We Walk Down Streets Of Broken Lives

 

Picasso, Blind Man's Meal

We walk down streets of broken lives,

or drive, it’s all the same,

and see ourselves, the unaware,

in rows of broken dreams,

of faces etched with every grief,

in jagged homes of lies,

where art consists of murder shows,

or news from bloody eyes,

where family conversations

are dramas ready-staged,

to give a false impression,

but everyone agrees,

each of something guilty,

so to talk is to confess,

and TV heads with false concern,

deceive with every breath,

while love, poor love,

survives somehow,

a frail and hungry waif,

seeking warmth in crowds of fools

who think they know it all, are free,

but walk in many chains,

who’ve lost their joy of waking,

of a warming summer’s morn,

of the running and the shouting,

of the children’s’ field of play,

of kids with small red wagons,

and those crystal radios,

lost the wonder of their breathing,

their wonder of the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Cold Winds Blow

 

When cold winds blow in darkened night

along the valley’s streams and fields,

while arms hold arms to warm in bed

and children dream their golden dreams,

I ask myself what all this means,

but I’ve yet to answer back,

and how can I when all is clear

as a dying candle’s light,

no, when cold winds blow

I gather strength and slowly breathe in deep,

and deeply drink, of wine, and song,

and sometimes bitter hope,

but long hours grind the spirit down

and sweep it all away,

leaving just one wondrous thing to me,

the scent of perfume in your hair,

but wine is wine, and with some time,

life’s candle flares again,

like stars above the scudding clouds,

singing silent harmonies,

that lull me into reveries,

of a door in Zanzibar.

 

A Cold, Cold Rain

A cold, cold rain beats softly

on the melting window panes,

like angels’ tears for mankind wept

with hopeless, anguished cries,

and there, look there, those birds, in air,

bedraggled, sad, bereft,

sweep and swirl round sleeping trees,

their quest a warming place,

to sleep, a time, to dream perhaps,

of clouds and journey’s end

they flash this way and then flash that,

look now, they hang on wing,

then suddenly, in silence sealed,

as if en masse ordained,

all en mass descend,

yet each with each unreconciled,

though all a common fate,

like me, alone, the modern man,

blank face among the crowd,

my lost reflection now only found

In shattered mirror shards.

 

 

Night Is A Game That Death Likes To Play

 

“Night is a game that death likes to play,

And dreams are the mind withdrawing from day,”

Breathless, a whisper, these words that she said,

Before I departed for war, and the dead.

 

We kissed and she blushed, an innocent still,

As we lay on the top of the welcoming hill,

Where birds sang in trees of nature’s delight,

While we talked of love, of wrong and of right,

 

We lay on the grass to melt with the sky,

The rosey-sun setting, the moon asking why,

We were one destiny, one body, one mind,

Yet with sunrise I left, to follow the blind.

 

 

Speak Now, My Friends

 

Speak now, my friends, yes speak, but speak true,

Of the darkness descended and what we must do,

When days reek of madness, and nights smell of shame,

And the air smells of gore of the infinite slain.

 

Let’s dream, once again, of democracy’s glade,

The peace and the calm, for which many have paid,

Where the poor are the richest, and the rich are long gone,

And in the bright sunlight the darkness is done.

 

And when we remember all that’s been said,

Of justice for all and where it has led;

While the cruel and the selfish veil their true face,

We’ll sing of the heroes who’ve argued our case.

 

So proudly we’ll speak of the brave ones who die,

There’ll be vows to revenge them, tell truth to the lie,

But yet, as we speak, will come shouts, “who leads me?

So we’ll raise a bright mirror for the doubters to see.

 

But why fades your voice, your eyes look away?

While you suffer alone long night and dark day,

So stay, and reflect, as we join our rough hands,

What our union could do to unchain our lands.

 

She Looked In The Fireplace Mirror

 

great-expectations

She looked in the fireplace mirror,

Face lit with the heat of the fire,

That warmed the dead, and the living,

Who of their tears did tire.

 

Around her the few, and the lonely,

Sat quietly, undisturbed,

Yet each the other heard breathing,

Though none dared utter a word.

 

And the priest looked old, and saddening

For he could cast no magical spell-

As the flames of the fire flickered and flared-

He wondered if they were in hell.

 

A cat curled up in a corner,

Content with a memory or two,

Of the one they somehow mourned for,

To whom they had never been true,

 

Two slender, white scented, candles,

Sat graced by two flowers of light,

On top of an elegant casket,

Her bed her fare-welling night.

 

She looked in the fireplace mirror,

At the woman once she had been,

And remembered a longed for lover,

She once had seen, in a dream.

 

She looked in the fireplace mirror,

‘Til the priest hushly whispered, “Let’s pray,”

And the mourners took up their poses,

And thought of the new coming day.

Nagasaki Warning

 

 

 

 

The news came through the din of war,

That things were seen not seen before,

Nor told in tales, nor prophecies,

Nor legends known, our histories,

Of lights and shadows roaming wild,

The veil of death on every child,

 

The news came through of shaking earth,

Of flaming winds and thunderous might,

Of vapours born a bloody birth,

Of melting skin in dark of night,

 

The news came through of cities burned

By blast of flame, by flash of light

As women turned to shadows yearned

For evening songs, a morning bright,

 

The news came through, the last we heard,

Of madmen dancing on a tomb,

Who jeered at life with every word,

And bled the blood from every womb.

 

Then we turned towards the sky,

Towards the rushing, roaring sound,

And, for an instant, wondered why.