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.
Not to be or R2P,
So what’s the Dilemma?
when doing right
makes economies tremor.
When “Never Again”
is reasoned away,
no matter to those
who don’t have a say.
The panga and bomb
the fist and the gun,
reign over a song
too often heard sung.
The pen and the suit
the fine things of State,
the willing recruit
to the Profits of Hate.
The Corpses and Dust
left to rot and to blow,
in the Scales of The Just
like the Chaff that won’t Sow.
I visited the town of Račak in Kosovo shortly after the massacre which occurred there in 1999 when Albanians were executed by Serb Police Units. This action as many others in Kosovo heavily influenced the adoption of R2P by The UN General Assembly in 2005. Since that time it has been frequently disregarded, dismissed and manipulated by Council members acting in their own self-interest.
It is deep inside
at the back of the cave
where warmth never reaches
where the lick of the flame
is extinguished
by shadow
Something invisible
guards the black hollow
where eyes lose light
like a brain
behind thin skull
its fragile brilliance cowers and coils
It waits
for the unwitting word
that carelessly encroaches
with wickedness and abandon
it protects a lost library of hope
from where things could be rescued
Hostage to itself
such thoughts are not to speak
that they might bring light
to reveal the crooked frame
which only ever recoiled
at ideas which might set it free…
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.
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.