Dirge Poems

A surging dirge '

Deep in the bush i hear  'the snapping of sticks' a sound that flat toned sits with a
Feeling.. Just so sick.' When did Vice-pol
Really get so bad? No shes just not right.'
Wow the vibes real sad.' I think of their 
Estate? unravelling fast now.' Tailing off
Like a dingo's howl.! They have returned to
Their vomit..As

Dirge of the Last Lap

I

The loud, cruel laughter of dirge
besieges us so greatly in the face of
wanton humiliation.
It comes mightily, crashing our aged
city walls, unearthing the foundations of
churches,
tolling bells in pulsated grief . . .

Dirge comes with thunder,
like the trumpets and horns of
treachery common with lachrymose compositions;
when rain suddenly comes,
we fret visibly.

The events of dirge are colourless,
edgy and heartless

MY MESSAGE TO THE WORLD

We are all poems in motion
our beauty shaped by the choices we make
the words we speak
the paths we take.

So let’s write something beautiful.
Let’s choose peace instead of war
kindness instead of cruelty
love that doesn’t ask to be earned.

Be a sonnet not a dirge
carry hope in your lines
leave room for others in your verses
and rhythm that heals

Turn Left at the lights

Obtuse abuse..rude platitudes shout..

About alternative attitudes..generations..

Scream at different altitudes & latitudes..

Venerate mandarins sins.. 

Generate pernicious vicissitudes

Vicious avaricious machinations..

Celebrate nations chagrin…

Pander to propaganda spin..

AI garlanded reputations..

Cohorts in suits cavort in cahoots..

Kiss or diss..the abyss

Hiss of mis-information bliss..

Arrests..capitalist corporate conquests...detests protest..

Well got egregious prior & previous..

SO

Whatever your hue or world view..

We know what's wrong..doesn't belong

Deliriously daring to

STAMPEDE

STAMPEDE

Beneath the moon’s pale, a requited glow,
A hyperbolic crowd begins to grow.
The sphere is aired with fear and haste,
A storm of bodies, my qualms displaced.

A million cry, a sudden shove,
To venerate order, stripped of love.
Feet like thunder, hearts like drums,
Chaos shouts, and silence comes.

The pressing of souls, the crush of skin,
A pastiche, none had sought

A dirge in PRAISE of MGonagall's Forth Bridge

A poetaster I will always be
Renowned throughout eternity
For wonky metres and dodgy rhymes
Amongst my other versifying crimes
Like dull images and dreary words
Not to the liking of animals and birds
Whom Orpheus charmed with lyrics rare
While my efforts they  just cannot bear
McGonagall is the master to whom I bow down
The man who merits the peerless crown
Of

An October Dirge

#4

Mellow is our hound found lying on our deck by the lake.
A blaze of glorious yellow and orange meets my gaze.
Those radiant trees reflected in the water make my poor heart ache.

Old memories seize me as I look out at those trees.
Oh, all those days I recall of autumn’s fleeting gold phase!
Gone are our times

Rebirth

Rebirth: 
 
Tragedy has been your favorite genre—
A fount of acts and scenes
of wailing tears and excruciating scars
punctured alive by so-called healers.
 
That oozing wound 
paints the genre that trickles down the plot of your story.
The parched lips, a speaking metaphor of your turgid deals 
In the hands of those wandering away with lots of

A Dirge

(In memory of Uncle Thomas)

Bumpy breeze, like a blasting roar
That day when you did soar without an oar
Twenty-two years of sorrow, too long
For many years, I sang a solemn song
Days of dark, and greedy clouds
These years have been a time of thunderclouds

What went wrong for death to take you away?
Again, this year, your memory will

The Dirge

O Maya, 'Tis important to return from your invisible journey for I, right now, like a corpse dangling on the ground, wish to die in spring, beneath the cherry blossoms, while the springtime Moon is full.
If you, O mistress of my heart has passed away
And after you, eager to serve, go I
 I now waver

The Minstrel of Moscow

"I follow the Moskva
and down to Gorky Park-
listening to the winds of change" - Scorpions

All the heads of state and their spouses (or significant others) have arrived and been seated for this, my last show at Gorky Park, here in the heart of Moscow. For twenty odd years our troupe has staged this re-enactment of

Sound of Sorrow

They have slept with their fathers
Shall we seek for revenge?
Even the emotions could no longer contain our sisters
All we sing now is dirge.
I could hear the wailing of infants and cry of women
the sound of swords clanging and shouting of men  
Everywhere... I see darkness
Death! like we had no fortress
Shall we seek for revenge?
...

My Dirge For Me

As a tree outlives a flower,
A blade of grass, a red, red rose,
I guess it will not be too long
Before my eyes are closed
And life was something of my past
I’d lived these many, many years,
Three score and ten and eight 'til now -
Through laughter, joys and tears.

For some tomorrow, I will be
No longer conscious to

You Stun Me

You stun me 
Or was it stung
You hurt me
Or was it heard
You spite me
Or was it spit at
You hate me
Or was it had

You faked me
Or was it f*cked
You fooled me
Or was it felled
You fit me
Or was it fight
You took my head a-spinning
And you’ll never give it back.

Winter Dirge

The earth is cold
distant fires burn--
icy arrows
pierce my sullen body
and the emptiness
becomes unbearable.

Without her
the wind
is my enemy
and the glowering
sky suggests
her absence.

I seek warmth
in my moribund cave
thawing my brain with firewater
waiting for the 
alienating glaciers
to thaw.

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