All our castles eventually fall.
The poetry here is my own original work.
A Sleepy Boy Awoke
A sleepy boy drowsily awoke. To live another wondrous day. With a stretching, warm smile, and a wide mouth yawning of, hey, what’s for breakfast mom? Sleeping wasn’t really over yet. And all day long that slow smile, stayed warm and gently glowing, growing with mischievous glints. Of knowing and growing knowing. A dimpled grin, a soft warm thing, Was his armour, gift, and riveting. And as he walked through his day. That smile was ever ready, strong, and given to the countless others. Seeing that smile that lifted spirits, went through the day with more joy. At meeting that happy smiling boy. Through school and play, his day, was one long journey of his delight, in butterflies and many tiny things. Until that boy and his dog retired, tired and happy with each other, and slept another peaceful night.
Calm, standing still, my breathing slowing, I empty myself of all my worries and cares. Blocking discordant synapses in my brain, the myriad jumbles of my thoughts subside. Standing, in an elemental fusion of nature, her subtle powers thrums through my veins. Warmly, on a gentle breeze I am transported, my life’s journey whispered by the wind. I am, whisked through time-warped self- biography, flurries of forgotten moments, kaleidoscope by. To grasp at the memories invites failure, I feel, them like a balm on the deep well of my soul. What a throve is carried to me, the shocked, intensity of remembrance sending me back. Do I surrender myself to this sense of smell? I remember and live again a child’s growing. Buttery, primrose scented south westerly, Sirocco burnt meadow and vale, Summer seas and humid orchard fruit fall, Winter turf, blown to me in unsuspecting moments. Gentle cat’s paw breeze, trade winds fair, warm damp Sou’wester, bitter easterly. Fierce Nor’easter and cool Spring Squall, heralding seasons change and times march. Earthy companionship on my life’s journey, treasure chest of all my childhood memories.
Information denied, access with grades Seating arranged using hierarchal mind Suited with tie, protective armour code Positional attainment derides intellect Rules of order, pre-emptive agenda’s Opening gambits just probe defences In linear thinking duels commencing Senses dulled by corporate induction Battle rolls with positions entrenched Voices loud, shouting rhetorical cant Semantics gain premium, issues lost Advancements have relevance to ego Frustrated end, adjourned once again Another meeting without agreement
A little boy, hand in hand, filmed walking to his doom. Was tracked down to tracks. Camera trained on stillness. In between those cameras, deep ugly horror exploded. The powers, denied vision, socially spouted a version. Years later, no explanation. Time lapsed forgetfulness, allowed needy professionals, devour two boys in camera. For Jamie Bolger
Slow seasonal shifting at summer’s end, Sunny August ended, school once again. Memories of summer love packed away, Times passage metered by shorter days. New friendships made, and others gone, Month of changes, autumns turning on. Dread school uniforms hatefully put on. Teenager’s carefree existence at an end. Holiday months, so suddenly just gone, Summer wish and dreaming, lost again. Adult discipline, page turning fills days, Staring out windows, thoughts far away. Bird’s loud hedgerow bustle, hide away, Feeding frenzy, before winter draws on. Wildlife gorges against long leaner days, Season’s breeding and feeding now end. Insipid, swallow lifeless skies once again, Warmer climes searching they are gone. Hay fields mown; rare Corncrakes gone. Farmer’s weather fear, prays rain away. Frantically collects, fills the barn again. Machines cut crops, engines droning on. Yearly physical labours fruitfully at end, Praise and give thanks, bounteous days. Sports field packed, sweaty training days. Run, chase, catch, indolence swiftly gone, Glorious winning, losing, the fearful end. Final whistle blows, defeated slink away. To victorious the spoils, celebrations on, The vanquished may try challenge again. Harvest moon, silvery nights once again. Autumn yellows and reds painting days, Evening lights are gloomily switched on. Flimsy dresses and bikinis quickly gone, Folded and patted wistfully stored away. Size twelve reaching teary knowing end. Seasons marching on, year waning again, Harvest end, colder nights, shorter days. Summer long gone, Christmas far away. A sensual Sestina
Her hand slid across my hip, And found limp tiredness. But using her expert fingers, inflamed my mind and body. Fully engorged and awakened, I turned to adore my mistress. But with quiet sharp command, she bade me lie in stillness. Her body pressed against me. She whispered a sharp, “yes” Her hand now pumping faster, I answered that command.
Rubber on tiles heralds the return, of an alabaster skinned, sick child. Tubes and drips so calmly inserted. As we wait anxiously by his bedside. Over twelve hours of ragged emotion. Leave me edgy with tears in my eyes. My brain freewheeling crazily from, he will be better, to, what if he dies? Touching his hair, warm feverish skin, blue eyes slowly open, his mom weeps. A fourteen year old child waves weakly, but quickly and drug induced, he sleeps. Sitting and waiting, I watch him quietly, breathe, stifling a need to hold him tight. I want to tell him I love him, be his hero, assure him that everything will be right. His newfound indifferent independence, in sickness has so quickly drained away. Replaced by our little child, once again. He needs mom and dad to save the day.
I Found Luke Kelly
Take your poison, he said to me. Mine was a whiskey, sweet, and sweet it went down. And it went down, warming my sad heart. And Luke invaded, with harsh, beautiful voice. A voice with deep cant, cigarette poisoned gravel. Gently underlain, a quiet, strong statesman. After forty years I listened, first began to hear. My loss? Maybe I needed that time.
This classroom, a place, a place to be full, of race and space, and talented clear mind. Critique the words; oh, and please be kind, in words and actions. No, it’s time to cull. The innocent, unknowing and unlearned, Face the task, showing mind, but not soul. Bared and frightened, dare I play my role? Roll with the punches and not get burned. The beginning lines are slow and hesitant To try and write, which once was natural Fast flowed, full of grammar overblown, And without rules, blissful and ignorant, I was challenged to write and be rational, And I have struggled, learned, and grown.
The Powerful Keep
Pompous splendour, with many millions spent. The eight gather in their magnificent exaltation, of ancient birth right and thrones and dynasties, won by defending their insatiable desire to rule. Flags, bunting, herald suckling pig roast feasters. Homage is paid to positional divine importance, their power taken with the many millions blood. The painted mouths, and Bacchus quaffed freely. Outside the castled walls screams going unheard. A feeble lamentation of needy hordes arrogantly, unnoticed within showy castles of the status quo. Queen Marie Antoinette eats her cake salaciously. Ranks of soldiers in riot armour, dogs unleashed. Tear gas and water cannon turned onto their own, as soldiers, seeing through their masters eyes, are, the enforced defeaters of their own rioting masses. History haunting us in the old narratives replayed. Pagan, Jew, Muslim, Christian, colour and gender, lies, keeping us busy elsewhere, as Mammon feeds. Walls strong, and within, pigs at a deepening trough
Fool on the Hill
Questions asked. Abuse given. Explanations, not heard. People scared, to trust themselves. Standing in corners, fielding questions. Devil’s advocate, just to be heard. Questions lost in defence. Stop, listen, query. Ask of yourself, am I wrong, right? The enemy within, untrusted. Forever outside. Fool on the hill?
Following me in my whole brokenness. I was dogged by its bloodhounds nose. The kill, a slow descent into nothingness. All measured by my critics say so, or no. All my treasures abandoned, let drift off. Best unsaid rather than wilting ignorantly. I will always have my dreams, left untold. All untold, you cannot take them from me. In the end who loses, as tellers shut down. Me afraid of the cannon a weight profound. I’m hid in my fortress, my keep and castle. Safe in the knowing of never being found, out by raising of endeavour to the ground. I’m open, though afraid, and ready at last.
Issa inspired Haiku
the spiders web so delicately hung for promises on the wind dusk falling if we hurry might we catch it? broken fingernail vanity tormented do hungry ants care? kitten pounces another ball of wool dies growing games lit window red noses run home fires are warm granny sweeping busily many things under her skirts
This beautiful Mess Simple love begins, and the gods of protectionism and exclusion prepare diligently. Guardians of the status quo take it upon themselves to decide reality, and whored, powerful agreements, take precedence. Humanities simple need races to find space but are subjects to, and subjected to the whims of modern kings and queens. Clinging to antiquities. Pass, do not pass, go directly to Jail. A game played with our lives. Love, such a simple expression, ordered beside genocide and power plays. A loving touch means everything in growing, chances to blossom, choice to sow seeds of longevity. Yet these are nought when placed against the lawful manuscripts of exclusion, you do not fit, unclean, you will infect us. It was, will be, the written word, in stone, papyrus, paper and ornate gold, embossed decrees issued. Be with us or you are against us and we will defend our bastions of control.
Black Queens Etc. Sometimes, it is but a matter of waiting, for Godot, no, nor anything oh so grand. A chance meeting, my world spins anew, who are you Uhura; my dark changeling? Beautiful; beautifully aloof, queen of all, may I serve you at the altar of your need. Am I worthy, you think not, but so willing, I will learn to please you, elegant creature. In so doing, I might gain my completeness, the fullest measure of my own souls worth. My raison d'être, serving your magnificence, through many ages, & across worlds I strive. I earnestly beg you my dark queen of nights, allow this subject to serve you as best he can.
From Jamie To Ana February 1983 to May 2018, no connection. Differing paths, but the same gruesome end. Both victims of a society that fails to protect. Once again, a dark ugly horror is unleashed. A base ugliness, destroying innocent beauty. Again, I contemplate man’s real inhumanity. Jamie & Ana are only two of many victims. Victims of inhumanity I cannot comprehend. The same tired old banalities are trotted out. Vox pop opinion, alongside expert analysis. The masses told to forget, leave it to experts. A vibrant young woman robbed of her story. Jamie’s beautiful innocence all but forgotten. My soul cries, fractured by their tortured ends. Senseless, random murder takes its toll on me. Some extract a bigger toll, don’t ask me why? Jamie Bulger & Ana Kriegel Remembered