All Posts By

Mark Dron

Poetry

“Parcere Subjectis”

Ranks of granite, Stand ranked like Grenadiers, lost in the frigid mists of time. Beneath these empty, silen t stones, unmarked graves, unclaimed bones, no names engraved, no legends, no words of solace nor holy comfort, nothing to tell those who will come, what happened here.
Mark Dron
29th July 2009
Poetry

At the setting of the Sun

“At the setting of the Sun” Beneath the glistening, Ink black night, ill-lit by faded stars, in the shadow of the sickle Moon the desert stretches unto heaven. A tattered remnant flutters, stirred by ghostly hands, the faded red, white and blue stained with soot and blood shroud for a…
Mark Dron
27th July 2009
Poetry

“Convoy”

We steam for safety, grey walls of water crash across the bows. Two hundred souls, crammed inside a metal skin, living in one another’s stink. Puking, mewling, like infants in need of milk, we stagger along storm-battered decks, iron corrodes under foot. Ripped and clawed by howling winds, chapped by…
Mark Dron
13th July 2009
Poetry

“December III”

In dreams when things seem better, when wrong turns are never taken, when happiness lasts and scans always pulse, that’s where we’ll find you. The daily grind seems worse without you here, there’s not a day that doesn’t pass when we don’t think of you, when we don’t feel you…
Mark Dron
13th July 2009
Poetry

“Roads to nowhere”

In the shadow of black chimneys they stumble, wrapped in funeral rags drowning in oceans of ash. Millions lost, in lost instants to the senseless slaughter, which they say cannot happen again; yet continues in a myriad bulletins from any number of hell-holes bereft of civilisation, stripped of hope. The…
Mark Dron
29th June 2009
Poetry

1956

We crouch behind makeshift sandbags, Jozsef grips a rusted shotgun, beside us cloudy milk bottles stuffed with rags litter the=2 0cobbles. I finger the trigger of my Kalashnikov, my hands trembling in the yellow-brick shadow of the cinema, we make a final stand. Cobbled streets strewn with rubble, oily black…
Mark Dron
23rd June 2009
Poetry

Gone – December II (for Bean)

I dreamt of you last night, but couldn’t see your face, a blur that fades from black to white, an image that lingers, from night into day a waking fugue. We were playing in the park, walking by the river, sailing yachts in the pond, cycling in the woods. None…
Mark Dron
11th June 2009
Poetry

“Watchtower”

Grey concrete scratches the sky, graffiti’s stain a modern bible, proclaims a new religion. Shattered window s, empty sockets sightless, gaze out across the wire. Cold War ghosts, in the glare of progress, fade, retreating before the snow drops of millennium’s spring.
Mark Dron
6th June 2009
Poetry

“Fields of Red”

A Winter’s day, The corner of some foreign field, mist rolls like the waves upon some haunted sea, a sea of red that stretches far unto the horizon. Beneath it, lurking in the muddy depths rusting wire curls about lonesome bones, ‘neath fathoms of shattered lead. I stand and gaze…
Mark Dron
23rd May 2009
Poetry

“Dust and Fire”

It’s snowing at home. The Buses have stopped. Dad couldn’t find a Train this morning. The papers scream “Credit Crunch”,“Recession” and misery, Beer’s gone up, trials and tribulations. In the bottom of the parcel Nan’s placed warm socks, Kendal Mint Cake, a local paper. It’s snowing at home. Outside the…
Mark Dron
22nd May 2009