Belief

I do not believe
in anything I read,
apart from the stutters
of rhymed poetry:
I will kneel down
to fix the any-things,

I know kneeling’s best done
beneath un-wed kings,
under His patronage,
under His state,
because Royalty commands
us plebs to wait:

Ladies, crowns, patronage
and the fine arts,
we queue in His corridor
to win His blue heart:
I will piss up my shed,
the oak-clad exterior,
and wish to piss
on the Royal posterior:

Believe nothing, son,
instead recall,
your grandfather died,
and your father was a fool:
Dig deep into ancestry,
for a small fee,
there you will find
no royalty.

Cross

I will now deny the rich
their pleasured agenda
by switching off the media

by restoring my memories,
to recall how secure
our future once felt

I make these my choices –

I will stand up for the NHS,
I will support state education,
I will seek dignity for the elderly,
I will not let sickness profit,
and I will respect those with less
because I will never be
the one percent, not us,
the freelancers,
the fireman,
the coppers,
the nurses,
the teachers,
the shop-keepers,
the factory
and the office workers
we,
the unelected,
the kept-at-bay,
the once state-maintained,
the f*cking Hard Working
tax payers

will be screwed, lustrum-long,
by policies born of private pickings,
whelped by Bullingdon boys

and when I wake to them, again,
wearing sneers they call smiles,
with drubbings for the losers,

I’ll know that my cross was counted,
piled, not as high as the winner’s cards,
but, briefly, in that mark, my minority won.

By Windover Hill

No rich patron for St Andrew’s Church,
unmoved by digging at historical facts,
dropped, slumped, almost marooned,
leaving it off-centred on Alfriston’s Tye,

a cross set high on a rough mound,
above the bezier-curves of The Ouse,
of her flood-carved meanders,
kept from the village by a low flint wall,

this house sits, quiet, above the tide,
that moon’s claim upon timed rises,
which shift according to typed charts,
there is more than one God working here.

This low Cathedral of the Downs
will always be half-framed by the slope
of that grazed slant of Windover Hill,
unsure of the Long Man’s presence.

Inspired by – Keith Pettit

The Inheritor

I let my grey hair over-grow,
wear out dead man donated clothes,

I occasionally tap paths with my worn-down stick,
missing the beat of my off-time limp.

I’ve been re-set by a strangle, unseen,
I am less of a man, a reduction in mien,

offended by nature not playing it straight?
I eye the barrel of pain’s aimed complaints.

‘Life’s unfair,’ she spat out the words,
a line which I’ll refuse to rehearse.

But forty years later my recall has grown
of my mother’s bile rising, I swallow my own..

Life is fair, it is in agreement,
until we are held up by our parents,

then their bias, that family axiom:
We make our own lives by not repeating them.

I let my grey hairs over-grow,
wearing out dead man donated clothes.

Sayings, Hearings


Sayings, Hearings
You say the things you say,
to protect the ones you love,
but those hardened words
go beyond ‘just enough’.

The person being put down,
a low-targeted heart,
hits him ‘specially hard,
when already blown apart.

Breathe in, before you speak,
breathe out honest lies,
such simple Buddhist tricks
would simplify your life.

 

Making Hay

Making Hay

I headed down
the High Street,
sloped to the river,
baked, dust-blown,

everything diverted,
almost deserted;
the traders forgiven
for early closing.

My small-change
pet shop purchase,
fed an empty-rung,
receipt-rolled, till,

But,
an exchange of value:
We talked about skydiving,
John Noakes,
and column-climbing.

Those shaded contractors
blasted sand off pavements,
and I headed home,
only hay-weighted.

 

The Wild Atlantic Wanderer, for JV


 

Why walk such distances,
with only the weather
measuring your steps,
over The Downs,
as breaths are taken
in exertion and sights?

Why walk without
a destination,
but the next stride,
on loosened chalk paths,
side-stepping puddles.

Why walk from your fixed place,
packed-up, back-turned,
to be rained-on, blown,
to find loneliness,
to be met by hearth
and hearty places?
 
*Jane Volker’s blog:
http://wildatlanticwanderer.blogspot.co.uk

Capture the Clock

 

Capture the clock,
we’ve this time to lose,
speak with the old,
mute now the news:

Listen to aged-voice,
life-burr, soft-breath;
rhetoric worn-down,
senior voice attests:

Summon hoar-views,
lifted, in grey;
embrace explanation,
off soft-mumbled rage.

Sit in the chair,
in which they tremble,
embrace their time,
do not pass them,
dissembled.

Look in rheum eyes,
read drowned-years passed,
absorb their life,
because this is your last.

URL: http://freemusicarchive.org/music/Severin/Severin/Suicide_1316
Comments: http://freemusicarchive.org/
Curator:
Copyright: Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 International: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/

 

 

The Kingfisher’s Capture – for @DavidAPlummer

 

The dart, sit,
then flit, of a
kingfisher’s reign,
David sat focused,
fixed by royal flame:

No luxury of procrastination,
this artist,
nature-trapped,
within his
condition.

The tremor of nature’s
tree-shaken
empire,
sits in his soul
feeding
his fire.

Programme:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p03szdr7