When Nothing is news – News is nothing

White Phosphorus Barbecues
Burn Bone Deep against Azure Blues.
When Nothing is news

In the Belly of A Whale
Fester The Remnants of last January’s Sale.
When Nothing is news

In the back of A Truck
39 Futures come Unstuck.
When Nothing is news

In The Palaces of Kings
Likes and Tweets are Trumpeted by Thumbs and Pings.
When Nothing is news

In Civil Society
The Bar-Room Chatter is of Impropriety.
When Nothing is news

In A Students Room
The Book of Life Closes too Soon,
When Nothing is news.

In The Stairwells of High-Rises
Steel Blades Stab with no Surprises.
When Nothing is news

In The Unreachable Corners of A Mind
Rot The Don’t Give a Fucks of The Blissfully Blind.

When Nothing is news

© Wolfgar 2019



Dissolve apathy in The Seven Seas,
Terraform the Planet put re-Creation in the Breeze.

Apply lotion to The Plants and Trees,
Rehydrate The Glaciers and halt The Desert please.

Discuss in open forum the conflict of all Beasts,
That none be less or more than them, let exploitation cease.

Serenade our Group Psychosis and Soothe Delusions Pain,
that we awake to realise the place from which we came.

©Wolfgar 2019



The mind that strums pure chords from trees
that sets them tumbling on a breeze,
or plucks the seasons fresh from frets
to paint sweet tunes of no regrets,

is seldom seen in winter fields
where sunlights giving warmth oft yields,
where barren turns the empty soil
where springtime chutes wither and spoil.

Yet in such bleak and darkened days
somewhere the Summer Skylark plays,
and in echoes from the seasons gone
we hear our futures hopeful song,

then in reprise our souls unfold
to make us young, to feel less old,
and though a year has once more turned
there is less forgot than to be learned.

© Wolfgar 2019

Airport Circle Kabul

beggar kabul

Viewing the world through Inch thick glass,
the traffic chokes to a halt.
A veiled shadow holds a face to the window.

Its gaze encrusted with disappointment
eyes as pale as a moonlit desert,
We stare at each other from our different worlds

I silently mouth sorry
whilst thumbing my passports pages,
The Child Spirit sees me whole.

Frozen for the longest moment
in a humming steel cocoon,
I watch the wagons circle, vulturesque.

A hand-print is smeared on the window
I touch it before walking to the terminal,
less than the span of my palm or the fold of a Dollar bill.

Ascending through dust and cloud I curse the City,
Roads spinning out from the Circle below, the people are no longer real.
The Dubai lounge is first class cool just my Duty free and me.

© Wolfgar 2019