I’ll post all my poetry here. Just as easy to see it clicking on any post filed under “My Poetry”
What is life
After all –
The chance to sleep
After All —
Along the Blue-Treaded Way
Educated fleas and your top o’ the mourning gnats.
Bewintered bluebirds that spring into song.
And all the day, along the blue-treaded way,
there sounds a requiem for all that was soft, fine and gay.
Exalted larks in strange exultations.
A brace of nightingales embraced against the storm.
And all along the hedgrerows
The thrushes in their throes,
And so it goes –
And so it goes.
IN the wintry night,
Under a pale, cold light,
I can see my sighs.
They drop like hammers
From my mouth.
I suppose they would fall like
– Infinitely –
Times There Are
Times there are for joy
And times there are to wallow.
Clocks will mark all hours
Whether happy or set with sorrow.
Here lies one born a star.
His late death
Was but a dazzling supernova
For Pantagruelian eyes.
To those of us who knew him well
And loved him better,
His light went out long ago,
Unogled by a world
Fallen in the sleep of some other meal.
Yours is the shadow,
As long it has been ours.
Ya en mi vejez
y entrado en añoranzas
que el paso de largos años
no ha podido resolver
Me traiciona la memoria.
Me trae recuerdos de ti
a donde yo me creía escondido
y los deja a mis pies
como un ratoncito muerto.
Y soy yo quien tiene que mirarlo
a los ojos
Nublados y de vidrio
como los míos
Y ya sin promesas de lágrimas
como los míos.
Se han dejado caer todas las
palabras e intenciones vanas,
Las locas esperanzas
y las esperas enloquecidas.
Tiradas en el suelo
Como este ratoncito muerto
Como el amor que te tenía
Como el yo que fui y ya no soy.
You are redolent of summer,
fresh cut grass,
and cinnamon candy.
You are redolent of indolence:
that laze into lazier evenings,
and their nights.
You are redolent of all the finer things.
You are redolent of a better me.
I have words in my head, I feel them hard against the temples.
L o o s e, chaotic words, fighting, scrambling for form.
– My words are worms –
Cut them, splice them and they only proliferate, grow.
Go forth then my words and multiply; I shall trepan myself for the sake of productivity
I am a progenitor;
a pro-life janitor; a prodigious sperm;
quite passing in my prolificacy.
So breed my wormy words, wriggling harbingers of thoughts untamed.
I shan’t call you parasites, but my little tumour du bonheur.
I Am The Love Of Mephistopheles
I Am The Love of Mephistopheles
Housed among this copse of trees.
Darkling, I trip through the field of my dreams,
Light in the deep dark of my morning.
I am the Queen of Dark Getting –
Harvest, Harvest time is here
And I shall reap a thousand posies for my lover’s hair.
– And he shall know them by their smell –
I am his Mistress Venturer
And I shall lead him by the hand,
To the high tree where we make our haven,
In this our black vault land.
I am the Lady of his bidding
And of me he bids a song.
I sing to shroud us in this moment
All the long night long.
I am his. No more.
Unseeingly we see each other.
My breath upon his face
Paints the image of my lover.
I am his Spurned,
For I did look upon the first of dawn,
And in that passing vision made
The very sun that he did scorn
I was…am myself no more.
Hurled of my love to the hoarfrost floor.
– And what of my dreams? –
They lie with those without,
Waiting, baying at the door.
What is war?
Dis ting dat I saw.
Dis ting dat I saw.
Pon da ground,
Death piled high in mounds.
Hillocks of Pillocks
Dat lost dem lives at dat mortal sound.
Me wan you, and you and you.
Your lives spread here pon da grasstips like dew.
For is it not your duty,
And is it not due to me
Dat you lay down your life fi Queen and cuntry?
So friend, Roman, cuntryman len’ me your ear,
Your heart, your soul,
But leave your fear.
Before dis day is done dis will be a vale of everyman tear.
Fi we march forward in solidarity,
Our deaths are not pointless if we die togedda
In a spirit of unity.
Dis is de cant and dis de talk,
So these men nah even baulk.
But da call dem obey
And like young pups to de slaughter dem bound into de fray.
One shot, two shot, t’ree shot, four,
De first of dem – drop – like a stone to de floor.
And at da sight of ‘im blud
It clear fear nah gon stay at de door.
And soon it won’t be wort countin’,
As life pon life jus keeps on mountin’.
Death take ‘im toll.
Look aroun’, not a single, unbroken soul.
Deez men once stood proud like tree,
Now fallen like so many autumn leaves.
And unswept dem trampled by dem warring breddas.
Dat message won’t mek it ‘ome to dem dotin’ moddas.
Death is de only victor
Foolish dem, dat thought war all adventure and youthful elixir.
Foolish we, who waved goodbye to de best of our generation.
How are we to rebuild our impoverished nation.
Dis ting dat I saw.
Dis thing dat I saw
And me pray,
Me pray neva to see more.
The Bigamy of Night & Day
The bigamy of night and day, night and day:
Darkness and Light are two alternating kings.
To each it is given to rule the earth for a time, wither into exile and there die.
Then return triumphantly from his long banishment.
Ho! For I’ve heard it is not so. We are not the sole subjects of our lords’ affections.
For while we daily must diet on mourning confused with joy at the loss of a king but the advent of another,
Think not that our masters hie with downcast souls, but know that they fly with singing spirits to foreign lands where they command the love of another tribe.
Our lords do play us and we more the fool that we do agree to be played –
The pawns in their sport.
Let us rise up and forswear their disloyalty.
Let us rise up, rally round and with one voice say:
One monarch to rule this night and our day.
We are here and we will be heard.
I stand alone,
Gazing on the devastation zone.
It knows no bounds,
I’m haunted by all the silent sounds.
They call my name,
Encroaching wave of all the pain.
And the sun bleeds,
Colour of all my unfilled needs.
My peace is gone,
Went away when that siren sung.
Souls beaten and spirits drowned.
Covers all the wrenching sights.
Reveals the death and my endless night.
Me comunico mediante el juego,
es mi medio medio raro de hablar.
Pero igual soy bien comunicado
porque tantas son mis vías de llegar
a un cierto significado,
o a un lugar determinado.
Pero el término no tiene terminal,
nunca termino el viaje
y tampoco me hago mal.
Siempre voy con coraje,
de Guatemala a Guatepeor.
Me gusta estar cayendo
porque con mis palabras me he pintado un cielo de color
y brotan como la primavera en su primerísima flor,
o los corazones todavía no rotos por amor.
Quizás me he criado creído
por todo lo que he leído.
¿Real mente puedes creyar esto?
¿Así, denominar y dominar tu Eliseo?
Lugar tanto de tu elección
como de tu deseo.
Ay, Tántalo soy
y hambriento estoy,
consumido por tanta auto-reflexión.
¿Dónde estará mi eterna redención?
¿En ese lugar tópico?
No me unto con lo típico.
Me saco lo superficial
y superfisuras abro de un profundo manantial,
y de las partituras
de la parquedad a la Pachamama,
pues, era dado a ella.
Voy por ella.
Escapándome de la oscuridad,
Buscándome la humanidad.
Muéstrame el camino.
¿Es la cura con el cura,
El alivio de la insanidad?
No sigo señas,
El mío es a tientas.
Mientras tú sólo intentas
Llegar al lugar,
Tocando el más allá.
que cada paso es el rebaso
de otro colmado vaso.
que cada paso es el rebaso
de otro colmado vaso.
Pero no sé.
La paz no está en el vacío,
Mientras veo vida fluyendo en los ríos.
Quiero ser el colmo
Más un salto de fe.
La Paz, December 2011
Why do you demand of me productivity
When I am just an empty vessel –
Palsied with pause?
You have been vaccinated against vacillation –
I see the scar where they pricked you with the needle.
Precious scar of proactivity.
No man can fleet-foot the catch of time:
There’s a hand that reaches out, finger-twine
Of hands once bound in the threshing line,
Hands that recall a spiritual rhyme.
’Tis a hand loosed from the manacled crowd,
’Scaped from that caustic whipping sound.
Cold hard blisters, callous-proud,
Forensic finger of this reeky night, this obsidian shroud.
A hand gloved in the name of foreign folk
Seeking out the master’s cloak.
’Tis a Frankenstein that knows not to stroke;
But only, in finding, to curl fingers and choke.
Wallowing full in the fall of society,
This life is come to nought but to beg and sell.
Our best commerce is a flight of fancy.
Our conscience muffles itself against the toll of the bell.
Life ends and the void seeps into its place.
We stalk the gulf of an imploded tunnel.
Hope touches us too near.
There is a certain slant of light,
But it shan’t reach us here.
We are the pageant of bloodless faces
Borne ’pon the freight of dread humanity.
Won’t you come and see us here,
Your son, your niece and you too dear?
We are the picture of everything you’d hoped we’d be.
Come, sweet, I’ve kept this place just for you.
I’ll dandle you on my knee.
Morning has broken, my silence and my heart.
Sweet is the rain’s new fall, the pain and the storm.
Mine is the sunlight, the absence and the death.
An Ode To Shaving Foam
You sit there.
Where did you come from?
A feline finger stretching forth –
But there was an exertion of the will.
A definite exertion of the will.
A pressure applied.
And you were born.
There in the hollow of a misgiving palm.
I wonder at you.
You bloomed, blossomed, ballooned with such speed.
– Almost silently –
(There was a hiss of expiration.)
You sprang forth like Sin.
You sit there.
Proud edifice of a quaking foundation.
Scooped from some distant sky.
There’s something of the wide cerulean about you.
You seem to contain a promise.
But I do not understand you.
You draw me in.
And you draw me in
– still –
In my hand,
With nonchalant poise,
But there’s a definite weight.
Surely you are of substance.
You sit there.
And dare I frame your symmetry?
Cup you in this hand?
Of tall fingers looming.
They strike a pose of hunchbacked sentinels.
It casts no shadow.
Nothing mars your beauty.
Yet I know,
or maybe feel,
that I could crush you.
Fell these lumbering trees.
Collapse this copsing dell.
Would you not die with these your trees?
You are newborn,
I will cradle you.
You sit there,
Faceted with such curious perfection.
And still you call me in.
The echo of a sound never heard.
A cloistered prayer.
And I would caress you.
With these same fingers
The frolicsome cowlick bending from your crown.
with whispered tones,
Does a lone cherub perch there?
On the end of that lolling lock?
Do his wings never tire?
And do you float by their fluttering?
Or surely you are a snowkissed shell.
Sent to me
With songs of a gentle sea.
But you sit there.
O you seem a stolid stone.
Is there nothing more?
Nothing more than this –
Than to enthral
And play silence like a virtuoso?
What secrets do you guard from me?
What privies keep?
Though, I know it now.
It was I who summoned you.
I no longer doubt my paternity.
Your life lies
In my own palmistry.
You sit there
A tuneless whorl
Lipped by every man.
You are bought at a low price.
Who has not dallied with you?
Who not dandled you jauntily in his palm?
And how easily you give yourself away.
And they so coarse.
With no ceremony to draw you near,
Quickly you yield all,
And smother their faces with your glozing kisses.
O you are a veteran Mona Lisa.
You know to sit with demure pose and emollient smile,
Then stem the crimson flow with your
But o, ’tis an oozy, sticky salve!
You sit there.
Well, have you eyes to see?
This font would’ve been for our joint baptism.
But ablution turns to drowning.
I shall palm you.
Maybe you’ll think it a final reverence.
These once-sheltering boughs low-bowing.
They do not like their mission.
And silence resounds the valley round.
But it is done and I must see.
Unfurl these fingers like a new flower.
You lay there, bespread.
The very picture of devastation.
You are the bathos of a fallen notion.
The Riot Has Been Televised
And on our screens we saw the scenes.
Of apocalyptic dreams and drama queens.
Denouncements of criminal, mindless thugs.
Recriminations of heartless elites and hoodies unhugged.
Before you consider your judgement, consider their state.
The father’s gone and left an empty plate.
How can you legislate against an apostate?
The liberal position lets them take our liberty.
While you stand aside and on ceremony
They steal our shoes and our security.
Hardliners, your line is too hard to follow –
Locks them in a prison full of sorrow.
But don’t you know
A vicious circle, like the earth, returns to the same point tomorrow?
26 years and haven’t you realised yet
The oubliette won’t make the people forget?
No, I must protest this was not a protest.
Didn’t you see them laughing, clutching that TV to their chest?
Did you see them pause
From the havoc and destruction they caused?
Or didn’t you see the victims weep?
And you tell them what they’ve sown they now reap.
This is a broken society turned sick.
We are in desperate need of some purging physic.
We must break free from capitalism and share the loaf
End our oppression and the rule of a Hypocratic Oaf.
When the polarised debate the marginalised.
Dear viewer, I tell you, the riot has been televised.
Another Brother’s Dead
Policing is by consent.
So the force is consensual.
Content to have the long arm tied behind its back.
While the Devil makes work for Samaritan hands that plunder sacks.
Feral children give short shrift to the values of polite society.
Pray you, pray you for their souls to some merciful deity.
Unpardoned sins are visited on the mother.
Absent Father played away, stayed away with another.
His return is unexpected, so nothing can be from his offspring.
So oft shoots the gun that new family bring.
First fondles it in a quaking hand –
No-one there to guide it through the first razor strokes that made him a man.
But the mean streets give him mettle.
Steel trumps unsure fists when scores must be settled.
O another brother’s dead.
Shot point blank in the head.
I can’t – I must go further.
I say another brother’s dead.
Cold blood spills warm scarlet threads.
A stain on municipal streets,
Trodden under Trident feet.
Seeping into papered over cracks.
Unbroken silence s’ got the killer’s back.
While the town crier cries, the city weeps
And in the shadows fear stalks, dread creeps.
O is another brother dead?
Shot point blank in the head?
We can’t – how do we go further?
Physician treat these weeping sores.
Clinician diagnose such deep-seated flaws?
Our body politic is violently sick
Wretched as we are – we will take your tonic.
If we don’t learn then we must feel
The sting of knives and the burn of steel.
For the man who speaks but is never heard
Finds gunshots wake better than morning birds.
Nighty night our shot dead saviour