Cold War

This world is not as cold

As its endless war,

That festers like a black heart

Below its surface.

Its people are not content

With fighting for the heart

To continue beating.

Instead, the exploding star

Like a substitute sunrise

That encapsulates the consciousness

Shared between us paints

The volatile sky yellow,

So that even in winter the hidden figures

Cannot hide their games.

Yet we abide in the false knowledge

That to be apart is to survive.

Were we Worthy?

The sea turns to royal red

Under a high cliff covered with green,

The fire of the divine torches the sky

And time stops to breathe.

 

Those with compassion cried

As they joined the thieves in their game.

And kings will kneel with their subjects

When they recognise that we’re all the same.

 

A watcher on the shore stays

To watch the ashen winds circle and fly.

Ember rains pour like open veins

Or like the tears that the innocent cry.

 

Their money can’t halt their end

Caught in a tempest that will never rest

We joined hands like we thought we should

And gave in to the final test.

Salem’s Fools

We are Salem’s fools

Fearful and hollow,

We are cruel

And born to follow.

 

Our eyes are bright

With firelight,

And our devils die screaming.

 

Our village unbound and

Our vision blind,

Our victims are found

To be our kind.

 

It is too late, for their blood

Stains our hands

And we cry to ourselves at night.

 

Yet we are still sure we are right.

P.M.Q’s

The House of Commons

A chamber for the boorish and unwise,

A diner for the infantile and desperate,

A congregation of ego and fear.

One thinks they hold victory

Their voice picked up by the camera,

A sad and oafish cry of ‘loser’s weepers’

Or, occasionally, nothing more

Than a beastly grunt or theatre howl.

Snide smiles and cravings for power,

Each believing they have the answers.

They all lie within the tight fist of the people

Who hold a power that they could only dream of.

A Ramble

I left behind the smoking wreckage,

Walked away from that old fire.

Oh I caught my whale alright

That was a product of my sight,

I can fake the chills in the night

Though I have never been there.

I can feel the sand on a shore

That I have never been too,

And conjure up a false emotion

Strong like a blue star.

I had a hit, or two, and sadness comes

When you realise you are not the only one.

That is not the case, however you may believe,

We are all whippets on the track

Chasing the political game

Wrapped in torchlight, melted candles

Restaurants with smiles and fake smiles,

A shiny car, belief in your fingers,

Simple breezes in thinning hair.

I am not one of their associates

I am not a corporation

But I am not an outsider like Odysseus,

I am not an open and tumultuous wave,

I will never be a Spaniard resting at midday.

Yet I can come close

In a summation approximately 12 lines long,

A parable, God I need a parable,

A world captured, it is Gabriel.

Leaders

There are those that claw to power,

Eyes fixed on the tempting star

Alight with infinite majesty

And always out of reach.

Those few with harsh blood

Who sacrifice their world

To capture what cannot be caught,

And keep what needs to be free.

They, themselves, are caged

And are too proud to sing.

Those clothed by the earth

Remain to watch the fire burn.

The Pope

Aye two bonny men in the humble sun

Sat, sunken suits crumpled with remnants of rum.

Called out the pope on all good deeds

And swore to expose his evil seed.

Then the copper cracking youthful skulls

Cursed the yelping squawking gulls,

Then came across the bonny men lying in the street

An’ tried to drag them to their drunken feet.

“What’s this about the pope?” he asks with Italian infliction

A flame of the inferno in his post-Dante diction

A curse in the cadence and spite in the tone.

They said “We are travellers so far from home,

We bathed in the ether offered by your drink

And by midnight we started to think:

The strangest theories we’d never known

About the goings on over the skies of Rome!”

The Copper was befuddled, confused, an’ red

Strange conspiracies began to fill his head,

“You drunken men blaspheme against the Pope?”

They said “No” but then again “we hope,

For what we hear is unspeakable and wild

About what the pope would do to a child.”

The copper drew back, spewed bile and fell

But what they believed they forgot to tell,

“Silly fucker feinted before he knew our cause,

We are here to prove the Pope is Santa Clause!”

Stream of City Consciousness

Walking out of a yellow stone wall bar
With a half empty tequila in hand
Ice falling out of your pockets
A serviette sticking out your pants
A cigarette ½ a centimetre in your hair
A signed Polaroid of the dancer
Who works telephone operations in Detroit
Mexican night cap sombrero slender
Cat wailing night time driver got batteries
For the smoke alarm back home
His wife is 180 pounds and works at Macy’s
He’d mow his lawn if he had one
You look at him with disdain
Ash mingles with the tangles in your hair
A gnome waits outside with a pitchfork
And the happy accident of 85 rides in
On a chrome horse
Probably out of dice again long trip Reno in the rain
Naked beat drunk midnight train
Hollering moon unfortunate crow with teary eyes
Children hide behind grit grey blinds
With the lights on watching the late shows
While mother vomits, husband cleenex drain clean
Big bop band draws the scene
Picasso, Van Gough they got change for the subway
Pop penny’s in the cracked hand of gorillas
With furrowed brows lying on the streets base feet
Lined with leather shoes on 1905 pavement
On 5th street constructed with earnest in 1886
One month since the publication of the daily paper
Rats take shelter in the covers there children
Squeal with hunger, virginal daughter makes an offer
Passing light shines dull and devilish, it’s belief.

The Price of Silence

What is the price we pay for silence?

Is it a dream, as cold as a fallen angel?

Or a heart burnt within the chest of a soldier?

Do we let our caged birds die inside us –

Or do we let them sing when we think

That no one can hear?

Should we defer from the life we desire –

Or do we sacrifice our fear to the flame?

Do we dare give it a name?

What do we think our silence could bring –

Does it give us all, could it pay for everything?

No, we are left with nothing.