Flesh is commodity
guns universal
uniforms reversable
flags incontrovertible
Kimchi for Borscht
tank for a horse
fodder for force
mutual of course
Bodies for bags
medals perhaps
dictators relapse
generational gaps
Star for a Sickle
water for trickle
allegiance for fickle
too much for so Little
Blood for the soil
dollars for oil
horrors recoil
exploited for toil
Glory for States
closed borders for gates
freedom abates
oblivion awaits…
The Jag is in the driveway
behind the iron gates,
the home was christened “My-Way”
(he who loses hesitates)
All the frills are garish
from The Pillars to The Pool,
the gothic-faux nightmarish
its rendition most uncool.
The topiary is phallic
it’s freudiently flawed,
the colour palette so manic
passing psychopaths applaud.
A bronze eagle guards the doorway
it’s talons dipped in gold,
Munch’s art screams in the hallway
a fucking car-crash to behold.
A kaleidoscope of carnage
a tragedy of taste,
like a turd that can’t be varnished
or a Henry Moore defaced.
Their branches proud above the town
like men in rank, their feet in mud,
skyward facing they can’t look down
their roots fixed in this land of blood.
And onward, over fields and seas
men wrenched their hearts too far from home,
mere saplings who would not make trees
but from whose seed a nation’s grown.
Across the green, the cenotaph
its lonely stone, rain-soaked and grey
like bone strewn in the aftermath
of one more wasteful bloody day.
And still the poplars stoic stand
to weave their roots in ancient soil.
As did those who left their land
that we may live through their dark toil.
i
Millenia before divisions birth
sands shifted unconstrained,
seas un-parted caressed the earth,
no sacred path by men ordained.
ii
Lands unfolding, gods and kings
psalms and gospels, crescent and cross.
Twelve tribes rising, desert springs,
prophesying wealth and loss.
Borders burning, skies afire
blood and soil, words of hate.
Symbols raising tension higher,
revelation incarnate.
iii
Desolation, wastelands of peace
sea and land unconstrained,
for gods and kings all domains cease
the reckless path of men ordained.
The wreckage on the ocean floor
lies deep,
the treasure that it went there for
its murky world will keep…
as are the souls and truths
of those who dare to seek,
beyond the veiled lies of proof
too many others speak.
Above, the shallow sunbathers
bask in filtered light,
welcoming malignancy
they revel in The Blight…
they’ll all go down together
no matter what the cost,
they’ll just enjoy the weather
and “be damned” the Winter frost.
The Orange Groves in salty air
stand proudly squat, toward the Sea
the cultured roots that hold them there
unseen beneath each nurtured tree.
The blossomed fruit pristine with dew
raised up through rock, held firm by soil,
is testament to life anew
and those who gave with blood and toil.
Though the sky will fall and burn
and some may cling to cleft and shade,
it’s true that men will never learn
they cannot kill what love has made.
To live in the shadow of one’s self
is to never see new light,
reliance upon historic wealth
is the Kingdom of the trite.
To tread unknowing steered by will
is to chance new worlds to see,
the path of men should not be still
that all of man be free.
To speak of treachery one should know
that those betrayed
sometimes do sow…
the seed that takes to fertile soil,
polluting blooms
for future spoil.
The revelation of the fact
by gloating fools
unveils their act…
that they unknowing of their fate
expose their woven web
of hate.
Men, entrenched like ancient trees
whose branches mock their roots,
their trunks engorged with gnarled disease…
embittering their fruits.
The axe gleams brightly in The Sun
beyond the shaded edge,
where with one swing its work begun
it fells their broken pledge.
To cut and clear the rot away
of stock that’s grown too long,
where green shoots feel the light of day
and fledgelings find new song.
The morning mist conceals the birds,
yet still their lilting song
is heard.
I lay a while beneath my shroud
listening to the
warbling cloud.
The coffee cup drains itself
while topping up my
fickle health.
From radio’s reluctant news
blooms yesterday’s
emerging bruise…
to spread its spill like rancid oil
toward the day
as if to spoil…
the warming gift of light reborn,
like birdsong dulled by
muffled dawn.
Words emerged from alphabets
born of tongues the world forgets,
hieroglyphics from a wall
their echo sent to teach us all.
The documented “Rites of Spring”
the histories that they danced within,
so frantic that they lost all breath
their language spoke itself to death.
Yet here we stand at Babel’s Gate,
tongues still tied, is it too late?
to learn from lessons unobserved,
at last their treasured message heard.
The bus is double decked for fear
that those below might come too near,
and break the spell of motions peace
where trials and tribulations cease.
I float above the addled Streets
on clouds of ruined ragged seats,
I see the penned in office slaves
computer screens, like headstoned graves…
Traversing through this fashioned feast
I’m swallowed by some other beast,
a parasite of endless queue
that once used up becomes as spew…
And those behind will follow on
to pass on by where all have gone,
their work and toil will be forgot
if once they had, they shall have not.
The Street is one step from us all
we’ll meet it willing or we’ll fall,
trapped inside or passing through
to stay or leave, is up to you.
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…