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

original

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

GinLane

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

She’s a lot like you

Strenitz, Kathe, b.1923; Camden Town, Regent's Canal

Retreating along the fretboard
beneath a parapet of microphones she takes her shelter.

A single pigeon, She’s a lot like you,
She’s a lot like you.

Her silent language speaks of a landscape,
just hidden out of view.

And moving slowly she takes her pathways
as earthbound travellers do

But if you listen so very closely
you’ll feel her thoughts come through

She’s on the pavement beyond the railings
and she’s a lot like you.


©Wolfgar 2019

Inspired by Aldous Harding with gratitude to Sir Paul McCartney

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

Weltschmerz

Welt

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

November

November

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

Poetry people

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The meeter and greeter
whose patter gets sweeter
whilst extending a sheltering arm,
to the nubile doe-eyed self incompleter
he’s like daddy minus the charm.

The halfwitted trojan horse clown
scribbles recklessly getting it down,
and though the words in his head
have already been said
he’s convinced he’s the new Ezra Pound.

The political ranters
finger their chanters
while reeling the dancers a tune,
the revellers will tap and skip to their crap
as if tides to a dictating moon.

The front line reporter the dutiful scribe
no opinion his own behind others he’ll hide,
he’ll travel the length and breadth of the land
making notes on events
he can’t understand.

The crab like page crawler
safe under his rock
awaiting the low hanging fruit,
skitters cross pages in clumsy veiled rages
his default much less than astute.

The cast out outsider
scrawls drunkenly silent
his passivity strangled, choked into violence,
he’s lost all his rhythm he’s radicalised
Joyfully driven to be so despised.

© Wolfgar 2019

I see the changes

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Fly Amanita’s are tempting the Cedars,
their red-bonnets beckon like poisoned Sonnets.

Chestnuts crackle underfoot
a smoking pyre refuses to flame,
stoked and stacked the leaves stay put
their golden death embalmed by rain.

My footsteps follow on Autumns path
though somehow it is I in shadow,
there is poison and there is life renewed
with every step inspired, imbued.


© Wolfgar 2019