The management of savagery

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There seems nothing more civilised than the management of savagery,
remote and air conditioned.
Once separated from its delivery by sail boats and oceans,
by wax seals and emissaries.

Now only satellites and microwaves disperse the shock waves.
Cobra delegates are traumatised in real time as targets fall,
their lattes cool as does their blood
but “Fair Trade” product keeps their conscience clear.

We on the other hand are tools of necessity,
clinically educated…cold as hollow points.
Through us their message flows like the bullet through the barrel,
the recoil never reaching back to them, is lodged in us.

Go-Pro Call of Duty whores, accountable only for our failures,
Justifying the absence of target acquisition.
So sorry that we failed to kill for our sleeping masters,
sorry that they wake to the news of survival not death.

And now with that memory, we cannot sleep or face our children,
I can’t vote without the bile rising from my gut.
That my mark for them permits them murder,
that my hands can never wash clean.

Yet they stand clear and free of my crimes,
they absolve themselves of my savagery
and look on me the savage,
that I be somehow dead yet still alive.

© Wlofgar 2019

Gently in the forest

Gently in the forest

Gently in the forest truths unfurl,
petals channel raindrops
fallen far above this world

Gently through the forest
we’ll venture you and I,
beneath the sheltered canopy
above the watchful sky,

Gently in the clearing
we’ll take some time to stare,
to pick a million starlights
and ponder what’s up there.

Gently on the pathways
I might teach you what I know,
that when I fall behind
you’ll know the way to go.

Gently in the forest
I’ll slowly fade to earth,
and hope our steps there taken
be some measure of my worth.

© Wolfgar 2019

Ivanovka (thoughts on Sergei Rachmaninoff)

Rach

Chords struck like bells,
within the straddle of a hand,
Ivanovka rang out to the stolen land.

Through Summers and peasant days
before The Great Silence,
the artist plays.

Though men without music crushed the soul
the melody remained,
and through decades of winters the refrain refrained.

It flowered in blooms that smother the cruel,
and love pushed on through..
it’s natures rule.

© Wolfgar 2019

It doesn’t make it alright

Good morning folks. A little follow up to my video posted the other day, I wanted to say that admitting to bad behaviour in itself does not “make it alright” it is not an apology in itself, that would be something else. Also it is risky being honest, people easily and sometimes purposely misinterpret things, In the latest rambling I said I stole my fathers car which could be understood to be I took it for multiple reasons. I borrowed it without asking never meaning to take it permenantly, technically not stealing but maybe TWOC for those who know what that is. Anyway, it’s out there now lol. I am posting this “Specials” song “It doesn’t make it alright” although the sentiment of the song is not exactly what I am referring to here, the tag line of the title applies. Admitting is not in itself enough, it might be the start of the right path. Anyway…it doesn’t make it alright folks.

Burning in and burning out

Burning in and burning out

A shard of light rifled through infinity to embrace a petalled bulb,
across echoless voids enough to tempt The Christ.

Waterless and unbound by pathways yet still it arrowed straight,
no curtained silence, no hiding place, with a single radiant intent.

And then dispersed it scattered to a million points of purpose,
toward Corners, Deserts and Oceans, subtracted, refracted then gone.

I’ll ride that shaft of eternity some day and be carried to illumination,
burning like a returning Son, to flicker out and fade to nothing.

Oh but what a journey to just see its very end.

https://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=90415

© Wolfgar 2019

Toward the Bliss

womansunsummer

And when I opened my eyes at last
when the fear had subsided
and my throat let me breathe

I saw your face and heard Angels Sing
God told me that I was God
and he was just a voice in my wilderness

He took my hand
and we walked into the Sun
and everything I knew just fell away

Toward the Bliss

© 2019 Wolfgar

The Librarian

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He sniffed at Miles Davis in his Pompous English way
but doffed his treasured cap to the tunes of Sid Bechet,
who himself was not a stranger to the pulling of a trigger,
though to one as mean as he was he’d have been a lowly “Nigger”

From High windows he could survey other lesser forms of life,
those toads and grubby proles mired in their strife.
In his literary palace alphabetically displayed
he would charge his poison chalice with words so cruelly made.

© Wolfgar 2019

Manuscript

The-Lovers-by-Rene-Magritte

She traced her poem on my skin
so when I breathe I breathe her in,
each touch a treasured silken word
too gentle to be overheard.

Upon my heart she wrote her book
on which no others eyes may look,
so now my life’s love story told
the pages close no more to fold.

© Wolfgar 2019

The Waves that Break

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An ice cliff wafer slips to the sea
it cracks with hellish thunder,
like natures dementia, knowledge melting away,
sliding ever under,

it flows to an ocean of forgotten things,
things unlearned, things unheeded,
receding before our human advance,  
yielding to us that which is needed.

While Adamah is Gaia’s and ever shall be,
she merely shifts her shape.
It’s you and I that drift through her Sea,
and we’ll be the waves that break.

© Wolfgar 2019

Jean’s hands

Jean's hands c.1980 by Don McCullin born 1935

Eight fingers interlocking
rest untrembling on Jean’s cold knees,
blackened in Whitechapel grime
steadied only by each other.


Torn and bloodied claw,
once pink and curled in beautiful birth
once reaching and clutching,
no hope to cling to now.


She folds them to her face 
tears trace lines that pool in scars,
hand’s which once picked Mother flowers
now crave the dampened soil.

© Wolfgar 2019

Bolton Abbey

Bolton Abbey

Nothing can be written of beauty
for serenity is silent.

Only cannon and drum
can pepper the page.

These hallowed places cleansed by blood,
their gift is peace.

Across history riders rode
Angel and Demon,

Tyrants sent emissary’s,
altars smashed and crosses burned

From darkest night
came the brighter day.

Through stoney ruins Sunlight floods
the blackest deeds are drowned,

tis only in wake of war
that peace in truth is found.

© Wolfgar 2019

Impact

point-of-impact-rosalie-scanlon

The face is broke against the wheel,
diamond shard peppered flesh.
Now bloody pulp, once squeezed to life
between thighs of painful birth,
between creation of hope and the damnation of men.

Lips as blue as Iceberg Oceans
cannot one single word now form,
not one goodbye, no gratitude nor regret,      
no moment remembered, 
nor one remaining to forget.

Yet some sweet Mothers final kiss will brush against its brow, 
a child’s unknowing memory
might reminisce somehow,
how once it held the world encompassed in a smile
before ever it was vacant before ever quite so vile.

© Wolfgar 2019

Fire gazing

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Shimmering under kindling embers glow with fiery promise,
stoked from lazy slumber they crackle into flame.
Beneath the hollow sky a fine white shroud descends,
vapour trails glide eastward as if searchlights of the Gods.

In moments so peaceful I hope the world sleeps on,
the Sun to lose its wings the waking bells to never ring,
while timber fills where once it stood with scented smoke the soul of wood,
to offer back unto the stars the source of all that’s never ours.

The source of all that’s never ours is eternity. 

© Wolfgar 2019

In the gentle fold of petals

dew in petals

Between the miracle of petals
form tears of diamond dew,
like the passing of grief they settle
and quench my thirst for you.

On a sideboard by a window
sad blooms toward the sun,
one earthly journey ended
one lonely walk begun.

But wilt as may, I’ll wilt away
and fall with withered time,
though never fades one single day
when your heart beat with mine.

© Wolfgar 2019

Hymn to hypocrisy

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Show me three gift-less paupers and a shrouded starless night
vacant rooms and fears allayed a Royal beauty shining bright
a crown of thorns unpicked of brambles and a covenant of rights
our truth is marching on

Give them all stamped passports with passage calm and free
give them life-preservers on a milky charted flat-top sea
give them shoes and food not fished from bins contamination free 
our truth is marching on

Sheath the terrible swift sword to fall un-blooded by your side 
and un-blind the blinded eyes for which the saviour worthless cried 
then crush the Serpents head tear out the fork with which he lied
our truth is marching on

For my eyes have seen the sadness in the coming of the hordes
who’s minds are scarred with madness only ignorance affords
as the hulking vessels smash their precious cargo on our shores
our truth is marching on

So
Glory glory hallelujah
Glory glory hallelujah
we erased your filthy names before we knew ya
our truth is marching on 

© Wolfgar 2018
    

Put the leaves back on the trees

leaves

Put the leaves back on the trees,
grow the skin across the bone,
dream the words onto the page,
this land is but a scar regrown.

Grow the skin across the bone, 
dream the words onto the page,
this land is but a scar regrown,
it feeds upon each bygone age.

Dream the words onto the page,
the ink is blood much bled before,
its flow you never will assuage,
its what our hearts keep beating for.

This land is but a scar regrown
each strata laid is ever new,
its timeless wound forgot, unknown,
new pores to let the blood bleed through.

So put the leaves back on the trees
give back with love what nature took,
our time we steal like hapless thieves
our lives mere chapters in a book.

© Wolfgar 2018