Tag Archives: poetry

The Say This Is Democracy

 

 

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They say this is democracy,

I get to vote, oh that I see,

For parties that care not a jot for me,

That make me work for life for free.

 

For that’s their racket, poverty,

For that there’s always liberty,

For riches come from larceny,

Planned in boardrooms over tea.

 

“We pay for fuel, machines and rent,

For materials and for management

At cost, it’s money that’s well spent,

For profit comes from labour lent,

 

“For which we never pay the debt,

For labour’s added value, those riches that we get,

Is kept by us instead of them, it’s how we have things set,

Oh, we throw them all some pennies, that’s all they’re gonna get.”

 

They say this is modernity,

They’re all for human rights,

But we’re all still slaves it seems to me,

Wake up! Revolt and take the heights.

 

 

 

A Small Café

 

river cafe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sat that day in a small café

By a shaded riverbank,

The noise of town seemed far away

Though ducks quacked by in rank,

The anglers seemed to rest in dream

Rods resting from the cast,

Dozing on the sun’s warm beam,

Ah, to live this way at last.

 

The boats passed by and in their wake

Trailed spirals, spinning, silver white,

That always seemed about to break

And scatter shafts of light.

From lazy decks came shouts and song

And once a girl blew me a kiss,

From a boat they named So-long.

That brought the taste of bliss.

 

And then a sparrow, small and frail,

Among some branches overhead,

Began to tell his epic tale,

We hear as song instead,

Of travels far, among the clouds,

The skies, the stars, the seas,

Far from cities, far from crowds,

It near brought me to my knees.

 

So rare it is these days to hear

Such music so profound

When life costs us all so dear

And death is all around,

I dared to think the sparrow knew

That in his happy air

Lay some Hope, to bring us through

And save us from Despair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 












			

	
	



				
					


	

		
She Wore A Crimson Dress


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






I can’t remember why I loved,





Or why I played the game,





The days were long, the nights were hot,





The yearning like a flame,





Then there she was, before me,





Our eyes like threads entwined,





As we passed on forest path,





It seemed we were one mind,





So followed her through sunlit glades,





By shadowed wooded streams,





Unsure of her reality,





While wondering of my dreams,





She had dark hair and sad blue eyes,





She wore a crimson dress,





And said to me, on parting,





You must not this, confess.”

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
Clouds


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		
















clouds are splashed across a turquoise sky,





like gestures of a transformed world, 





-a world to us unknown-





or spectral bands by ghostly hands,





heralding a new dawned age, 





beyond the age of man,





and once we’re gone, 





then who will care, 





it cannot be our gods,





for they are frail and changing things, 





born of desperate minds,





the universe grown conscious, 





but of itself afraid,





that became a force of nature, 





but now the force is spent;





Philosophy has failed us, 





the Enlightenment was slain,





and now, on the near horizon, 





darker clouds appear,





from which there flash the warnings,





with thunderous cannon shots,





that shake the world’s foundations, 





long crumbling into dust.

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
Behold, She Walks The Room As Though A Queen


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


Behold, she walks the room as though a queen,


Who rules alone where death has been,


Silent as the scented air,


That curls around her greying hair,


Fingers bare and intertwined,


Her eyes aflame, her face now lined,


For yesterday they sent her word,


Her sons had died or so they’d heard,


In wars she could not understand,


The reasons why, the marching band,


Or why the crowds called out for more,


Until the din became a roar,


And off they marched while singing songs,


To right the world and all its wrongs,


So were told the young and bold,


For so it goes from times of old,


And then in through an open door,


Like a broken wave upon a shore,


Comes a man she barely knows,


Transfigured by a world of woes,


Who moved towards her in a daze,


Aging with each change of gaze,


And raised his head from off his chest,


He really tried to do his best,


But sorrow is a heavy weight,


And always come when it’s too late,


Who said with slow and feeble breath,


We were foolish, we were proud,


We listened to that howling crowd,


Now all we have is emptiness,


Please, let’s sit and share our tears,


For missing sons, the wasted years,


For what else is left but you, and I,


A world destroyed, and all the rest, oblivion.


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
In Northern Climes When Winter Comes


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


In northern climes when winter comes


And heads bow before the wind,


Happy times can spring to mind,


Like visions in a dream,


Of kisses in a car’s back seat,


On a gentle summer’s night


Hands moving in the dark


Entwining eyes and limbs,


Of toboggans packed with arms and legs,


Racing wildly down the snow,


Of donkeys walking on the beach,


And Punch and Judy shows,


When friends were yours forever,


Though they be so very few,


When love was possibility;


And revolution in the air,


For death was then unknown to us,


Despite the daily news,


We never gave much thought to that,


Were content to play the game.


 

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
We Never Taste A Perfect Wine


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


We never taste a perfect wine,


Nor live for long in happiness,


The path we walk is thorny flint,


We walk alone there, side by side,


 


The sun awakes the flower’s bloom,


The rain, the sleeping seeds,


But sometimes in my dreams I hear


Faint whispers of the sea,


 


Which bore our ship on heaving waves,


Through storm and diamond ice,


Through fears and  through misgivings,


The old world to the new,


 


Which appeared to us in glitter,


That first night in New York,


When a taxi man drove us round


And a black man eased our pain


 


On the journey north by clicking rail,


To a land that lay in snow,


Where new troubles borne of old,


To regrets gave birth anew.


 


We never taste a perfect wine,


Nor live for long in happiness,


The path we walk is thorny flint,


We walk alone there, side by side.


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
The Soldier Had A Puzzled Look


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		


 


 


 


 


 


 


The soldier had a puzzled look,


His gun had jammed, so read a book,


That told him all he thought he knew,


While bullets flew just past his head,


Of knights and kings, and all they slew,


And wondered then if it was true,


The things they said about the dead,


 


But then there came the feared command,


To make their prayers for one more stand,


For peace at last without regrets,


At which they cursed and cried,


Fumbling with their bayonets,


They owed the slain too many debts,


The sea of blood was wide.


 


They didn’t know the enemy, the reason they were there,


Some said this and some said that and some just didn’t care,


For living wasn’t easy but graves they gave you free,


So, ready for the killing, but trembling as he stood,


Wondered where the gods were, oh, why they didn’t see,


The shattered earth and corpses, from mountain to the sea,


And what in us is worth a damn, is any bloody good.


 

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
November Month


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		



 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


November month is cold and grey,


A time for books, for films, and tea,


When loneliness walks in the door,


And sits with sadness in the gloom,


When trees shed tears that fall as leaves,


And clouds in mourning gather round,


As mouldy men in dusty rooms,


Count their days in dividends.


 


 


 





 
			

	
	



				
					


	

		
The Denouement


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


Spread deep beneath these veiling thoughts 





Twists the tangled vine of I,





Rooted in the darkest depths,





Where saints and monsters lie,





All tangled with each other, even as I die,





Whose roots are sunk in ancient times,





When first we sat before the flame





And talked in wonder of the world,





Of our sorrows and our shame,





And so began our futile quest for gods to share the blame,





That led us, as though blinded, 





up that shrouded, misty peak





where Illusion’s understanding,





made mad those who dared to speak,





with spells and incantations, the truths we all did seek,





We stare into a vast unknown,





we’re a million years too late,





have come no further than the caves,





though Lucretius tried to set us straight,





on our origins and fate,





of the riddle of the universe, 





that with us became aware, 





of existence as a solitude





the very gods can’t  bear,





and so invented us, we say, their loneliness to share.





But, my time has run, the lights are dimmed,





I take position on the stage,





to play at last the denouement, 





some say was written by a sage,





who stained with tears his each and every page.