Beyond The Blinding Light

 

For all The Sun these Trees have took,

The Forest floor in Dappled Shade

has Nurtured Thought from Mind to Book

and with that Seed a Woodland made.

 

Though Sunbeams Shed their Rays Unbent

it’s in The Shade Beyond the Glare,

Where Lies a Subtle Truth Unspent

that we might Capture Hidden There

 

So, Stare not Blind Toward the Light

keep Measured Gaze at All Around,

for Sunlight Shows not all of Plight

Nor cares that it is Ever Found.

 

Cloistered

In a cloistered courtyard

of mosaic, tree and font

where bees and scholars long sparred

though not by way of want

 

The echoes of their learning

reverberate through time,

as if shadows slow returning

to close the circle of a rhyme

 

Their learning slipped like seasons

through the orbit of an age,

its lofty purposed reasons

were but theories in a cage…

 

the keys to which have rusted

and too long now lost their turn,

by those who were entrusted

that those who follow, learn.

 

Empty sky, no window.

The Sun frames the curtain

At the edge of the day

Its offering uncertain

In the usual way…

But the curtain was blown

From the space it revealed

and what once was unknown

is no longer concealed

The woken are reeling

from the light they have seen

their frayed edges feeling

their numbed senses keen

The Moonlight is haunting

at the end of the day

Its shadows cruel taunting

In the usual way…

In the library of needless regret

 

Daffodils puked lava trails

Where sunlit spears melted nails,

Wanderings no more alone

Lonely clouds remained at home.

 

Poets of Apocalypse swapped

honeydew for pints of piss,

their easy silence spread infection

neutralised for mass protection.

 

Truth was not a casualty

its absence served to set them free,

to write of what was truly seen

might have saved what might have been.

 

But here among these sacred shelves

are books with words that they themselves

foresaw the crimes of their neglect,

which for our sakes they duly kept.

 

Disinterred

 

The Body is the property of The State

in a cold room

in a drawer

 

The owner is the property of no-one

disappeared

yet still here

 

The drag marks in the snow

are covered

and will go

 

Arrogance wears a suit and smile

but only for

a little while

 

Flowers strewn, arrests are made

blooms in the gutter

A Fascist parade

 

The State is the property of The Body

and the Body

Submits to Nobody

 

 

Stoic roots beneath the soil

see not the blooms of selfless toil.

 

Open hearts unbound of angst

know not of those deserving thanks.

 

Entombed or free in worlds apart

extremes are where our journey’s start.

 

Yet, cast between polarities

the only bones we know are these.

 

 

 

The Sniper died at home

clutching his stuttering chest,

the wind was westerly

his vision not the best.

 

Used to be he’d slow the beat

tunnel down his broader view,

the crosshairs steady, resting neat

then squeeze the trigger gently through.

 

He clawed and clutched his ragged dog

no words escaped his gaping mouth,

her paws still clogged with peaty bog

the finest of The County Louth.

 

He didn’t spin or pirouette

no exit wound to stain the ground,

one final moment of regret?

no proof of it was ever found.

 

His macabre pin-ballesque demise

unnoticed in a border town.

While The Master Sniper of the Skies

breathed in and laid his rifle down.

 

 

In a curly burrow

of branches, leaves and soil,

she noses through her furrow

a channelled tube of toil.

 

Of prickled spine and twitching snout

a miner seldom seen,

she nestles low when we’re about

to hide where she has been.

 

She’ll take the worm or tumbled egg

her furtive hunt is opportune,

too secretive to bravely beg

she shuns the Sun and favours Moon.

 

And as below then so above

inverted worlds in different skin,

where those alone forage for love

Not knowing where it might begin.

 

 

There lives in me some other man

A core and soul, my chrysalis

He knows me like no other can

And claims my every thought as his.

 

He fills my waking hours with dread

I know he’s in there lurking low,

He dances Skull-like in my head

to plat my dreams like needled thread.

 

I see his hands move quick and sure

on tools that craft the art of war

his eyes are clear his target pure

he’s never questioned why before.

 

I try and try to push him down

where I no longer see nor hear,

Yet still he shrouds me with his gown

to use me as his tool of fear.

 

I twist and tear my inner self

to break his grip, his strength of will,

he gorges on my mental health

and knows to live that I will kill.

 

And when I’m gone, he won’t desist

his hunger knows the blackest hell,

from where he’ll make some other his

and through that soul impose his spell. 

 

 

What’s a town without a Bookshop?

 

With its

Pubs

Its Churches,

One Stop

Mental Health

Shop.

 

Its Hotel’d refugees,

Its Iceland

Buy One

Then

Piss Off

Please.

 

Don’t crowd the door

with your Dog,

It’s not your floor

your bed,

your

Bog.

 

A Thousand stories

On the street

their book deals

scoffed at incomplete,

turn the page

repeat, repeat

 

What’s a town without a Bookshop?

 

Its heart

Its hope

Its gots and not gots

Its noose tied Rope.

Outcast people passing on

Turn the page, they’re gone

Just gone.

 

 

 

Sacred places,

Thankful candles.

In private spaces,

Thoughts entangle.

 

Lamenting faces,

Steadfast flames,

Loving traces

Of Cherished names.

 

The Bugle

and the lowered Flag,

Grateful thanks

For good times had.

 

The last Fall Out

From life’s Parade

No shameful rout

A good part played.

 

 

Some Morning Tides Refuse to Turn

Birds Sing on till Eight Bells Ring,

Kings Sleep Fast while Kingdoms Burn

And Those Who Do, Just Do Nothing.

 

Yet still we See Beyond the Stall

To know that Time Unfolds Our Fate,

Its Ceaseless Hand to Sweep Us All

Ne’er once Too Soon and Ne’er Too Late.  

 

 

I’m Sorry

for My Melancholy

Truth might be

I’m off My Trolly

 

I need a Wave

To Wash me Clean

Flushed through My Cave

To Intervene

 

The Petroglyphs

Remain The Same

Forever Howling

In My Brain

 

To

Doff or Not Doff                ?

Scoff or Not Scoff

 

For

Fact or Fiction                    ?

Submission or Friction

 

Be

Sincere Not Token

Fixed Not Broken

 

For

Sharing or Self                    ?

Fairness or Wealth

 

To

Engage Not Preach             ?

Listen Not Speak

 

To

Learn or Shrink                  ?

Fester or Think

 

Be

Lover Not Hater

Now Not Later

 

With

Hand or Fist                       ?

Punched or Kissed

 

Be

Poet Not Punter

Protector Not Hunter

 

With

Action Not Ticks                ?

Reality Not Tricks

 

In

All things be true

That others know you.

 

 

A Derek Bentley

level entry,

to a list that’s

elementary.

 

The Carriage missed

is Parliamentary,

Case dismissed

from The Sedentary.

 

The Mother of Justice

Bleeds to Death,

Her Blindfold slips

to Staunch her Breath.

 

A Greater Injustice

every year,

makes the last one

disappear.

 

From Blood to Bombs

and Gay to Straight

they shield their wrongs,

Procrastinate!

 

Beware the Whig that favours Wealth

to sneers upon the Just,

If none but we defend our Health

Then by all means we surely Must.

 

 

Abbreviate

the things you

Hate

 

Intensify

what makes you

Cry

 

Dilute

in you the

Resolute

 

Exaggerate

what formed your

fate

 

Obscure

the filters that make

Pure

 

Redact

all words revealing

fact

 

Exalt

what brings your best

result

 

Disclaim

all notions of your

blame

 

If all this fails, just change your name…

 

 

Like an Ice Spear murder

Unconformity dissolves,

The Chasm of time

Remains unresolved.

 

The Victim is clean immaculate

no footprint marks the scene,

Zealots and Scribes disconsolate

As if we had never been.