Cathedral eaves

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In the eaves of this ancient place
nestled in what once grew free

a feathered ball of gods good grace
its eyes plucked out no longer see

and further up toward the nave
sweet Jesus bleeds for you and me

a crown of thorns which Jokers gave
though fashioned from some crueller tree

and here below we raise our eyes
still sighted clear though not as wise

as those now passed and gone before
who closed them dead beyond this door

so what is clearer to be seen
What is to come or what has been?

© Wolfgar 2020

Perennial

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A flower now so open toward The Sun,
unshielded from harm in fleeting perfection

knows not the seed from which it was begun
nor fears the darkening skies that prophesy rejection.

We see that undue power in the faces of the young
who with momentary glory believe it is forever won,

then with that memory captured we hold it close a while
and like a bloom toward the Sun we raise our heads to smile.

© Wolfgar 2020

Rural Rides (The Bird Scarer)

'Bridscaring' by Sir George Clausen

Beneath horse hair flax a wretched creature stirs,
off the well marched blood stained tracks
beyond the bawdy ale soaked house,
The Scarer wakes with field mouse.

The dust of bones that fell in France
was scattered here to bring advance
to farmers field and heavy plough,
The Dead are churned to feed us now.

A soldiers bastard boy who no Mother ever mourns
another blasted Cannon, another Empire Dawn,
his clapper claps to scare the birds
Each clattered beat drowns out his words.

Across these patchwork Jaded Hills
an echo gently whispers still,
of all the voices never heard
Drowned out by time to scare a bird.


© Wolfgar 2020

Bootleg Beatnik

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Molly’s in the basement
underneath the cement,
I’m on the pavement
thinking about enslavement,
the man with a rope
hammer out, furloughed
says he wants his job back
coughing through a dry hack,
watch out kid
it’s not something you did,
but they’ll be laying you the blame
when they’re doing it again,
you better duck behind the firewall
get yourself a clean name
trade in all your currency
Beat the enemy with a new game.

Get tested, get free
Car Parks now the Surgery,
wait weeks, wait years
Government still grinding gears,
well read, well schooled,
educated, well fooled,
watch out kids don’t fall for it again
they’ll clap you through the Streets
while they obliterate your names
cross here, cross there,
putting crosses everywhere,
no peace, no truth,
all their lies are people-proof,
pick up cleaver, pick up gun,
tear down the rising of their Sun,
wear shades, wear masks,
No answers for that politely asked.


© Wolfgar 2020

Constructing an exit

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Everything in its precise place

this house feels like a guilty plea
just waiting for a hammer to fall

we shall be taken from here to a place of isolation
suspended in time by a perfectly woven noose of self destruction

All our misdemeanours shall bear witness
in a parade of failure and pitiful bitterness

An internet search will throw up the number
116 123,

“The Book of Job”
too late now the bended Knee

Farewell then it must be, it must be,
death the pendulum that turns the cogs

though even our passing
Won’t stop the clocks.

© Wolfgar 2020

Waking

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A stone in my Palm,
grass as soft as tail feathers,
trees that paint the sky
where sunbeams cup the bloom of flowers.

In these dreams your face smiles,
in folds of sleep I rest our memories
here the pain retreats to silence,
where tides defy the bone white Moon.

Though I know you are gone to nowhere,
unconscious selfish wanderings will not lasso you back.
Gravity awakens me to birdsong,
I curse the sweetest sounds of day.

© Wolfgar 2020

Plinth

1isisarch

Not for a wilderness of monkeys
would I trade the shade of this green lung

that from once congealed and filthy foul
have all good creatures come

the canopy cut reveals the scar
the knotted roots of what we are

so better in the shadowed land
are we that in our knowing stand

beneath the blessings gone before
that we might count if nothing more

© Wolfgar 2020

Frogs

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Phones squat like idle frogs on lily pad desks
screensavers roll impatient eyes so unimpressed
the cleaners missed the paper cups
where penicillin grows un-supped
the water coolers sulk forlorn
no whispered love no spat out scorn

When static has no hair to raise
it saves itself for future days
unseen in its electric shroud it wanders
lonely for the crowd
no hills or vales to float on by
pressed up beneath a white tiled sky

And those who parted from this place
the Exodus’d the chosen race
who once beyond the crippling cage
re-found themselves and turned a page
might they retain their hearts that sing
when once again the squat frogs ring


© Wolfgar 2020

The Forest at Night

The Forest at Night

Through the glade there shines a light
in shafts of fiery flare
and none who come to shelter
will find much solace there

The shaded track and hollow
are beacons to the few
who lead where others follow
to rest on natures pew

Yet when the fallen spearheads dull
and silver black returns
there settles in a peaceful lull
for which the Spirit yearns

No sound of voice or foot befalls
the blanket laid so fine
I walk the path that gently calls
to where the forest’s mine


© Wolfgar 2020

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

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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