Busy as a bee
Sticky as a notepad
Ending at roadside.
Work like a bee
Industrious as can be
Work to pollinate
Our society with vitality
Work on boosting
And promoting beauty
Through inducing
Spirituality into all you see
Be like a worker bee
Industrious as you can be
Pollinating goodness and love
Kindness and compassion
Work on life with a fertile action
To spread peace and light
With an overwhelming passion
And help all the maintains
And sustains grow
Into wonderful magic.
Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust
In a hollow on the council tip, where
Motionless it stands, in time rigid; still.
Fashions in one’s mind, grandma’s legacy
Of skill, stitched in a place named ‘Tunic Mill’
A long row of stone wall terrace houses,
Families of weavers, sewers of yarn
Alas, now bones that lay in the graveyard.
The war years seemed like only yesterday
The men over yonder, their spirits tall
With loved ones left behind to battle on,
Carve out a living, mend uniforms torn,
Holes where bullets have pierce and shrapnel ripped
Blood stains a regard, to what laid therein.
‘An ill-wind doused their flame, and the life of
The candle spluttered, spent, and all was dark.’
© Harry J Horsman 2018
Who would have thought
that so much money could be made
from humans killing humans
And how ingenuity could be harnessed to
the industrious fabrication of weapons
The unconscionable necessities of profit
design the shrapnels politics
Who would have thought
that so much luxury could be bought
from humans killing humans
Pitiful deluded patriots of weaponry
so worship the anti-life money
But in the festoon of lacerated death
target genocide on the innocent
Bitter salt to those so easily encouraged
filling bank accounts with their marching corpses
Count the coins by bloodied liters
weapons dealers are never soldiers
And who would have thought
that so many humans could be brought
to serve the armories of weapons industries
The fog covers hill, dale, and trees
It saturates all birds
In their nest whether 'pon ground or eve
It soaks cows in their herds
Drives home the lowly bumblebee
No wasp now flies around
No mosquito seeks a blood drink
The ants still keep their mounds
Industrious creatures they are
Constantly at labor
Gathering, protecting their mounds
Is it to them a chore
Those fireants defend 'til death
Leaving infected whelts
Pain of fire~itching~then blisters
Because stepped where they dwelt
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