March 28, 2014

 

 

To lie down without a pillow

is the best position for the spine.

But it’s really jolly difficult

when you are a porcupine.

 

 

 

 

 

A love that keeps on giving

A love that never dies

A love that holds eternal

A light no God denies.

 

A love that is fulfilling

A love that bonds for life

A love so self repairing,

away from harm and strife.

 

A love needed in a cruel world

A love where bitterness disgraced,

by the joining together of hands,

and through love, all hate replaced.

 

 

 

 

Put them in the store room

with all the other stuff,

that will someday be discarded

when I’m feeling strong enough.

 

Just for now I need around me

old relics from my past,

though I sense the day is coming

for their release, at last.

 

 

 

 

After a few drinks too many

she was separated from the pack,

becoming a prime target

for another frenzied attack.

 

 

 

 

 

No joy in dwelling on the past,

of battles won, fortunes amassed.

The gain, not worth the mental strain,

and all for what, hindsight’s refrain?

 

That generation who discovered wealth

yet would not spend in case ill health

came fast like lightning to their door,

knew an instant remedy they had in store.

 

or so they thought; money the cure for all!

Remember Damascus where Saul met Paul.

Yet with blinkered faith they still wanted more,

becoming mesmerised with their golden store.

 

And where overwork and excessive strain,

in time, took it’s toll, on the smartest brain.

No isolated palaces with marble towers

can ever fix the sick in their dying hours.

 

 

 

 

The question was never asked

for the answer too hard to take,

but was the one to create commotion,

and the missing slice of the cake.

 

 

 

 

A Cyclops maybe

with double vision

writes purely for pleasure

from an open prison.

 

and words, just words

and words alone

made up from desire

through flesh and bone

 

are expressed, free flowing

without much sense

but nevertheless copied

at great expense.

 

What fools are they

who think with just one eye

Cyclops sight impaired

and on his work dare spy.

 

For his underlying

strength is ‘precision’,

and he can see in duplicate

with his double vision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

How must it feel

to know that kin

is the instigator

and enemy within.

 

What an invidious

position to now be in,

though technically

there has been no sin.

 

 

 

 

The rippling shoreline

on an abandoned beach

as night time falls;

the sun out of reach.

 

A severed tongue

no words could teach.

The shock too great

for an acceptance speech.

 

The sea comes in and bashes

the crumbling seawall,

with its violent temper

in a free for all.

 

And words, too late

came as if they cared,

but above seagull squawks

could not be heard.

 

And another day

that with promise held

came and went without

a timid voice yelled.

 

But what they say

of time and tide is true,

and there’s a new horizon

always on view.

 

 

 

March 15, 2014

 

 

The rust has set in

around ancient nails,

exposed to the elements,

holding fast, twisted rails.

 

and rotting gates, at the

entrance to sacred land,

where fading words

on tombstones stand.

 

A once beloved wife

lies unattended

on top of her man;

both long since ascended.

 

The headstone crooked;

their plot now overgrown.

No ancestor’s names visible

or sign of existence shown.

 

And dogs, no sense

of reverence share,

just run amok

and are unaware,

 

that on the land

where they prance and frolic,

are many generations

where respect is symbolic.

 

Some kin will not visit;

they shudder and swear,

preferring to remember

loved ones as they were.

 

And so different are those

who cannot stay away.

They come with weeping hearts

each and every day.

 

On a new plot lies

a multitude of flowers,

with messages of condolence

in the deceased’s final hours.

 

Yet, when grieving mourners

from the graveside leave,

a scoundrel in the shadows

is waiting to deceive.

 

He gathers up the best blooms

to take to his mother,

as a peace offering

for some guilt trip or another.

 

So still, now the graveyard

under a darkened cloud.

The final resting place

for it’s towns folk, proud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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