards 
Perhaps she called to you
and determine who is at risk and by what means.
among the upside-down trees
If you have successfully identified the risks,
with Medusa roots, asking to defy
can you control them? The results 
the invaders with howitzer hearts.
of every investigation must be recorded,
Look to her carrying the cross
shared, and adapted to your workplace.
among the rubble of former lives,
It is essential to update your risk assessment
those surviving rabbit-holed,
frequently as needs may change. New threats
not yet caught. See how she projects
to safety may appear. There may be environmental
the hologram of herself into every phone
changes. Additional hazards, such as wild 
like a talisman. Always carry her with you,
animals, must be contained. Be wary, for example,
even as your shadow begs you to repent.
of the fox, brown bear and weasel.

Christian Ward is a UK-based poet, with recent work in Southword, Ragaire, Okay Donkey, and Roi Faineant. Two collections, Intermission and Zoo, available on Amazon and elsewhere.

Emma Lee

Fighting
(Konglish for support/encouragement after a painting by Hwang Hyunjin)

A sunflower closes its petals as the sun sets.
Dormant, it waits for the dawn to
unfurl and brave the new day. Caught
in darkening sky, petals curl, a black eye
watches. Each seed a reserve of energy,
a blob of a musical note waiting to orchestrate
its move. Each accumulates strength,
knowing the sun will rise again.

Out of Place
(Kyiv, December 2023)

A fir tree stands in a pot outside an apartment block,
that has one wall crumpled into rubble.
Branches have been decorated with sparkly cobwebs,
and lopsided angels made by children,
whose school is in a basement, punctuated
with sirens and air raid warnings.
Burdened, the tree pushes its roots
against the pot, seeking nutrition.
Perhaps the man who wanted to bring
some cheer will replant it later.
Or is it better to stay here, creating
memories, instead of counting absences?

Emma Lee’s publications include The Significance of a Dress (Arachne, 2020) and Ghosts in the Desert (IDP, 2015). She co-edited Over Land, Over Sea, (Five Leaves, 2015), reviews for magazines and blogs at https://emmalee1.wordpress.com.

Mandy Beattie

Resistance: Anti-War Sentiment

small pockets of hyacinths, snowdrops
crocuses birthing through snow
and potted sunflowers on sills. a twilight
woman on a train: Her flag a blue
headscarf, yellow jacket. chin stubborn
as Siberia’s Steppes, dowager hump
unfurled. a ballooning crowd of youth
seeing beneath chicanery and learned
indifference. picket lines of miniature
plasticine figurines clutching banners
where people must not. recasting price
tags for anti-war leaflets among
turbo-patriots. a child’s toy labelled
Do Not Shoot in a shop: mushrooming
pigeonholes arrested for inciting un-fake
news; ratted out. across squares mothers
and wives demand their menfolk be
demobbed from war-gulags. while
knitting needles tackle knuckles, others
stockpile rubles. takeaway homes

Mandy Beattie is a feminist, former social worker and academic. Winner of Words with Seagulls and City of Poets competitions and shortlisted poet, her poetry appears in Poets Republic, Drawn to The Light, WordPeace, Orphic Review, Crowstep, Abridged, The Banyan Review, Full House Literary, Verse-Virtual, Abridged and many more. Best of The Net poetry nominee 2024.

Moray McGowan

Yinyang 2022

A finch hops across the lintel’s curve 
Its brown body blurring with the darkened wood 
A bee drifts between dandelion and broom 
Mid-morning sun probes the hill fog 
And new beech leaves unfurl like baby fists of green  
Distant bleats, the song of wooing thrushes
All resting on the carpet of the streams’ murmur 
 
Across our continent, a newscast away, 
Hell rages, people are starved, raped, murdered;  
OR SIMPLY BLOWN APART; 
Here, the same world is perfect and at peace. 
No epiphany without the hyena’s bray.

Moray McGowan, born into a Scottish-Irish family in London, grew up in Norwich, studied in Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Hamburg, wrapped chocolate, harvested fruit, dug trenches, delivered letters and baked boiler insulation before teaching English and German for forty years at universities in Germany, England, Scotland and Ireland. He now lives in Somerset (UK) and Berlin.

David Thompson

Stump in Wartime
Alex Faulkner’s ‘The Uprooted Stump of Seahenge Rising in Front of the Nachi Falls’ (gesso on paper), Artists for Ukraine exhibition, Black Swan Arts, Frome, 1-24 April 2022

Maybe it’s not an intubated,
dismembered Baconian torso;
nothing anatomical,
not limbless Grecian marble,
no head blown off, no missing hands,
no legs gone walk-about.

It’s more like a vessel of clouded glass,
the stumpy shape of a see-through shirt
hanging white on blue like stiff Delft laundry,
uprooted, inverted, caught between movement.
And behind, the patterned boards, windowless
towers as yet unbombed, not yet falling,
ridged with the skyward grain
of the cratered wheatfields over the fence.
–
The shape becomes a chalice, empty, waiting:
waiting for sunflowers, for peace,
for the sun to break cover,
waiting for its white to brim with yellow
against the blue flag of the sky.

David Thompson, after military service and language studies, worked for many years for the UN in New York and Bangkok and WHO in Geneva before freelancing in France. He now lives in Somerset (UK), where he has published two poetry collections: Days of Dark and Light (2021) and Where The Love Is (2023).

Ivor-Frankell

They speak of peace

They speak of peace but war goes on
The daily bombing doesn’t stop;
All sense of security has gone.

Amidst this military marathon
Both sides strain to end on top
They speak of peace but war goes on.

Democracy too briefly shone
Now Trump controls the ruling GOP
All sense of security has gone

And all must bow to the Mafia don.
Is America still the global cop?
They speak of peace but war goes on.

Of course the ceasefire’s just a con
Russia will resume when it’s a flop
All sense of security has gone.

Zelenskyy just about hangs on
Forced to join a talking shop
To prevent an Armageddon –
All sense of security has gone.

Ivor Frankell is a dabbler in a myriad of genres, writing poems, stories and novels. In his poetry he seeks to address contemporary issues. A Cornish Bard, he is more Russian-Jewish than English and is inspired by poets like Pasternak and Akhmatova. He takes part in a few writing groups in St Ives and Falmouth.

Sue Gerrard

The Raid

The open door meant the
door to freedom was closed
again, slammed shut.
The discarded paper patterned
The floor like old confetti
At a doomed wedding.
Overturned chairs resembled
The aftermath of a fight
Only here the enemy was invisible.
Snapped telephone wires trailed
The dusty wooden floors
Like snakes stalking their prey,
Ready to kill.
Uprooted filing cabinets lay like
Steel coffins blocking our way
As we tried to gather photographs
Of those we wanted to save.
Every week they leave
this calling card
but we are resilient
we will not go.

Sue Gerrard‘s 24 published books include 11 poetry collections, 2 ghost novellas, and a collection of ghost stories. Her 9 local history books, some published by Amberley, include Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives, Grumps at Christmas and St. Helens in Fifty Buildings (2025). She was twice awarded ‘Robert Lord Writing Residency’ in Dunedin, New Zealand in 2019. Pear Tress Press, New Zealand, then published Poems for the Cottage. Her journalistic work was recently featured in an exhibition at the World of Glass. suegerrard.com

Peter Devonald

For the Love of War

We all love the signs of war,
the acrid stench, the blood strained street,
the betrayal of all that makes us human,
the inhumanity, the hate, the defeat,
flattened buildings, the debris of souls,
lost limbs, lost love, lost lives,
the denial of all that is beautiful.
We must all love war, why else would we be obsessed
by creating more and more, casualties and crimes,
orphans, homeless and the utterly helpless,
shocking waste of precious lives and resources,
the terror, the horror, the utter squalor of it all,
lives eviscerated, shattered and utterly obliterated,
we all must love war, or why won’t we stop?

Silence Corrupted

We are blindfolded
so we don’t have to see
what we have done,

it is kinder in a way
though our imagination
rather runs away from us.

Every step a crack of bones,
every silence a shattering, 
every whisper a sorrow.

We get through, we survive,
but every night ​our min​d​​ play​s 
back the tyranny of ​blindness,

we did all this, we are to blame,
inaction can never be an excuse,
silence can never quieten screams.

Cassandra Syndrome

War is a game played by maniacs who kill each other.
Locate the man who profits by war and strip him
of his profits – war will end. Woody Guthrie

We are all Cassandra now,
we can all see the future,
but all ignored or disbelieved,
as another war rages once again,
more death, more destruction,
more Mother’s without sons,
more babies without parents,
more parents without children,
we already can see the damage done,
the carnage, escalation and sorrow,
the loss, tragedy and waste,
but no matter how we speak or screams,
the old ways run us over again, again,
another death, another denial, another tragedy.

Peter Devonald is a multi-award-winning poet published in 100+ journals including Dreich, four Broken Spine anthologies and Alchemy Spoon. Winner Broken Spine’s Reader’s Choice Award 2025, Loft Books, Waltham Forest, FofHCS, two HoH’s, runner-up Shelley Memorial and N2tS 2024, Finalist Tickled Pink, commended Bermondsey and Beyond, Hippocrates, Passionfruit Review, Saveas and Allingham. Nominations for Forward Prize and two BoN, widely-published/anthologised. Children’s Bafta nominated.
Facebook: @pdevonald BSky: @pdevonald.bsky.social Instagram: @peterdevonald Twitter/X: petedevonald

Paul Thwaites

Manoeuvres

Here a rib,
Cleaves the street,
Bomb shelter,
Bone corrugated nave,
And these manoeuvres
Incise the darkened nib,
Curl like claw,
Upon translucent skin,
Abrade it, raw.

You wear a rosary of skulls,
Same slack grin
Of  worm-infested orbs,
And pavements squalid red,
No swabs absorb –
Let rain of phalluses begin,
This callous internecine –
Crisp incineration,
Let the best man win.

Here in this widowed nation.
Impassive opal eyes,
Lose all their light
And stare uneasily to night.

Then worship in the nave of bone
You Guards of Honour,
Roast the rack,
Of sacrificial lambs
Done to a crisp,
Burst the hearts of dams ~
Lost lives in gutters run,
They turn not back,
But echo faint the lies of whispered prayers,
Beneath the scathed face of the sun.

Paul Thwaites is a poet working in Yorkshire England. He has written poetry and other work all his life. Now 72, he is still in the process. He likes the idea of incantation and evocation. The music and rhythm of our language has always held a fascination for him.

Frank McMahon

The Warlord Departs

There is no other route. He must cross
 this penitential river, forbidden to use
 the stepping stones. Waist-deep, too shallow
to immerse himself and drown, too strong
to quicken pace. He leaves behind

invoices for munitions, uniforms, helmets;
deployment orders, field hospitals, plasma,
graveyards, widow’s pensions. No way back,
he must cross step by rigorous step.
His hands dye the river crimson.
No birds swim or cattle stoop to drink.

 Ghosts steer boats, heaving
with amputated limbs,
grey risottos of gathered brains,
eyes and tongues laid out like offal,
to build his mausoleum.

Heat shimmers, dissolves
into lines of trees laced with skulls.
Bayonets spike the clouds.
Each step counts a corpse.
On the bank, bare breasts dripping milk,
a crowd of women greet him.

Imagine the life our children never had. Come,
we will suckle you with annihilation’s milk.

Frank McMahon has four published volumes of poetry, latest in 2025, The Canticles of Spring. Winner, GWN poetry prize in 2022. Winner of Poetry Together National Competition First Prize in Senior Category. He set up Writers in the Library in Cirencester. Read at Cheltenham Poetry Festival in 2025.

Diana Hills

A sonnet to Ukraine

Dreaded war drones blast, burn innocent flesh,
launched by robots, thrust by ancient tyrants,
fireballs fall with no mercy on a creche,
in the charred air, screams of frantic parents;
ambulances cradling shattered bodies,
life extinguished which only just began,
planes in the sky firing deadly volleys,
their monstrous shells pounding a food aid van.
This is Ukraine, once fertile, noble, just,
now ruined, bombed, surviving by a thread;
a brave people, refusing to be crushed,
fighting vile evil, while mourning their dead.
Let us help Ukraine, do what we must do,
fight for our freedom, to their cause be true.

Eleven Ways of Killing in Ukraine

The baby, smothered in his dead mother’s arms.
The toddler, struck by a drone finding his ball, 
The schoolgirl, choked by smoke in her firebombed school,
The schoolboy, punctured by a brutal iron fence, 
The student, felled by debris as she bikes to her exam,
The civil servant, cut by  glass in her empty office
The street sweeper, blown to remnants tidying his village,
The soldier, attacked by sepsis after wounds that won’t heal, 
The mother, bled to death in a drone-attacked hospital,
The grandmother, starved to a skeleton in her ruined flat,
The grandfather, heart broken by the deaths of his two boys,

And yet more ways of killing
In the tragedy Ukraine,
Old men, soften your iron hearts,
Heated by your past of evil, 
These killings now must end.

Heroes of our Times

A square room
burnt black walls
a flicker of light,
under a locked door
shapes move, morph
into alien forms,
in the fetid air,
stench of wounds
neglected bodies,
sounds of ragged breath
groans of pain,
clash of guns
a creak of laughter   
a hush of words,
the door opens
shout of the commander 
bodies heave outside
the earth explodes
heroes of our times
soldiers of Ukraine.

A Grey World

Behind grey screens in grey walled temples
sit grey slaves of the great grey gangmaster
orders taken from planets of grey algorithms
to unleash tsunamis of damage, destruction, death.

So acid grey, pewter grey, charcoal grey
drones crash, thrash, smash
into the colours of flesh, blood, bone, hair
from blondest white to deepest black.

The great grey gangmaster claps grey hands
cold as gravestones in Russia’s burial grounds,
orders drones in every hue of grey,
to bombard, hammer, pound, blitz 
all light and shade, life and vigour
from a country once of luscious colour.

Diana Hills started to write late but enjoys most reading at open mics and spoken word. She feels lucky to have a number of great venues in her area.

Beau Beausoleil

In
Ukraine
(December 11, 2022)

The war
weeps
in forced
consent
as we
listen to
its cruel
broken
narrative
on our
kitchen
radios

Outside
the storm
clouded
window
is winter
rain and
gusts of
wind

My wish
for you
is a year
of ordinary
seasons

And that
in this
new year
you stamp 
the cold from
your boots
and hear
your name
spoken with
pleasure by
someone you
love

Putin Demands
That The
Avenging Angel
Forgive Him
(December 18, 2022)

I have no
miracles
for you
she said
to Putin

I only 
see you
as you
are

and marvel
with others
at how your
very own
violent
wounds
have
completely
swallowed
you 

In
Ukraine
(May 28, 2023)

You awake
thinking
am I still
here

and you
hold onto
one another
whenever
you can

So that
if death
wanders
into your
destroyed
home 
it will
not find
you alone
and
unthought
of

And that
might
in itself
alter
its terrible
urgency
for a
length of
time

Beau Beausoleil is a poet and activist based in San Francisco. His latest poetry book is War News II [12/9/23 – 6/3/24] (2025, fmsbw press) daily poems responding to genocidal war in Gaza. Forthcoming is a poetry chapbook with art by Nanilee Robarge, Poet as Naturalist (Raven and Wren Press).

Anthony Gorin

Ruthless Men Tearing the World

These ruthless men, tearing the world,
the Putin, Netanyahu or Trumps of the world,
men of ambition and power-hungry.
No holds barred, willing to tear it all,
and destroy us all along the way.

So they can make their gain.

They paint pictures of safety, of national gain,
the ‘good old days’.

These men care not for anyone,
only ever willing,
to line their pockets,
and squeeze us dry.

Yet so many of us fall,
for their messages,
of falsehoods,
but for some with so much promise.

A thing we haven’t had hope for in a long while.

Anthony Gorin (he/they) is a multidisciplinary artist working in poetry, photography, and film. Their work, rooted in lived experience of mental health, autism, and queer identity, explores everyday beauty and has appeared in exhibitions, publications, and commissions. Visit www.beautyinnormalcy.com to learn more.

Vaishnavi Pusapati

Kyiv

The largest country in the world,
wanted more land.
So, your children are dispersed.
Your people fight,
sure without cause, to keep you free.
I hope their blood shan’t be wasted.
I wonder if they haunt your wastelands,
or the minds of those who want your fertile land.
A generation is growing up
without knowing what normal is,
and how to use a gun, how to run to shelter.
You are one of eleven countries
fighting to exist, to survive.
You have no friends to share
your burden, your grief though.
It has been so long now,
that the newspapers elsewhere,
push you to the back pages. As you suffer,
so many watch, and are silent.
We are sorry, but that is not enough.
People predict an armistice, a victor,
give you unsolicited advice about
what you should do, and some pray.
Yet, you fight, against all odds, you rebuild.

Vaishnavi Pusapati is a published poet, previously nominated to the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net and won the Beyond Word‘s micro fiction prize. Her work has appeared in Roanoke Review, Prole, etc.

K.F. Pearson

War’s End
for Mammad Aidani

Closure is never final in the end.
A burial does not bury thought, my friend.
Others are shadows of our good or harm.
Time, at its best, is but partial balm.
All condolences of peace
are put together piece by piece.
Craters are filled in on a road
where a grandmother had trod.
No missiles screaming over the horizon
whisper for a while that silence is golden.
Environmental damage settles back
a smidgeon if no sides attack.
Intersections have pot-holed arterials.
A statue in the roundabout awaits repairs.
The lion no longer roars in the remnant zoo.
Howls you hear now in the night are you.
Those emerging from their safety basement
are greeted with twisted steel and smashed cement.
Toddlers let their dogs yap in the parks.
Schoolkids realise how much they miss their books.
Hospitals, doctors, nurses, paramedics
slowly retrieve their necessary therapeutics.
Vegetation starts to re-repair
beneath still intermittent sirens in the air.
Gradual produce returns from ravaged fields,
cafés and restaurants start newly serving meals.
The cathedral, rebuilt in the city square,
though consecrated, must remain a replica.

K.F. (Kevin) Pearson was born in Caulfield, Melbourne in 1946, and grew up on the working-class side of the Racecourse. He has also been an art critic, journalist, editor and anthologist. K.F. founded Black Pepper was founded in late 1994 with Gail Hannah, initially in conjunction with Australian Scholarly Publishing. It is now an established, independent small publisher which has made a significant mark on Australian literature.

Jacqui Stearn

Steppe singers

Let your ear catch hold,
overflow with heaven’s trills
falling from my throat with ceaseless ease,
threading the grey sky gold.

Overflowing with heaven’s trills
above the steppes of my lineage,
cousins’ songs threading their grey skies gold
with billowing notes lifting downcast eyes.

Above the steppes of my lineage
people pick their way through blasted lives.
Billowing notes lift their downcast eyes
as we call forth mates and celebrate their courage.

As people pick their way through blasted lives
seeking refuge from the fight for home ground,
we call forth mates and celebrate their courage;
let your ears catch hold of their cries.

Seeking refuge from the fight for home ground
I plunge to earth exhausted by my flight.
Let your ears catch hold of their cries to survive
in peace on their land as you imbibe my sound.

Jacqui Stearn found her way into writing poetry later rather than sooner. She has pamphlets published by Yew Tree Press, https://www.yewtreepress.co.uk/Yew_Tree_Press/books/theellipse.html)
Steel Jackdaw (https://www.steeljackdaw.com/edition-5) has published her poetry and her thoughts on the relationship between coaching and poetry. She was a 2021 Waterland Writer in residence https://www.dialect.org.uk/blog/sonnet-relay and is studying an MA in Creative and Critical Writing http://www.coachingwithintent.co.uk).

Kathy Maixner

When We Used to Matter

It used to be enough that we made the nightly news –
That the world saw the images of us:
Our children,
our parents,
our friends,
wiped out by stray and intentional
bullets and drones,
and we were helped.

At least we used to believe
that humanity’s horrors,
displayed in full color,
would cause our friends to rally up
and defend against our slaughter,
and so they did.

With the passage of time
the world has taken sides,
as if we’re a soccer team on the world stage;
some want us to win,
others, not so much.

There’s now louder,
more vociferous voices,
in similar circumstances,
attempting to take our place,
to take our aid,
and they’re doing a good job.

We’d love to shout;
we’d love to yell,
but then we’ll be discovered.
We’ll be seen by enemy eyes
as the real enemies
that many believe we are.

But for now,
the abused have become the abandoned,
those suffering have had to take a back seat
to redder, more current bleeding –
as all the world’s rationalists
intellectually discuss
the costs of war.

Kathy Maixner is a Communication Specialist and poet from Oregon.  Her works have been published in the Central Oregon Writers’ Guild Anthology, the Sisters, Oregon Nugget newspaper and in the Indivisible Bend online blog.  She is an avid supporter of Ukraine.

Robin Daglish

Midnight

Not quite yesterday but nearly tomorrow,
last piss of the day before the yawning sleep
that will creep up on the calendar.
Unfinished business may have its say,
keep the candles burning in your head:
the roundabout of doubt that won’t slow down.
Happy the man who can rest at peace,
close his eyes and sleep,
doesn’t dread the morning.

In Ukraine a soldier crouches in his trench
as artillery shells spray their deadly blossom:
another day without dying,
another tomorrow that may be his last.

Robin Daglish is a retired builder who discovered poetry when middle aged and has been writing poetry and short stories for thirty years. Published in many national and international magazines and anthologies, self-published his first pamphlet – Rubies – in 2002 to celebrate the birth of his granddaughter and a full collection Weymouth Dawn a Dorset themed poetry collection covering: nature poems, T.E. Lawrence, Thomas Hardy.

Jo Riglar

In the Shadow of St Michael’s, Kyiv

Cold courtyard bench in the shadow of St Michael’s
She buried her haggard face in faux pink fur
He, in bytan camouflage, stoical, filled with war.

Twisted scream of ghastly siren, she
straightens her glasses in old womanish way.
What has happened here today?

The cathedral in stony silence, absent.
A hungry dog noses Sveta’s knees and coat
‘Keep your phone charged. I’ll leave a note.’

She searches Gregor’s soldier face,
living still last night’s embrace.
In her heart she knows war won’t solve. Amazed

at his faith, his strength, his resolve.
Their pregnancy must must must, survive.
Thousands, stronger, no longer alive.

An alchemy of fear menaces the air
A better tomorrow, her silent prayer.
Old music’s waiting, for war people here.

Jo Riglar was born in Cork, Ireland, but lives in Surrey, UK. Now retired, she has time to indulge her passion for writing. Jo says she cannot live without Seamus Heaney’s poetry. She likes writing competitions and has had success.
Jo is a regular contributor to the super Friday Flash Fiction website and was recently published in Streetlight magazine and the Anansi Archive’s Anthology.

Frank Johnson

Слава Україні! (Glory to Ukraine!}

Eleven years of suffering for Ukraine
with no sign, as yet, of either side winning.
For Chump, it’s mainly Zelensky who’s to blame –
Mango melts before the poisonous Pudding.
For Europe it’s a slow catastrophe –
as well as the death and merciless destruction,
it’s doing damage to democracy
and giving comfort to every alt-right faction.
For everybody of good will it’s shocking
to see how so-called leaders turn into cowards,
bowing before whoever’s best at bullying
and bending the arc of history ever backwards.
For me, it all amounts to just one thing:
I hope to God that Pudding doesn’t win.

A Russian Waddler Wages War

Ukrainian children abducted: twenty thousand.
Have you seen Pudding smile? More like a smirk.
How many deaths in Russia’s war? one million.
Have you seen Pudding walk? More like a waddle.
And the way he talks sounds like an evil android.
How many dollars to rebuild Ukraine:
half a trillion over the next decade.
Pudding’s net worth: two hundred billion.
Refugees elsewhere in Europe: five million.
Ukrainians displaced within Ukraine: three
point seven million. Ukrainians amputated:
fifty thousand. How evil can one man be?
Polonium Pudding waddles, he doesn’t walk
and no, that’s not a smile, it’s just a smirk.

Frank Johnson began his working life as a postman and ended it as a translator (from Czech and Portuguese). Interests include painting, poetry and learning Irish. For the past year, he’s been writing almost a poem a day. Frank lives in Coventry.

Chris Clark

Somewhere in Bakhmut
 
Sleep brings Sofiya no respite
from the sub-zero suffering and carnage,
the taps without water, the lamps without light,
Ukraine in the grip of a man-made ice age.

Protruding from layers of ragged clothes
her toes still pinch, her fingers still freeze;
an agitated wheeze like a sleeping dog’s
is a cavity curtain that flaps in the breeze.

Klitschko was buried with her daughter last week
in a patch of earth Putin’s drones left unscorched.
Her husband’s there too, whose ghost she now sees
bent double to harvest his beetroot for borscht.

“In school we’ve been ‘knitting for the homeland’.
Look! Socks for Daddy and mittens for you.”
On a table, tagged in scholarly hand,
lie gifts ‘from Nastia’ in yellow and blue.

But a feeling of falling this fiction fades,
a midnight train at a rainy railhead,
words on the wind at the end of the track.
”Mummy, I’m cold.  Can I go back to bed?”

Chris Clark was born in Cardiff  in 1948 into a family on the breadline, but, having missed the War, he never had to go through anything like Ukraine has.  His wayward nature led to a quixotic life, one minute (or so it seemed) interviewing Brian Clough before the 1980 European Cup Final, the next sharpening knives on Queen Street.  Writing was the last thing on his mind until very late in life.

Jane Newberry

Legacy : 2022
Grey fractured skulls of Mariupol stare
bleak bombed-out windows seeing empty space
freedom such a gamble – threatened by the Bear

Sad shreds of homes lie dying everywhere,
where now the life, the sounds, the space?
Grey fractured skulls of Mariupol stare.

Is man so cheap that there are more to spare?
Spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds cluster round the ace.
Freedom such a gamble – threatened by the Bear,

echoes through this crater, wires stark and bare
tangled with blame, in this most complex case
grey fractured skulls of Mariupol stare.

Filmed in black and white? For there’s no colour there
future generations denied a single trace,
freedom such a gamble, threatened by the Bear

Ukranians raise the flag and chant repair! repair!
from tear-filled eyes exuding touching grace,
grey fractured skulls of Mariupol stare
freedom such a gamble – threatened by the Bear.

Jane Newberry came late to poetry and is now widely published in lit journals and anthologies. Her two books of children’s play rhymes Big Green Crocodile and Big Red Dragon were shortlisted for the CLIPPA Award. Jane’s debut pamphlet for adults Hoyden’s Trove was published in 2022 (Wheelsong Books).

Susanna Schantz

Warm-Up

(Author’s Introduction and epigraph follows the poem text*)

If music now
is postlude, an echo
of what has already existed,
then this keen falls
not into oblivion

but deep into the soft
stretch of the Dnipro,
rising into floodplains
to wash wide skirts
of wheat.  Chords cluster

in sheltering pools of
flotation, in collective
dream, a delta at the confluence
of remembrance and resistance,
a Maidan in the making.

We are not fooled by the coda’s
hushed hum, not so much
a threnody of last things, but
potent praxis for full voice,
the singers’ secret muster.

*Author’s Introduction and epigraph

suggested listening: “Diptych II: Testament,” Latvian Radio Choir
on Valentin Silvestrov: To thee We Sing

Susanna Schantz, a former teacher, can’t stop herself from writing poetry about music. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Jerry Jazz Musician, La Piccioletta Barca, Syncopation Literary Journal, The Calendula Review, and VAN Magazine (Berlin). A trained naturalist and the daughter of two musicians, she lives in South Carolina and holds dual US/Irish citizenship.

Laura Grevel

Dear Luda

Please don’t go home when they’re bombing your hive.
Don’t pack up your bags, don’t pack up the cat,
he’s still got trauma from five weeks back.
Don’t sleep in a wrinkle, don’t drink vodka when blue.
Don’t travel too soon, don’t watch awful news.
Don’t turn on your son, he wants you alive.           

Stop Luda!
Don’t pack up your bags, don’t pack up the cat.
Don’t go to Kharkiv— it’s strewn with the dead!
Don’t hold your hand like a gun to your head,
don’t pull the trigger, I don’t want to see that again.
Don’t get on the bus, don’t board the next train,
unpack your bags, free your poor cat,
give Jeri a pat, tell him you love him like that.

Yes, Luda!
Sit down and eat, we’ve set a place for you here.
Sit down and think, we’re together, it’s enough.
Sit down and know, we’re all people, it’s clear:
            we can even be kind —
we can sit and eat meals and go on with our lives.

Live here, Luda, please!
Give yourself this new chance,
to live without fear, to try a new life.

Laura Grevel, originally from the USA, lives in Europe. Laura writes poetry, fiction and essays. Her writings tackle human rights, narratives and nature.  Her work has been published widely in anthologies, literary journals and online zines. Laura currently seeks a publisher for her debut poetry collection on the themes of identity and immigration. Instagram: @lauragrevel

Emeline Winston

Military Fatigue

i
Today, a September morning on the radio,
it could be any day in the past two years,
so no date required.  At 7.05am, the BBC reporter
regurgitates the content as witnessed by his eyes. 
The voice describes Eastern Ukraine:

“At a single storey brick building in a town not far from the Front, steel doors open for business.  It’s the local morgue, and the day begins with the unloading of bodies, newly arrived from the battlefield.  Some are badly mutilated, unknown soldiers, a process of identifying them starts here…”

We hear the zips of body bags being opened,
their teeth upping at the end of their run, cawing
like bragging ravens perched on their new khaki kill.

“…He’s in military fatigues… his face is badly damaged…they’re cutting off his uniform to see if he has any documentation, anything, any identifying tattoos…Another body…this is the third so far this morning. The military centre doesn’t allow the release of casuality numbers. It’s probably best if I stop counting now.”

And it’s probably best if I stop listening now. 
We need to know what is happening in this world
but when we listen for too long, we can’t make a day.

ii
Outside, an unexpected float of something white
catches my eye.  A rose branch loaded with seven
White Knights has announced itself overnight.
The breeze causes the stems to sway and bow, shuffling
their messages out into the moisture, transmitted onto
sound waves audible only by animals.

Though, I am told that White Knights speak of freshness,
of simplicity and peace, pax, pacis, peace, peace,
a piece of cheese will do?
Has the world gone mad? I come from peace, lead towards peace, I am a Man of Peace. 
If I can be fair, you can too. I  am David with my slingshot and stone, Daniel striding into the lion’s den. 
I am the sumo wrestler strutting into the ring, I throw my salt higher than yours, stare through you, and the gyogi will announce “Konishiki brought down by Terao”.  And I shall look straight into the face of evil, and laugh, laugh, laugh into evil’s eyes. I won’t stop and I won’t go away, like a rash.  I won’t go until justice is done. Won’t go away, like a rash.  I won’t go until justice is done.  I won’t go until the rivers run clear of blood, nor until the willow branches can hang, and soak in the freshest version

of what water can be today.

Emeline Winston is a producer of exhibitions in museums. Poetry came into her life unexpectedly.  In 2019, she was invited to what she thought was a poetry reading, but was shocked to discover a poetry-writing group.  It brought joy — and consolation through covid online meetings that went on for two years.  Emeline continued to write and recently started to share her work.

John Holbrook

Drone

A Ukrainian drone follows a car
filled with vodka-soaked Russian soldiers.
The car pulls to a stop. The drone
hovers and watches as the Russians

empty their car of weapons
and gear. Now they’ve opened
the front hood and are transferring
more stuff into the vehicle idling

ahead of them. A child stands
in snow just off the road between
the two cars, moves to be closer to
one of the Russians, but the soldier

motion for her to get back
to where she was standing. By the time
she does, the Russians have already
piled into the waiting car and starting

to pull away, leaving behind
an empty car, doors ajar, spare gear
on the ground, and a child, there snatched
off the street, Special-Military-Operation,

Putin-activated insurance policy, too young
to understand, care and comfort surely on the way,
and something more. It is the hope of this poem
that the child and her parents will be reunited.

But it’s not a given she’ll see them again
as many from her village are missing, later found
bound and shot, some with swastikas
carved on their foreheads, their bodies

stuffed in basements of bombed out homes
and buildings. And a meat grinder it is
for Ukraine’s army trying to vanquish
Putin’s endless licensed-to-kill, cannon-fodder troops.

Russian soldiers

If their own officers can zero-them-out on a whim,
demand payment for food, medical kits, helmets,
body armor, ammunition even, or to remind them
that a second squad of Russians behind them

follow orders to shoot any who turn and run…
I see no reason why Zelensky’s
out-manned troops, following Russia’s first use of Thermite
on residential homes, during the battle of Vuhledar,

can’t follow suit… so it deploys its own
Dragon drones to drizzle this molten weapon
(a potent mixture of rust, powdered aluminum, coils
of copper burning at 4000 degrees F), sheets

of searing metal drenching strategic trenches,
not homes, igniting concealing vegetation, fortifications,
melting through military equipment, ammo too hot to handle,
righteous payback for making sport of raping,

disfiguring, torturing, murdering civilians…guilty of nothing
but their own innocence, a fiery ordinance igniting
the shabby fabric of their empty Soviet lives, hopefully
enough to flatline Putin’s lies, his ego, edicts, his sacrificial legions,

and a blowing away of all their sad ashes.

Culled from the media
A found poem for reading, not speaking

Estimated total number of Russian troops killed
and wounded since start of war, Feb 24, 2022: 1.16-1.2 million.
Estimated number of missing Russians soldiers: 84,568.
–U.K. Ministry of Defense

Estimated number of Ukrainian troops killed: 60,000 to 100,000;
wounded: 400,000.
 –The Guardian, 2025

 Estimated number of Ukrainian civilians killed or wounded: 50,000.
–The United Nations Human Rights
 Monitoring Mission to Ukraine, 2025.

 Verified cases of Ukrainian children forcibly deported to Russia
 or Belarus: 19,546.
–(ICC) International Criminal Court
–(UNICEF)
–UN Commission of Inquiry On Ukraine
–Amnesty International
–(IFRC) Internal Federation of Red Cross

In March of 2025, in celebration of International Woman’s Day,
 a local branch of Russia’s ruling party in the Murmansk
 region, gifted mothers of Russian soldiers killed in battle
 with actual meat grinders.
–Euronews
–New York Post
–The Guardian
–LeMonde. Fr            

 “Hold on dear life like nothing before.”
 –A Ukrainian soldier’s self-admonition
overheard and recorded as he and his
platoon head out again to battle Russians
 for the city of Avdiivka, summer, 2025.

 “The souls of all my dears have flown to stars.
 Thank God there’s no one left for me to lose—
 So I am free to cry.”
–Anna Akhmatova, 1944, prominent Russian poet
 whose husband was executed and son imprisoned during
 Stalin’s reign of terror and purges.

John Holbrook lives and writes in Missoula, Montana. He is a 85 years old and still writing. He has published five collections of poetry. A day does not go by where John spends his mornings reviewing statements by pro-Ukrainian commentators like Dynis Davydov, Elvira Bary, Caolan Robertson, to name a few.

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