Political Housewarnings

As a philistine

Is an awful thing to use

To decorate a small house

Best not attempt it.

On Raymond

Good deeds are wrought

From heroes who

Live by shining example

To make waves

Amongst the humbled masses

To show that which can be done

Those impossible feats

Given a human face

By a larger than life figure

Who made complicated accomplishments

A simple

Day to day affair

Things that were done

As many a household task

Because they were necessary

Bringing ideas written in starlight

Down to Earth

One light at a time.

It's humbling to see a man

Who was so loved.

Calling a Spade a Small Shovel

Excusing the inexcusable

And railing against the

Easily excused

Is a social past time

With a great and proud history

Of holding up intolerance

On the shoulders of

Fear and outrage.

Providing all with

A neat little package

In which one can

Tolerate intolerance

Inhaling the

Heady elixir of hate

Enjoying the sudden sense

Of a powerful purpose

Controlling the uncontrollable

Well, we more than tolerate intolerance

But only if the illusion

Is held aloft a little longer

By constantly changing

The face, the name

The identity of this

Character destroying chimera

So that we might

Rationalise our rage

And, more importantly,

Indulge it.

Tumultuous and Shining

Giving thanks

In a more irreverent way

Not for the things that are

Or what they've given

But for what they might become

And could some day give

This fallow land

That may yet bare fruit

This empty coin purse

That may one day overflow with gold

These wretched souls

That may one day be redeemed

To dance in the light of joy

And the spirit of generosity

Though now they merely

Clutch their plates tighter

And growl obscenities.

The World still exists

And that is something

For by hope

Against hope

It may forgo the odds

Growing bright and new again.

The Rabbit in The Hunting Trees

The hushed hue

Of the everglades

Captures the over still morning

The light wavers

Soaked in mist

So as to hide

That which lurks within

Those dark and strange creatures

That watch between

Homely stone

And hunting wood

The worried eyes

Of the hunted

Watching back

Watching back

And so not forward looking

Until the land gives way

To the unforgiving rocks below

That open their maws with glee

Grinding up and spitting out

The feast that provides no sustenance

Merely the heady sense of power

Over life and death.

A bit further down the green

Is a markerless grave

Be careful not to

Step in it.

But, It Was Modern A Hundred Years Ago

It's a hell of a thing

The jarring starts

And stops

Of the day

The clicking

Clatter of

A thousand things to do

The stop and go

Of city traffic

Spewing waste

Into the air

As a thousand

Busy people

Inhale and release it

Coughing and falling still

As a byproduct

Of modern life.

The Crisis Maker

Upon a sacred brow

Two eyes of limpid pools

Gone foul

And lonely with despair

Misery lives here

A crease turned wrinkle turned scar

To mar the smooth complexion

As worry breaks camp

And builds house and home

Misery lives here.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow

For all the things that will be

Are not enough to satisfy

The needs and clever urges

Of a mundane

Empty life.

The Eureka of the Mundane

Clarity

That great wet blanket

Thrown carelessly over life

That muffles ambition

Stifles desires

And simply

Takes the fun

Out of

Everything

We weep and rail

Against it

Begging and pleading

For it to stop its

Ceaseless torment

It holds firm

Callous to our endeavours

It holds us still

Softly whispering in our ears

And keeps us

From destroying

Ourselves.

Seasonal Shut-in

The leaves have turned

To deadend gold

And it rains

And rains

And rains

Bleeding from a steel sky

That darkens the world

With its cold,

Unrelenting

Grey.

Is it any wonder

That I do not want

To go outside,

Lest the gloom

Steal my soul

Away?

Orange Thrushes and Gun Oil

Desire of the things
We should not dare to desire
Those wicked thoughts at night
That rob us of sleep
Mark proof of a soul.

A Report on Skimming Stones

The stoning pool for

Throwing stones was stoned to death

Today; heartbreaking.

Ashes in the Occasional Table

The occasion stands in Fall

Beneath a standing table

Standing by the wall

No sitting is allowed here

Be this a sitting room, or none at all

The seats stand seatless, sat about the room

And spilling out into the standing hall

While we all stand at attention

Two and One and Four standing tall

Only one place stands for resting

Sat along the farthest wall

But the resting spot sits occupied

By one who cannot stand nor sit at all.

An Ode to Procrastination

To waste time in poverty while the wine

Of dreams of largess, honeyed and well aged,

Dance through the mind's eye, chimera of mine,

A disillusioning illusion, staged

Poorly, with plots and plans scratched, slipping stitch

Unraveling a tapestry that could

Have been lovely, had the idea which

Imagined the pattern been, as it should,

A thing of worldly majesty, guiding

Unskilled fingers, schooling them the right way

To weave whisping visions, pluck the hiding

Weft, and coax it into true interplay.

But skilless hands have such mountains to climb,

As dreams to life are wrought from learning time.

Spots

Without a cloud to

Hide behind the sunless sky

It all burns to ash.

Penumbra

I lie alone

In the chilling season

I lie alone

In this bed a marble and glass

Staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes

Trying to imagine the world from space

It's another planet here

A colder one

Made of marble and glass

With trees of emerald

Tall and proud

Their blood

Still amber

Umber bright

Pointing to a thousand

Constellations in the sky

And a thousand worlds

Just as dead as this

Where I live

My life behind glassy,

Doll's eyes

Alone

And unaccomplished

A damaged,

Battered,

Frozen,

Fleshless

Soul.

Harvest Time in Spring

For one

The night

Cutting a great

Swath with

six slick sheathes

of scarlet

Painting over

The moon's amber hue

To bid good day

To waking moments

And sleeping dreams

In favour of greeting

A sleep that is

Dreamless.

Indiscriminate as the Sun

The holy wars

A hand grenade

Burried in the sky

To spread

A testament to fire

And sudden death

Beyond

The great

Beyond.

Upon a Glittering Toy

On the sacred sea
Lies an infamy both strange
And quite beautiful.

In the Hand

Upon the waking hours
It is hard
To capture those
Lustrous images
Lost in dreams
Those fleeting fragments of time
Which bypass life's little inanities
And get straight
To the point.

The Waking Hours

Within delirium
That sate
Which most recommends a drink
I find myself recompense
With little to show
And less to follow
A world of light and shadow, this
Chiaroscuro
With no colour to mark the way between
Just, endless, rest.

A Bullet or a Migraine

Oh,
My awful
Head
This terrible
Thing
Which lays
Waste
To life
Completely
A thought
Boxed
Stored for
Safe
Keeping until...
Well
The imagination
Takes
Over from
There.

The Undercurrent of Society

Somewhere
Under everything
Deep within a skin
Second to the self
That lies beneath
A worm
Of disinterest
Burrowing through
To the other side
Of apathy
Made simple
With practice
A burrowing creature
That makes quick work
Of the outer self
By consuming that
Which lies within
To be born
Anew.

What are you Playing at?

Playing possum
Playing for keeps
Playing until the end of time
Playing pretend
Playing at nothing being wrong
Playing at sanity
Just playing.

Meow, and Other Protests

Kitty in a pale

Playing in the smelly dirt

Then kitty turned upside down

In a world of hurt.

Floating Down the River Styx

The submerged crocodile

Goes south for the winter

It's tail gently swaying

It's mouth open wide

Jaws snapping.

The tail is a line

The teeth a hook

So that safety lies

Where danger looms

And danger lies

In the bosom of safety

Take comfort that

Whatever decision made

While swimming with a crocodile

It's the wrong decision.

Taking Poison and Medicine Piecemeal

Today the world ends

It is an indifferent day

Cloudy and sullen.

So Much So, It's Good Enough

Upon the wars

Were horrors told

The word awash

In seas of

Ambiguity

Their reason

Lobotomised

Their meaning stabbed

Prefix and suffix

Ripped asunder

To asphyxiate

On impotent

Potential.

Falling to their knees

At the carnage

Thousands cry

While millions more

Scoop up the carcases

To line their nests

And feed the other

Carrion eaters

Who relish

Rotting syntax

As perfection.

Swimming through Insecticide

A pungent

Greenish hue

Floats along

The water's edge

With brackish glee

As the wake turns black

Sailing through midnight

A bisecting line

That separates

Healthy beings

And clear shores

From unwashed

Vermin.

Impotent Frustration

The orange sky

Grew black

With leaping red

Against the distance

A heart of heat

Letting nothing through

Devouring each new visitor

And releasing them to the heavens

Their souls set adrift

Away from agony

And warmth

To the cool

of the troposphere.