Heels striking the cold stone In the open arms of day Slip into visions of Crackling glass that Explodes into sparks in The depth of night, One figure intertwined in The closed embrace of darkness With only an occasional silhouette Illuminated by the coy glare of streetlamps - Tears of joy streaming down A faceless head.
Desert-starved mouths thirst for The sounds of wordless hymns sung, Dying on stale air, Crashing on walls of sandstone silence That reverberate into wordless, then Screaming glossolalic rhythms Fed by drought-wrought sermons, Carrying a promise of water.
I yip and yap, Yet brood all day, And look for stupid Things to say. I spy and glare And mutter too, To find a little Thing to do. I do not help, Just sit and judge And when they call I do not budge. But when I need A spot of aid That’s when I see My groundwork laid - They sit and laugh And roll their eyes And rebut all My earlier lies They shrug and sigh And tut and groan For when I ask - They all just moan! And last I see The fruit I raised The rotten core – All friendships razed. For now they see My colours true – Oh dear God, What to do?
It’s like a meandering path – A constant wax and wane. One day this blazing sun will laugh, The next will shower pain. Where soil is seeded For want to grow Nurture is needed Yet droughts are woe. You sing it song and music too And books a-plenty – Your job to do. Yet life won’t grow Without a pair Who, stooping low Lay joys to bare And share their glee, Their smiles so coy As they see This life – enjoy! A sapling lies amongst the grass And for their part, they do not pass A thought or worry, no shred of doubt For all the things that come about. A drought-called sun that beat-eth down The storm-clad clouds, their foreign frown, Or winds that shear and shred and tear And bring some misery, lay it bare. No length of labour, or strength of will Can ward this evil, deadly ill That destiny can lay-eth bare – To survive such storms, now that’s just rare! So ponder this and ponder loud But don’t you dwell on every cloud For most don’t bring a threat of rain Embrace the toil, don’t fear some pain. And for your part, remember this That not all farming delivers bliss, Or bounty, crop, just withered leaf – Such is life, quite the thief. When you recall the sound of storm Move to that which yet is warm – The laughter, love and time well-shared And that for which you once yet cared.
Sitting in this garden I wonder each day anew, In this world of anguish The human thing to do. On Monday morn I’ve shops to tour, My cooking to pursue But I see people steal and think of The human thing to do. I see their bones quite plainly, Their eyes and sunken cheeks, Their hands can move quite deftly, Avoiding any peeks. My shopping is all done now, I wait outside to see The shop-keep come a-chasing – That could have well been me! I shout and motion over, The kids now out of sight And give him a few pounds now – It gave him quite a fright. ‘But Miss, this is your money’, And don’t I know it well! Those kids need it more than I, That much I can tell. So off I trot to find them, The man’s mouth still hung wide I bring and offer gifts now, Something to turn the tide. This was a few years back now, My instincts were quite true And oft I think back now Of that human thing I do.
‘O ye whited sepulchre, Whose Rosary a mere adornment – A jewel, and not for prayer, You cling to for frigid warmth. Far more suited are ye To dine at Pilate’s table Than utter Jesus’ name And bear unto him Pyrite, Not Gold, at that holy stable. You here, stand witness – The pious fraud Sing hymns and prayers within While your sins abound abroad. And ever cherry-pick your apples, Rather than sit for long and read, And understand the sacred words, Rather than your own thoughts heed.
Athena sings a siren's song Her court above A dying throng The shout, the scream, the cry, the groan The stab, the shear, their acts atone. The earth a pock-marked, Marred old drum Where bodies fall To Ares' thrum. An old folk's jig, They practice here, Though old men shrink, Cower. Fear. The young are able, Strong and bold Though new-born ears Want stories told Of glory, fortune, Fame and gold, Of Sparta's conquests New, then old To add to weaver's Work they seek And bloodied hands Foul havoc wreak. To plant a sigil, Mark their place They march for death, Fast cover space. The call of void, Is music sweet To men who howl, And cheer and eat Who march for days To battle's end And hallowed gods Their boons will lend To fight for honour, Country, home They chance their fate - Their choice alone And leave their Widow wives behind For fortune's wheel Remains to grind Their children's Little bones to dust So much for battle, This death-kissed lust. It's not the men Who seek to die That bare the brunt Of old man's lie - It's empty homes And stalls and schools Their empty streets Their silence rules. The old men spared They walk these paths And wheeze and gasp Amidst their laughs They dance a jig - Though this one's fine They touch and toe The sacred line. They lie and plot And seek to steal - Here rolls out now Old Fortune's wheel.
The crunch of snow Recalls me to a familiar scene, That remind me of purring, Wooden beams and pillars Shattering beneath the columns of flame. The snowflakes, falling, cosy up to wooden silhouettes of houses, Gigantic housecats tumbling in snow-dune deserts. They shine under the sun’s mischievous glare. Pale contrast to the ash-snow that fell before. That snow spawned black devil-cats That danced around the wooden buildings. Their fiery string spooling out into the long night, Their scratching-post sparks igniting the sky. These snowflakes bring a different kind of sting, Biting as viciously as the hot sear of ash. Unloading soggy clothes, A watercolour catches my eyes. The uneven blurred strokes conjure the yowls that poured out from the night. Pockmark sparks dance behind closed eyelids, The never-ending flash of white on black canvasses. These images will never fade. Burned-brand memories last Like long-healing claw-mark scars, The smell of blood not long forgotten. I still recall the mechanical shrieks that sent the Thatch-fur roofs into a frightened frenzy – With so many fire-struck whiskers erupting into flames in the night.
Grind my feeble bones to dust! My lover’s quarrel must be brought to heel, Love need not be born of lust. My affections are oft met with sneers of disgust, My clueless love I seek to steal. Grind my feeble bones to dust. Appearances are lauded, a handsome face a must, To receive good grace I pray and kneel, Love need not be born of lust. They ought to close their eyes and trust A personality is a far heartier meal, Grind my feeble bones to dust. My fiery passion and intent robust, I prepare myself and harden heart to steel. Love need not be born of lust. My blood boils and I am content with its ringing peal, But I cry out and long for my lover’s sweet, delighted squeal. Grind my feeble bones to dust. Love need not be born of lust.
Every time the answer’s a sigh, A forced smile, a roll of the eyes. But once they appreciated her fabled pie, Her stories, kind old heart, books and her time. Now nobody has a dime to give, Because they all have “lives to live”. But Granny remembers even if she forgets The way her heart swelled when she saw her cute “pets”. But now her picture frame lies upside-down, Visits forgotten, her shouts of ‘slow down’! Have turned to stark silence, her house oh so still They’d come if they could, she’s sure that they will! But she is now bound to forget Just where she has put, or where she last set Her glasses, her slippers, her joy – Her emotions played around with like a damaged toy. Her lonely abode, Her family rushing straight past Her mind bearing this load - Too fast for old Granny to catch. She sits in her chair and weeps, She tries to remember: The dreams of past times still do upset her, She remembers when her family still sent her a letter. Oh, why did they all just HAVE to forget her?