poem – Page 16 – three good words

December 16, 2014

on which we all

images of a likeness
that is proclaimed to be divine
commit and commit
and never quit to terrify

that which is sublime
in each of us all
that spark, that fire
that gives us love, hope, compassion,
that goodwill so desired,
and everything that makes us kind

stamped out with jacked boots of blindness
and hands writing, mouths speaking madness
watering the weeds of what lets
Darkness grow to Night.

And now, once more,
young dreams of joy and happiness
are turned to dust and ashes
lowered low into empty earth
on which we all stand on.

And the cry is loud
amongst us all and deep inside
everything that makes us love, hope
compassionate and kind,
for we know, we know
that this madness is not us
nor any other
this is not that image nor that likeness
of that which is divine.

This madness is not mankind.

December 12, 2014December 12, 2014

never thus

…and gone is the time
when I was nothing more than mine
to have and hold
for there is no price
in what is nigh
high up on clouds
fluffed in quartets, symphonies
numbered nine

On crested hills
laughter spills
slowly into the warmth
that holds and keeps
out
a darkness that is not night.

It seeps, warmly
past hardened walls
turns all ice into joy,
waiting, hoping
blushing young, untouched
so coy
resting in that hardened shell
all spikes and swords
all banners flying
stepping aside to let this,
a miracle,
come and sit by the fire
kindled brightly, lively
inside.

And in the soft sun
caught with silk and sight
there lies waiting
a smile
open, wide
in shining gladness like newborn light
where what was lost
was never thus
but hidden, hiding
until a look, a light
enabled that tender newborn:
a joyful, content life.

December 9, 2014December 10, 2014

aye me

courtesy of Stratford-upon-Avon’s Celebrated son

sad hours seem long
or so the young lover sighs
in his rashness and melancholy
long written with
the heavy lightness of serious vanity
where misshapen chaos
builds well-seeming forms.

two houses, divided
ready to fall
bearing a son, a daughter
innocent of it all
until stars are crossed
and the young pilgrims meet
palm to palm
in the holy communion
of such innocent bliss

yet in the dark
eyes watch and watch
that know not peace
but hate the word as they hate hell
so furious enraged
against their soul’s hate
causing suns ancient to turn all fortune
and make one of many
who talk of dreams resting in an idle brain
to curse and cry in despair
a scratch, just a scratch!
so soon, too soon
triggering that rage
that would seal the fate of fortune’s fool

yet, in joyful sadness, a flight is made
with pleas to fortune, fickle fortune
to return all whole and well
but the mark was made
when sin from young lips were sweetly urged
and all cleverness cannot stop
that twist of fate
an apothecary’s drugs so quick
netting those lips by whose kiss
all hope subsides
and glinted steel ends love’s young life
after which what law there is declares:
All are punishéd.

What for then oh brawling love,
what for then if this loving hate
is anything of nothing
from which we first create
that heavy lightness, that serious vanity
wherein misshapen chaos
creates well-seaming forms?
Aye me, sad hours seem long.

December 9, 2014

creature comforts

The problem is:
how to be good and have everything,
how to do well without being bad about it,
how to have your cake and eat it all.

The problem is:
growing up with all those nifty nice,
smooth and sweet, industrialised
creature comforts

And then realise, a bit too late maybe
that to make them so nice
at such a great price
very many that live and breathe and grow
in spaces far away from your own
are brought verily verily terribly low
all the way to the borders
of those awful terms: pollution, extinction
all out destruction.

And yet you were told,
over and over and oh so bold,
You, yes, you: you are the good one.

The problem is: what do you do
now that you’ve gotten used to
those comforts that are just too good
and you need them too, to survive, stay alive,
up to date and in time
in this superfast, new and improved
digital age of ultracool

where the phones are smart
and the tablets tools
where cats go viral
and ignoring that may brand you a fool
in the race to be first, to be in the know
of everything at work, at home, in school,
in the world…

For this planet that is Home
our home, no other
just one, you hear, just one

Our planet is now so connected
the globe seems like a crowded ball
full of people shouting, tweeting
trying, spying, lying
through their virtual teeth

simply to stay connected
and not fall off the face of the earth
deep down into has-been’s, where-are-they-now’s,
and what-happened-to’s,
that dreaded place: ‘I don’t know’,
that awful place: ‘Who?’

For We, the creatures, we cannot stand our own discomfort,
that tiny little feeling
that something’s not quite right
somewhere, somehow…

No, We, the creatures, we create our comfort
by telling, typing, filming, sharing
to make sure someone is there
to prove yes, you, you are real
there is nothing to worry about
move along here
and yes, we like you
see the numbers, it’s all there
it’s not a dream, it’s all true:
you really are the good one,
you, yes, you, and you too.

So, what to do now, now,
yes right now
before the sun grows dark in our eyes
before those infamous four riders
come bounding down
announcing, business like,
that it is time, it is time
for several plagues, lots of fire, unprecedented disaster,
that will all happen to you and you and you
and all the me’s existing, all the good ones too.

For the Riders don’t care about clicks and tweets
anything virtual, in the air
Once they arrive
it’s dislike time,
and it’ll keep persisting
no matter how others may keep on insisting
that it’s all lies lies lies!

The Four really don’t care
standing at the sidelines
in their fine suits and silk ties
reading through the script, announcing how
the winds will burn, the skies will fall
and the earth will burst like water
at half past two, precisely
only *breaking news*: it will be hottest, hottest lava
Not water at all
that, my dear viewers, will be very much gone.

And when the seas rise and the lands fall
from their civilised heights
We’ll be Back to Nature all right
And know it as it was once known
as what we, the creatures, live and breath and walk on
the real Mother of All.

The problem is:
that all this bother will happen
just when you sat down to drink that latte
and listen to another hand-played, over-made
hyperlinked song.

December 7, 2014

in memoriam

Sometimes,
when walking down
the cobbled streets of this young republic
History as history as
the story beyond the stories told

creeps up on you silently
murderously precise
chilling in its horror
unmistakable in its terror

flashing golden in the street
embedded silently
into the very solidity you stand on,
shifting the ground beneath your feet.

In that moment
bending low in a ghostly bow
all else is silence

even memories of that great music
that was once the sole hallmark of this
old and ancient soil
a once-fragmented space
ruled by dukes and lords and princes
for centuries past
this battleground of faiths
this incubator of deep and deepest thoughts

unified ruthlessly under an unwilling emperor
and a rebellious king
who fraternized with the French
to receive sovereignty
the kingly crown
who’s son of his son
would go mad with love and life
and create breathtaking fairytales
that today are admired,
celebrated and duplicated all round.

* * *

A Lady with an ë
once wound along these rivers
and through these hills in a chaise and four,
wondering at this densely forested space
living quietly beyond the fingers of
what was known as civilization;

a place untouched by the wonders of the world
or so she thought
birthplace of so many geniuses in music
and thinkers of great, complicated thoughts.

And yet I wonder
if she in her elegance
could have foreseen that the very rivers and trees
the very hills and towns and cities
she visited and documented with such admiration
would one day harbour such industrialised insanity
such satanical banality
that went beyond the guillotined terror
she and her peers knew too well.

For that was the real horror, was it not
that was the ultimate shock
that civilisation could be rendered
null and void
by its very own foundations,
that loyalty could be despicable
obedience horrendous
silence inexcusable
and rationality the ultimate weapon
to destroy all faith in safety valves.

And now it is understood that
decrees are needed
rules and laws and regulations
set in metaphorical stone
to emblazon the coordinates for humanity.

For it was proven beyond doubt
in those awful twelve years
that you cannot trust anyone
no faith, no ideology, no religion
none who call themselves civilised,
no system of thought or belief,
to ascertain that mercy and compassion
what it means to be human, humane
would never be infringed.

For that was the horror of it,
that was the most ultimate of shocks:
that even the most ordinary human,
so civilised, so educated, so loyal,
could be, given the right circumstance,
someone unquestionably monstrous.