Waking

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A stone in my Palm,
grass as soft as tail feathers,
trees that paint the sky
where sunbeams cup the bloom of flowers.

In these dreams your face smiles,
in folds of sleep I rest our memories
here the pain retreats to silence,
where tides defy the bone white Moon.

Though I know you are gone to nowhere,
unconscious selfish wanderings will not lasso you back.
Gravity awakens me to birdsong,
I curse the sweetest sounds of day.

© Wolfgar 2020

Plinth

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Not for a wilderness of monkeys
would I trade the shade of this green lung

that from once congealed and filthy foul
have all good creatures come

the canopy cut reveals the scar
the knotted roots of what we are

so better in the shadowed land
are we that in our knowing stand

beneath the blessings gone before
that we might count if nothing more

© Wolfgar 2020

Demob unhappy (An alternative VE Day)

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The garden is no more grown than was when left,
the Sea Spray of Portsmouth the Grime of Waterloo
Cling fresh beneath the reawakening memories of you.

Between the leaving and their return the world shifted
their brains rattled by battery and bomb,
Something replaced the life in them and something now is gone.

The surrender of innocence on English Summer evenings
was stolen by the rape of youth and a fleeting fuck of liberation,
Is a bottle of flat brown beer enough to drown their bitter indignation?

They must now retreat from the front they made themselves
to cower silently in their peaceful rage,
Returning to sweet freedoms won, inside a gilded cage.

© Wolfgar 2020

Frogs

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Phones squat like idle frogs on lily pad desks
screensavers roll impatient eyes so unimpressed
the cleaners missed the paper cups
where penicillin grows un-supped
the water coolers sulk forlorn
no whispered love no spat out scorn

When static has no hair to raise
it saves itself for future days
unseen in its electric shroud it wanders
lonely for the crowd
no hills or vales to float on by
pressed up beneath a white tiled sky

And those who parted from this place
the Exodus’d the chosen race
who once beyond the crippling cage
re-found themselves and turned a page
might they retain their hearts that sing
when once again the squat frogs ring


© Wolfgar 2020

The Forest at Night

The Forest at Night

Through the glade there shines a light
in shafts of fiery flare
and none who come to shelter
will find much solace there

The shaded track and hollow
are beacons to the few
who lead where others follow
to rest on natures pew

Yet when the fallen spearheads dull
and silver black returns
there settles in a peaceful lull
for which the Spirit yearns

No sound of voice or foot befalls
the blanket laid so fine
I walk the path that gently calls
to where the forest’s mine


© Wolfgar 2020

You never see the miracle that saves you

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Quietly and without attention nature turns
pushing itself toward sunlight from the darkest places

From the root to the flower each day a perfect miracle
yet not one that could make a Saint

but an every-day-taken-for-granted-kind-of miracle
trod down by those too busy in their moment

If time should halt Gaia would not pay heed
stepping past the unmarked days she would instinctively proceed,

In our stillness will we hear life louder or feel it stronger,
Might its never changing resonance change us?

Beyond this hectic place far from artificial light
The world beckons us out of silence.

Should we emerge unchanged our eyes still blind
Or might we be freed by a miracle we’ve missed?

© Wolfgar 2020

Safe Home

Safe Home

In the whiskied candlelight the night is still
not a single footstep falls for home
for all are home

The sky is full of emptiness
the foxes full of cunning doubt
and the quiet knows the storm will come

Yet now my pillowed head is calm
and tomorrow holds no fear
for all I love are safe and near

© Wolfgar 2020

Sirens

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A siren on a paper cup in swollen hands is offered up,
to shadows fleeting right and left that quickly pass the huddled cleft.

Now woken cold and cardboard wet the wretched refuse dawn begets,
shudder doglike, crouched and bent their yearning breath for freedom spent.

Between the pulse of city beats lay hopes deprived and incomplete,
Oedema swells their laboured flesh to blueing hues of emptiness.

While hurry home those who belong who pass and pass then soon are gone,
yet never see the vacant space where once there beamed a human face.

© Wolfgar 2020

Surge Sursus

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What better spurs a man
than words of what he can’t or can?

What turns his palm into a fist
from God’s good grace to Atheist?

The Godly War to make men follow,
then fill with hate what once was hollow.

They separate the State from Church
their Dollar Bill with fraud besmirched.

A promise borne to pay the bill
though Nations fail, indebted still.

The chambers raised with gold resplendent
mere hallowed relics now co-dependant.

So what better spurs the thoughtful man
than to crush such folly where e’re he can.

© Wolfgar 2020

Among the furrowed waves

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Under small sails from Itchenor she catches the tide,
in the middle the waves cut both ways. Holding course,

westerly away from the Steeple and the coastal path,
the beckoning Sea awaits.

On the headland a child sways quixotically
The Horizon turns and sinks beneath the day.

Speeding now, she feels the life-force pushing her out,
out and out and free from roots.

She lets it slip and skim until all is blue and sky,
Until no sound of home is heard.

Here the biting salt no longer stings the way it used to,
the way the cloudless tears still do,

Where home is anchored to a barren land,
adrift among these furrowed waves she stands

© Wolfgar 2020

Too much time to think (the terrors of your terror)

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Too much time to think
too much time to reflect,
That is the accusation levelled.

Much better
is the reflex action,
To act before the thought

Much better
the trigger finger,
no weighing up of options.

Survive or die
and fuck the why,
“Yeah, Fuck the why”,

Staring at the faces of people
determining their origins,
just shoot and give them peace.

Whilst you’re thinking
their bullet flies,
So kill your compassion and kill the wise.

Survive to see the errors,
The Terrors
of your terror

Heritage is for other generations
not for our deadened hearts,
Hang your battered shields on victories wall.

Stone stairways of cities
are built on civilisations strata,
Cascading flood waters will drown the poor.

The Dome on the Rock
is built on a shit pile of lies
and no-one knows what it’s really for.

The monied man turns his nose away,
from the guts spilling on his streets,
his shit smells so much sweeter,

his shit comes from purer things,
Vegan menus
not Chicken Wings.

Poor men still eat meat
and use fossil fuel,
They watch soap but never use it.

Their opium
is spoon fed and free,
and War Lords watch Netflix on TV

The War Lords are heroes
in series 1, 2, and 3
their victims applaud on bended knee.

The roaches are drowning
in pools of vegan piss,
yet do we ask who paid for this?

The credits roll
the WiFi kicks in,
the proles are reconnected

they leave the theatres
and head to the bars,
to drink their fill.

You’ve too much time to think,
was the accusation levelled..
and now the muzzle warms the mouth

Lennon and the NRA?
just pull the trigger to save the day.
Go on do it, blow the fucking world away

© Wolfgar 2020

After the storm

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Through prisms of Moroccan glass
rainbow colours shed,
white walls are brushed with pastels
the storm has passed, has bled.

The shutters still are shuttered,
the gutters blackened full,
the forecast lies un-uttered
the lunar tide still pulls.

The silence falling soft now
a breeze whispers to the calm,
the count is for the cost now
yet un-accounted goes the harm.

© Wolfgar 2020

Slum-flowers

Plate 4 of 'Visions of the Daughters of Albion' c.1795 by William Blake 1757-1827

Sprung deep between the cracks of the slabs in Peckham Rye
come the sprigs of empires children their old masters to defy.
Here where Blake saw angels where shepherds quenched a thirst,
the outcast and the stolen are reaching to be first.

From terraces and tower blocks confined as the unseen,
they soar with aspirations beyond their silent dreams.
Though Highwaymen of history defoliate the past,
their shoots will not be stunted as they forge upwardly at last.

English roses clipped and rootless look so pretty on the shelf,
Smooth stemmed, perfumed, useless, soul-less in their wealth.
Stronger grow the slum-flowers that climb toward the Sun
for abundant is the garden that is sown for everyone.

© Wolfgar 2020

Gin Lane

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That wretched beast upon the stairs
her child in freefall unaware.

Her tit un-suckled, withered, sags,
she pinching snuff among the lags.

In kettled pots the liquor swills
dispensed as slops by those it kills,

who smiling gasp then beg for more
while treading piss they drank before.

their inane grins on hollowed cheeks
betray the sins they cannot speak.

The barrow boys who fleece the corpse
upend the stiffs with no remorse,

where in the guttered waste they lie
their sated taste has drunk them dry.


© Wolfgar 2020

Carn Galva

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Here where winds blow unheard
Atlantic skies surrender hope,
Incomers sit in cars to stare at the Sea.

Out there on the waves no-one watches the Land
where ruins slowly crumble,
where walkers comb the wilding gorse.

The cyclops lighthouse pirouettes
it blinks where darkened time forgets,
some hidden scapes remain untouched.

Stone stacks idly finger the smokeless sky,
the air too rarified that men might work
where empty windowed homesteads die.

Signposts point to further places
beyond these scorched earth empty spaces,
here where people pass like clouds.


© Wolfgar 2020

The smugglers tunnel

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Bible black surrounds, wet walls and puddled floor
hunched with shoulders loaded full toward the seascape door.

Beneath the damp and smokey lanes that spiral through the town, 
the bloody aproned Butcher spies the Priest in priestly gown.

The gossips roam the stone lined streets between the ancient dwellings,
to breathe a swarm of whispers embellished with each telling.

But where the tunnel beckons toward the foamy sea,
the pebbled beach in solitude lays waiting just for me.

And I with burdened memories cast my secrets to the waves,
and pray they are forgotten like dead men in their graves.

© Wolfgar 2020

 

The agoraphobic misanthrope

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It is vacuum that nature abhors
it turns god fearing girls into immaculate whores

at three in the afternoon my sheets are well soiled
the TV is shot and the action recoiled

the gun in my mouth replaces a cock
my hands like a prayer embracing the stock

my brains on the wall in the cool evening light
I’m a coward you see but somehow it’s right

Happy Christmas folks, replace with “holidays” for those wishing inclusivity.

© Wolfgar 2019

The viewing room

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The frame that holds this pane in place
once engineered our human race
this glass that I now view you through
once drifting grains of golden hue

This hollow cage now stripped of beat
was e’re before you incomplete
enough that after once we met
no mortal moment I’ll forget


© Wolfgar 2019