To speak of treachery one should know
that those betrayed
sometimes do sow…
the seed that takes to fertile soil,
polluting blooms
for future spoil.
The revelation of the fact
by gloating fools
unveils their act…
that they unknowing of their fate
expose their woven web
of hate.
Men, entrenched like ancient trees
whose branches mock their roots,
their trunks engorged with gnarled disease…
embittering their fruits.
The axe gleams brightly in The Sun
beyond the shaded edge,
where with one swing its work begun
it fells their broken pledge.
To cut and clear the rot away
of stock that’s grown too long,
where green shoots feel the light of day
and fledgelings find new song.
The morning mist conceals the birds,
yet still their lilting song
is heard.
I lay a while beneath my shroud
listening to the
warbling cloud.
The coffee cup drains itself
while topping up my
fickle health.
From radio’s reluctant news
blooms yesterday’s
emerging bruise…
to spread its spill like rancid oil
toward the day
as if to spoil…
the warming gift of light reborn,
like birdsong dulled by
muffled dawn.
Words emerged from alphabets
born of tongues the world forgets,
hieroglyphics from a wall
their echo sent to teach us all.
The documented “Rites of Spring”
the histories that they danced within,
so frantic that they lost all breath
their language spoke itself to death.
Yet here we stand at Babel’s Gate,
tongues still tied, is it too late?
to learn from lessons unobserved,
at last their treasured message heard.
The bus is double decked for fear
that those below might come too near,
and break the spell of motions peace
where trials and tribulations cease.
I float above the addled Streets
on clouds of ruined ragged seats,
I see the penned in office slaves
computer screens, like headstoned graves…
Traversing through this fashioned feast
I’m swallowed by some other beast,
a parasite of endless queue
that once used up becomes as spew…
And those behind will follow on
to pass on by where all have gone,
their work and toil will be forgot
if once they had, they shall have not.
The Street is one step from us all
we’ll meet it willing or we’ll fall,
trapped inside or passing through
to stay or leave, is up to you.
In the pit of me
my own epitome,
within which lies
the wasted grit of me.
From pearl to sand
the sea made land,
washed up and used
a gift abused.
The clam prised wide,
hollow inside,
pearlescent sheen
of what had been.
The jagged edge
remains to tell,
that trusted pledge
can be but shell.
Four Stations,
stumbling steps,
inspiration,
life’s precepts.
The hand of peace,
a step toward,
that distance cease
with loves reward.
Four Stations,
walking tall,
realisation,
breaks our fall.
Through perilous night
our journey’s wind,
yet we shed light
when we are kind.
There are several interpretations of “The Stations of The Cross” the maximum account of The Stations seems to be fourteen. There are four Stations within the journey which seem to me to reflect a point at which a kindness was shown to Christ and on one occasion a kindness possibly shown by him.
This piece centres upon kindness, its rewards and its importance on all our journey’s.
Although I am an atheist I do believe in the likelihood of the man “Jesus” I see no reason why even atheists cannot utilise scripture to learn life lessons.
I had originally entitled this “Fourteen Stations” but decided to focus on the four stations which demonstrate kindness.
Dreams slither away from me.
Beneath sheets of layered retreat
they rise as conjured wishes,
to fall like chances lost.
Memory seeks what eyes can’t see.
Invented glories the lies of conceit
history revised where hits were misses,
the balance outstanding, no matter the cost.
Sometimes like a cat poetry refuses to leave the tree,
we know it isn’t truly stuck, it’s up there being free.
Among the leaves and branches with jumbled words and winds
that make no sense to anyone unless the songbird sings…
sometimes soft and sometimes shrill it wisps the flailing breeze
to lift and craft within its will a moment sent to please.
All things of form have many parts like cogs that turn a wheel
as songs of birds lift many hearts that they again might feel.