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.
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.
She sits in silence still,
A form, a question, a will,
Dreaming in the warm quiet,
Of burning lips and hot,
Sweet words,
Feeling her heart speak softly,
Seeing the music flow,
Through her long dark fingers,
Into the white open page,
For all to see,
Making the music,
Her heart always sings,
In Africa, alone,
With the moaning wind,
Only stars for friends,
And distant howling
Of savage dogs,
Far in the night,
Deep in the unknown,
A reality unforgiving, uncaring,
Hungry for the day, for the light,
Which never comes.
There are no empty cities, silent as tombs, not yet.
There are no atomic missiles falling from the sky.
It’s a rainy, spring day, the air heavy with blossom.
The greening grass glistens and birds sing their songs.
Cars pass by, planes drift overhead, though fewer than before,
There’s no reason to fear, not in this small town,
That’s never suffered from tornado or war, but there is time.
There was time in The Bahamas, Puerto Rico too, plenty of time,
Then it hit, in the night, they heard the winds howl, saw the waters rise,
Clutched at babies torn from their arms by violent seas,
They could not take it in, at first. It was hard to take in.
Everyone loved them, the beaches and palms, their friendly ways,
The waters were azure, lapping gold sands, places pristine,
Then it was gone, blown into rubble, flooded two fathoms deep,
The trees stripped clean, boats shattered, bodies rotting in the heat.
They had prayers and hopes, lived decently, if poor.
But none of it helped, when it hit,
These were people like any others, did what others do,
Worked when they could, thought of finer things,
They’d heard of the change, but then that’s life,
So some said, making fun of the threat,
Because they did not understand or didn’t want to,
It wasn’t enough to save them, when the lights went out,
When the sky and the sea became one.
There are buds on the trees, soft clouds in the sky,
There are whales still diving deep in the sea, there is time,
But the fires raged the summer long, wherever summer is,
Burned down forests, and towns, the animals and insects,
Billions they say, exterminated, extirpated, erased, nowhere to flee,
And people too, though most were lucky to come out with their clothes,
They too thought things were ok, ignored the warnings, the signs,
The wise ones who knew and spoke but were silenced or mocked,
Or worse just ignored, people just didn’t want to know,
And when it happened looked for others to blame.
People are like that, for they thought they had time,
Freud have mercy on us, forgive us our minds,
There was time in New York, until three buildings came down.
Then their armies Hurrahed! and their new wars began,
It could have been stopped, but nothing was done,
Protests were peaceful, and so were ignored,
One country fell, then another, and more,
They claimed it was peace, as Hitler had done, and the people believed,
They had to, to accept it, to cheer it, went along to get along,
They claimed it was just, for the good of mankind, to make us feel good,
But everyone knew, who wanted to know, what the truth was.
There was time on the farms ‘til the rain stopped coming,
Or never stopped when it fell, ‘til the heat dried the soil,
And stunted the crops, made life living hell,
That air-conditioned nightmare Miller wrote of so well,
But there was time for some to claim it was all a charade
Nothing to be worried about, claim it was man made
Could be undone at will, it was all a big game,
But the floods and the winds and the storms didn’t listen.
The Barrier Reef died, the oceans became poison,
The great forests died, the bees disappeared, fireflies vanished,
But they thought there was time.
There was time at Chernobyl, at Fukushima, Japan,
When they exploded the bombs that foretold our doom,
There was some time for loving but more time for hate,
For it’s easy to hate, to give the stiff-armed salute,
When ignorance rises like air from a swamp,
When it’s all about me, and who cares about them,
There was time to improve, but the enlightened were killed,
Or pushed to the side, all of us guilty, with something to hide.
For life cares no more about us than the gods we devised,
Then Nature struck back with another strong blow,
Still there was time, time for the blaming, your fault, not mine,
‘There is time,’ they all shout, but we’ve surrendered it all,
We’ve wasted the Earth, we’ve wasted ourselves.
‘Christ have mercy on us.’
“Freud have mercy on us,”
“Marx have mercy on us.”
“Life have mercy on us.”
There is no mercy for us.
While robins woke to fading stars,
That drew fat worms to morning doom,
And tired hands sought coffee jars,
Still half in dream and nightly tomb,
While prostitutes and presidents,
Walked secret streets, or secret rooms,
And madmen claimed it all made sense,
But nightly danced in drunken fear,
While others stared in innocence,
But couldn’t help a sudden tear,
Rising from their aching hearts,
For those they lost they once held dear,
A message came from foreign parts,
Of something strange passed through the air;
As if a fusillade of poisoned darts,
That pierced the old and young, the sad and fair,
In silence, swift, and thus, unseen,
As Satan climbing Heaven’s stair,
His strength renewed and body lean,
To reclaim his old authority,
And sit the chair where God had been,
Sans remorse, regret, sans pity,
First one succumbed and then the many,
From east to west, in town, in city,
The working poor lost every penny,
And sat alone, apart, in wonder,
For them escape there was not any,
As the world around them broke asunder,
For existence cares not what your name,
Or what day they put you under,
And while many played the ancient game,
Of searching entrails for some secret reason,
A bleating scapegoat they could blame,
Others knew we’d had our time, our run, our season,
Had squandered all, destroyed the world,
Against Life itself had plotted treason,
So down the great abyss were hurled.
They stand alert beside the key
To annihilate humanity,
Insane of course, they have to be,
Which is why it worries me.
Have you thought of what you’re gonna do
When they’re near to drive you mad,
Will you kiss the air when no one’s there,
Embracing shadows of the past,
Or tango solo to the radio,
Wondering, what the fuck’s it for,
High on fumes of platitudes, of bullshit and the lies,
Awareness setting in too late, you’re too far gone to care,
No reflection in the mirror, only silence when you speak,
But for whisperings of those devils, the ones you thought you beat,
Or will you reminisce of taste and touch, of kisses in the dark,
Her hand guiding yours that night,
As the stars looked down and watched,
And made their bets on who’d come first,
As your hand guided hers.
So far from barren hopes they lay
They silent spent the break of day,
When from their dreams they started up
And drank their last from one shared cup.
Then, as one, they rose, with hollow eyes,
To don their arms ‘neath scarlet skies,
Red with bloody disillusionment,
The deaths of Reason, Art; Enlightenment.
They gathered round in sad conclave,
In secret grove by secret grave,
Where Justice lay in righteous earth,
Wrapped in memories of her worth.
And swore an oath with up-raised fists,
As vows rang out through gloomy mists,
To search each land and distant sea,
And slay the Hydra, Tyranny.
But doomed they were to search in vain,
With broken heart and endless pain,
For, in them, it was, the monster slept,
And, as they left, the heavens wept.
To live through life as does this tree
Would succour, sooth and comfort me,
To feel the earth as does its roots,
And breathe the sky through greening shoots,
Or feel the rain with upheld leaves,
Trembling, as a night dream weaves
Strange fancies in the birds that sleep,
Or, softly wakened, sadly weep,
Aware, alone, and lost,
Burdened by new solitudes and, expectancy of frost;
But there comes man with axe and fire,
His death machine and funeral pyre,
Mortal foe to all that grows and lives,
Who, exultant, takes, but never gives.
The old man raved the more he drank,
And the more he drank he raved,
Of such strange conceived and unheard things,
It made us almost mad,
But we knew that somewhere in his words
There lay the ring of truth,
And so we sat before him,
As he waved his glass around,
And told us of a land he’d found
While seeking shelter from the wars,
That seemed to him enchanted,
Or created in a dream,
Where people spoke with music,
And swords were shameful things,
Where philosophy was honoured,
And common folk were kings,
Where chains were made of flowers,
That bound eternal peace to love,
Where jails had not been thought of,
Nor devils, priests, or gods,
That wove a spell upon us so,
His dream became our own,
But when we asked where was this land,
In which direction did it lay,
He took his glass and drank it deep,
Then, in his raving way,
Declared he had to tell the world,
So left, but leaving, lost his way,
And spite his years of searching,
And growing old in Shangri-La,
He never found that path again,
So the dream began to fade,
But now old age had grabbed him,
Had seized him by the throat,
So remembered what they told him,
Of the universal Truth,
Expressed in Nature’s language,
That speaks within us all,
But few of us can hear it,
As we wander on our way,
At which his raving ended,
And slowly quiet he became,
And as he took another drink,
We wondered at his tale.
