It's a heart breaker
the rifting of wonder
when a giver of inspiration
takes the hidden treasure trove.
Answers the questions
yet to be asked.
The keeper of the secrets,
now lies stranded,
floundering and forgotten
on a distant foundered shore.
Marooned on an island
deserted and all alone.
The 'X' on the map was stolen-
read from over the shoulder.
The chest lies open,
the lock picked clean,
by a tongue
that spilled the beans.
For the cruellest thief
doesn't pick-pocket
the spoils.....
He tells you where
they're buried,
steals the search,
grabs the compass,
shovel and keys.
The spoils are his, indeed!
You've nothing left to do!
Remember me as deep Insight
a naked Presence raw and authentic
as my grey ashes float blue waves
like when the tiny slave boat
reached Cape’s shores in
a country of Rainbow colours
remember my humour which you
could not get and only laughed long after
Remember my willingness to stand before
the cruellest of interrogators for
the freedom of my country
drinking water from a prison cell’s
lavatory pot as pointed rifles were held
in mock shoot and I said “Shoot
but freedom will still come”
Remember my crimson wisdom dancing with
Excalibur in the dead of black nights
my jigsaw quilts made from scraps
and the way I wheelchaired to a
washing line that did not exist
baked bread without yeast
how I could tell a cockroach to leave
and she scattered
Mostly remember that I came and left fulfilled
knowing that Divinity is well pleased with me !
Feeding a child with what he knows already !
Hasn't this been in many good schools steady?
A child finds it fine acting unconcernedly,
Teacher is sure it's time to be unfriendly,
The child soon humming tunes or shuffling his feet
Wanting to another chap in mischief beat...
All these right under a teacher's sorry nose
With his bulging bag hitting another close.
If teacher flogs child as good as the sacked!
He should have the lips of tasted French wine smacked!
A child who could answer his cruellest questions
And where he had messed up made suggestions.
A Breath of solace for those who weep
Ashes in the wind are gone from sight
Angels from far come while we sleep
Gathering names to unite in clear light.
And leave a cold breeze to clean the air
Ends the interval between day and night.
With the reign of shadows drawing near
Silence takes away our beacon of delight.
Like a mission engulfed with sadden grief
We took our last kiss muted with icy tears.
In the numb loss of strength to bear defeat
And trace back each step by intrepid fears.
No taste can saviour the cruellest stitch
For pain so piercing over the ones we miss.
From birth to death, their lives were rich
But, after the last rites and the final kiss.
We leave everything that we cherished,
And go to where the two roads diverged,
when the earthly claims are vanquished
Into another world, our spirit will emerge.
April the cruellest month of summer in India
She was standing under margosa tree
In Waiting she missed the first bus then
Second missed after that third was missed
Sweating she was staring the black road.
The road is black in sunny days
Like selfish man under brown coat
Perhaps he was hidden on bike to get rid of her
The office there both worked was not different
But they behaved there was very different
No hi, no hello, no more talk, no more smile
But all the time they looked very pleasant
When office closed she took back seat of the bike
Without talk, without smile
Like silent MOM on Mars mission
they completed the journey
I didn't understand both
Can anybody answer the puzzle
Who is special the bike or man.
Whene'er it doth seem the fierce tempest rage -
Know thee then beloved, anon sails thy double wage.
Be thou gay in cruellest wind that doth blow -
For exercised therein thy strenght is blessed to grow.
Thy wit
Is as gold
That through most cruellest
Heat
must go.
Take ahold
Of thy mustard faith.
The throne awaits
He that will be brave...
It's the truest cliché
and the cruellest
life is not a dress rehearsal
we're all born
on the big stage
of no
second chance.
Why does my mind get tortured at such great length
It stops your thinking and takes away your strength
I am empty for words and feel really so very weak
pain keeps coming like an old tap with a noisy leak
Having a place to go when your all chewed up inside
Taking you to peace and rest like a lay- by at roadside
troubled past horror's you would never have believed
The cruellest of people that had to look after me
They never knew love only badness made for thee
You felt something missing in your lonely heart
Like you are longing for that special sweetheart
never knowing what was coming, day or in the night
Nobody cared how far they went or how bad the fright
I just longed for that day for it all to stop and end
So never thought they could drive me round the bend
I wanted it all to end or show me my own cliff edge
one simple step takes me with angels over the final ledge
Nobody could very start to understand their thinking
All I could very see was my will to live was shrinking
If there is any justice in this very cruel world of mine
So God please find me my place I dream to be Devine
Tongues destroy what monasteries built,
And blessings fall on those consumed with guilt.
Angels visit the demon spawn ,
Watching whilst dusk turns to dawn.
The cruellest of all hide in corporate burrows,
Yet God's brow barely furrows,
And so the world keeps on whirling.
As Man's morals keep burning,
The tide is turning.
The pasture is filled with rams.
The farmer takes no notice of the silence of the lambs.
This year hot April
The cruellest in two decades
Picnic in your shades
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 16, 2016
they always cry about the war this
or that maybe true this time
the war they have been foreseeing all this
time the predicted the biggest
cruellest one
the end
rays pierced my eyes through the hole
rain not lessening their poise
should buy a curtain
the green with the
roses red
with the next wage war is on
i am back to disturbed
sleep dinosaurs
wailing
“And they called it - Puppy Love”
He sang barefoot upon radiator piping hot
A naked child with pubescent cock in hand
An initiation danced upon burning spot
Eyes screwed tight midst his cruellest night
His face stained beneath desperate tears
We laughed out aloud listening to initiation song
Our compassion died midst those early years
With the back of hand replacing mothers love
Tears became the victim to lessons learned
We danced to the whims of sadistic regime
Only strong did survive, weakest burned
Any favour shown would demand such high price
With **** bleeding more common that colds
Character building were all beatings given
As were the suicides of sobbing 13-year-old's
The comforting arms with soft female voice
Whispering words that I would so desperately clutch
Groomed early years within pillow of soft breast
Whilst satisfying carers insatiable crotch
I survived stunted growth in spite of such years
Disguising damage that I knew went beyond repair
A legacy that taints all that I have loved and destroyed
A 1970’s state sanctioned system of care
Me like a speck in the gizzard of mother earth,
Sitting coldly, my short time, waiting to be grind,
Didn't I wear any power? embracing odd of all unpleasant kind,
My faith like dry pumpkin, hanging on top of grandma's hearth.
I watch the cloud go crazy, but can't scold,
For, am already drenched more than a Hippo in the sea,
The sun stings like bee,
For, it has been tortured, upon me to grow cold.
Jokey dance of wilful whirlwind,
My fearless heart, before me zoomed away,
Maybe declared in this garden, to be king only " in the castle of my mind"
For, builders of earth now the cruellest aliens fighting my kingly way.
Whether, am only a lusty dust, waiting for soil tribute, to pay,
Jehovah himself has the final say.
When nights are cold and there is naught but pain
and hate and fear are kings that reign supreme,
the cruellest wind shall bring a bitter rain,
can paradise be more than Man's sweet dream?
Vacated hearts behind the guns of war,
their blinded eyes cannot see love nor trust,
with souls out cast by grace for evermore
the deeds of rage are found in death's foul dust
yet still they cry, the gods are never just.
Each spring the fig tree bursts at the ends
of bare branches like Fido in heat, and
there's one empty bird nest: an epigenous
ornament out of season in mid-March.
"April is the cruellest month," T. S. Eliot
wrote. He who understood growth
is pain, a thrust of agony. So, be about
your birthing, little bush--push out leaves,
cringe at the episiotomy of knife and shears.
Hear me crooning, "There, there, I will be quick..."
No blood spurts out in slash of azalea, in
burst of bottlebrush. No inky ooze in purple
periwinkle that slept all winter. I prune
the shove and shaft of elm, as it fulfills its
promise of shade and safety, behead
the poisonous crawling vines, their deadly
embrace, shake the pines for cones,
so perfect, so concise. Would that I might
morph that way each spring--perfect,
concise, whatever the price.
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