The Sunshine of My Life

was

cancer neath the Surgeon’s Knife

 

The Calm that Lulled My Restless Mind

was

storm cloud of some Other Kind

 

The Pennies on My Shuttered Eyes

are

answers to My Living Whys

 

The Tears that Fall When I am Gone

will

not absolve me of My Wrong

 

The Words I’ve Penned with Flippant Hand

will

shift and drift like Worthless Sand

 

Grieve not the age that slipped through me

grieve

all of time I Shall Not See…

 

When I was young and only knew

of love as pure as morning dew,

I fixed upon a Scottish sky

with clear untainted childish eye…

 

and wondered what might lie beyond

to hold my heart and mind so fond,

that I could leave such sheltered home

and without want so idly roam.

 

Now I am old I’ve come to know

of love that stays wherever I go,

that see’s beyond the earthly veil

where right and all that’s good prevail…

 

and though the shadows dark and long

reach out to me from where I’ve gone,

I stand amidst unfailing light

a man blessed with a child’s sight.

 

 

I am of fighting age

though all I’ve ever done is run

 

They put me in this cushioned cage

and tarred me with what others done

 

I’m the apple of my father’s eye

though here I’m stranger fruit

 

They say that we should leave or die

although they say their Police don’t shoot

 

I am a child alone and scared

though women here have sheltered me

 

They say it’s not for them to care

if all my family died at Sea

 

I am a father bereft of all

though none believe my wretched tongue

 

They say my prayer is Jihad’s call

though I care not for what they have done

 

I am a human frail and lost

marooned among a hail of hate

 

They say my life is worth no cost

As I beg for mercy at their gate

 

I am dependent upon their gift

to treat me as they will

 

That by some grace their hearts they’ll lift

that all our hate should calm and still…

 

 

 

Farhad fucked his Brothers wife

and with that act also his life.

He ran at first to Gulbahar

though Gulbahar was not so far…

 

from where a pledge of bond was made

that honour with their lives be paid,

by those who with their blood were bound

and shared with him dishonoured ground.

 

Wawrina burdened by her fate

succumbed to rocks at Jahannam’s gate.

His brother’s righteous wrath was swift

to pay in full their devout gift.

 

No winners here for love nor lust

what God demands his children must…

now only emptiness expands

when zealous words empowered hands.

 

 

I’ve written a couple of poems recently which seem a little repellent in nature. I did write this initially using the word “Coveted” in place of the profanity, it just didn’t work so I swapped it back. I’m not keen on gratuitous bad language but occasionally it just sits better in the rhythm of things.

 

I had an incident of this occur on a project I was on…initially at the time because the guy who fled was an Afghan driver we had to cancel our missions for the day as we believed him to have been kidnapped by Taliban and consequently a security risk, turned out he was just a bad dude who fatally dishonoured his family.

 

That aside the final two lines could apply to some of the rhetoric currently being banded around on these Isles. I have also been giving that some thought.

 

 

 

Kransky took one in the head

his smile blown from his face,

the olive grove now green and red

Hail, Mary, full of grace.

 

The Warrior Poets pitch their pens

from Gijon, west to Alcazar,

convictions morphed from remember when’s

“El Corazon’s” know who they are

 

The heart and head are in the fight

torn between what gives them life,

The darkness of the coming night

a dagger or a surgeon’s knife?

 

From here, the edge of glooming war

we trudge the path that stretches back,

uncertain what it led here for

or how we judge its aftermath.

 

O’Malley caught a flying drone

his torso split in two,

the wheat fields fertilized with bone

God, forgive, the things we do. 

 

 

England now is stretched too thin

twixt

Birdsong and where throng begin

 

The thicket and the wooded edge

retreat

as does the honoured pledge

 

Now where two worlds existed clear

jaded

shades of life appear

 

Diminished of their rich appeal

devoured

by destructive zeal

 

Each precious field each sacred stone

buried

like a flesh stripped bone

 

And though it’s true all things will fade

observance

of what’s passed be paid

 

That should these landscapes disappear

our silenced

voices still they’ll hear

 

I write this scrawl in the knowledge that the UK has a housing problem and that people require places to live. In all things there must be balance, that said I have little time for NIMBY’s.

 

Women, Children, Ice cream, Balloons,

excitement, enticement, sonic booms…

 

Shattered Streets limb festooned,

righteous entitlement, lives marooned.

 

SSAFA, Poppies, Medals, Flags,

Hot Dogs, Slushies, Corporate bags…

 

Red Cross, Crescent, ID Tags,

No Parent Present, Body Bags.

 

Smiles, Cheering, Pride and Joy,

Roaring Engines, Replica Toy…

 

Crying, Screaming, Girl and Boy,

Crumbled Ruins, Lives Destroyed.

 

Contracts Signed, Agreements Made,

Champagne Taken, Anthems Played…

 

Pits Deep Dug, a Grim Parade,

No Graveside Hug no Love Displayed.

 

Airshow, No-Show, Mass Murder Sale,

Our Bloody hands Beyond the Pale…

 

Bombed out Cities, Dollar Shrines,

The Mausoleum’s of our time.

 

https://videopress.com/v/1a2196wv?resizeToParent=true&cover=true&preloadContent=metadata&useAverageColor=true

 

All along the railed paths from Regents Park to Notting Hill,

we feel the gaze of those long passed whose sightless eyes are on us

Still.

 

Through the Parks of Royal note St James up to Marble Arch,

we tread the lawns as lowly folk and take our pause as Soldiers

March. 

 

Beneath broad streets unpaved of gold from Camden Town to Bethnal Green,

we transit on an iron road laid down by toil that went

Unseen.   

 

By Highways, Byways, Cart or foot beneath the tunnelled turf and sky,

there is no step was ever put that fell assured nor questioned

Why.    

 

Caterpillar on a stone beach wall

its concertinaed wavy crawl,

did hypnotised a boy so small

that breeze snuffed out his Mothers call.

 

Another hand had taken his

as in the jar the insect sits,

two tiny lives broke into bits

as Seagulls screeched the ages tripped.

 

Caterpillar on a stone beach wall

that never found its wings at all,

but like the child was stole away

too far from where sweet children play.

 

Words were once no more than shapes

like humans formed from lowly apes,

who dragged their violent knuckles down

yet rose to Coronate a Crown.

 

Beneath such weight the mind succumbs

with pummelling fists its reason numbed,

from apes to men cruel jungles rise

to build fine cages full of lies…

 

bejewelled and vast with gold adorned

the “Uneasy Head” lies severed, scorned…

by blade and greed evolved through time

this incarnation, our gravest crime.

 

 

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown”

 

There is no specificity intended in these lines regarding any particular seat of power. The observation is toward the corruptible nature of power itself.  

 

 

Words fall into dreams like waterfalls

at precipice, where flat earth fools

congregate in village halls

and ponder how to subvert schools

with grappling hooks cross playground walls.

 

It’s just a dream with raining words

no sense required in slumbered peace,

in forests where trees fall unheard

and kingdoms end yet never cease…

a rainbow’d storm of tumbling words.

 

To wake to jumbled alphabets like children’s

bricks beneath your feet,

where days begin lest you forget

your scattered consciousness incomplete,

then try to build a wall with them

that somehow has those two worlds meet.

 

Awake is just a dream reversed, turned

inside out and back to front

a replay of the unrehearsed you thought

you knew and didn’t want…but somehow

you could not resist so placed yourself

beneath its font.

 

The house stands quiet behind its useless walls,

as if a wedding cake cut but not devoured.

Discarded tools and children’s toys, the crumbs of life.

Inside, a stagnant calm of dust breathes for no-one.

 

Patches of earth curled with weeds.

The scratchings of beasts consumed by men

score the kill pen floor. Men who ate with fingers

greased with blood and vengeful minds.

 

Veiled women’s screams linger in the stairway,

muffled detonations absorb their sobs.

Imagine the swirl of air, the cordite stench

the settling of the coming silence, until now.

 

Images that ripple out beyond this frame,

across the jagged mountains and ever-changing seas.

Within this place peace has come…

its displaced rage beats in younger hearts.

 

Chalk and flint the Saintly path

that wends its tranquil peaceful way,

its steepled skies belie the wrath

that split the clouds on darker days.

 

The refuge of the oaken pew

the coolness of the sacred stone,

that drew the workers, poor and few

to ask they give all they had known.

 

With barley grain and nurtured lamb

on harvest thanks the faithful came,

as humble as only humble can

they laid their toil in Jesus’ name.

 

And now the marbled gentry lie

entombed and marked for all to see,

beneath the spires of Hampshire sky

as common man lies neath the tree.

 

Buried in her wedding dress

the tomb a ruin now,

cracked open is what once was blessed

where dogs and vermin prowl.

 

On fertile steps of Grove and Vine

where boots so cruelly stamped,

once yours, now theirs’s, that once was mine,

too many tribes encamped.

 

But hearts and minds don’t document

with paper, pen and deed,

what’s taken, forced, was never lent

it’s blood that bears the seed…

 

and blood that flows finds fertile earth

to grow its tender roots,

where shoots and saplings nurture worth

to crush the stamping boots…

 

that smashed the graves and raised the rats

where fruit and families grew,

that they in turn one day perhaps

return to lands they knew.

 

 

Whilst in The Lebanon in 1996 I was on a rural walk in the hills above Beirut in a place called Abey. Throughout history, as one might imagine the land had been conquered, occupied, retaken and re-settled on many occasions. There are ancient and relatively new burial sites across the region. Some so recent that the damage could be interpreted as desecration.

 

Whilst on the ramble accompanied by several of my colleagues and our trusted protective hounds I came across (or rather our dogs led me to) a fractures tomb in which I saw the skeletal remains of a woman apparently buried in her wedding dress. The dogs were obviously keen to get inside the tomb and I moved them away.

 

That image has stayed with me all these years and I have often thought about who the people were who had lived it that then deserted spot prior to their displacement.

 

That personal memory can be multiplied to thousands who have witnessed displacement first hand. I cannot imagine fully how they must feel. Such events have been visited upon many communities in that region…the cycle of revenge and resentment is forecast to endure for many years unless someone has the courage to simply stop.

 

I hear the things that go unsaid

that slip between the words,

the spaces where you think perhaps

your silence goes unheard.

 

I hear the things your voice betrays

that crack when horror speaks,

the cough you make you think perhaps

belies you’ve dived too deep.

 

I see the things you can’t relate

that dead look in your eye,

the moments when you think perhaps

your damage slips on by.

 

I see the things you can’t control

the tremor in your hand,

the steadying grip you think perhaps

displays you have command.

 

I feel the things at which you flinch

the things that bring you fear,

the involuntary twitch you think perhaps

too slight to be too clear.

 

I feel the things that give you pain

the turning of your face,

the lowered head you think perhaps

removes you from that place.

 

Of all the things I feel for you

the greatest one is love,

the scars you hide I see right through,

your healing is enough

 

The backbone of this giving Isle

from marshy fen to firth of forth,

has soured the face of many a smile

beneath the crown that ventured north.

 

Then Westward too, the Kingdom torn

across a Wilding Sea,

its Children poor, to paupers born

that bore the likes of you and me.

 

With baubles traded, power for land

The Lords abused their folk the same,

to sit opposed yet hand in hand

a Kingdom still by other name.

 

Yet here we sit behind the spine

that bears our history’s weight,

though all within is yours and mine

we are sold out at discount rate.

 

Should we seek beyond our view

with open arms to near and far?

what inward turns does inward harm

the sum of all we truly are.

 

I’m in the shallows now

the deep has stepped up to its shelf.

My feet firm in the silky sand

at the altar of this eroding land.

 

In the transition of silt and wash

a baptism of emergence plays-out.

The salty brine for peppered air,

where pollutants vie for surface share.

 

Where can I be cleansed

that I am not the host of dirt?

The Creator and The Parasite

a vehicle of entropic blight.

 

Between two worlds one world converged,

the Venn became a single sphere.

Withdrawn, diminished, bloated, full,

withered between two poles that pull. 

 

 

Scratch at the night,

the irritation of darkness has you at its mercy.

 

Scratch At the night,

the visions are advancing down mirrored corridors.

 

The rash of the Sun will return

to flake its hours upon your open wounds.

 

The rash of the Sun will climb high

to pour your memories back into you…

 

 

A Sea Loch Graveyard walled and gated

hues of purple peated earth,

the stones stand stoic, weather dated,

washed up from their briny birth.

 

Some names unknown “A Sailor” lies,

in silence resting side by side.

Adrift they came from distant skies

as tears that fell, though never cried.

 

On other shores long lives lived out

to wonder at what might have been,

had warships turned their hulls about

and left these barren hills unseen.

 

And here they stay to linger long

their bones and dust remembered well,

though this is not where they belong

they are embraced as those who fell.