A four pillared greeting, a long winding road
A quiet, eerie presence; cold, soft whispers...friend or foe?
A cry from the mountains rides on the breeze
It's heard in the valley, it's heard in the trees
Fallen for God and fallen for Spain!
It's not spoken with pride, but with pain and disdain
It comes like a croak, ragged and dry
Like it's been all boxed up and has not seen the light
The cries sing aloud from the walls of the nave
Most of them dug up; their final resting place: a mass grave
A shrine to the fallen for country and kin
A monument to remember; never forget this buried sin
A four pillared farewell, a quiet drive home
A reassuring presence, a new friend, a renewed hope
Time used to be gentle
like bike bells singing harmony
with a summer breeze.
Time seems to be picking up speed.
A freight train without an engineer.
A Hendrix electric guitar on amphetamines.
When did time become a runaway brute?
A trickster, a taker-a mass grave maker.
The shell game player. Raper of dreams.
Whisking everything you love to the far away...
Putting your cries on mute.
Time is picking up speed.
Withering things but never planting seeds.
Plucking the shriveled blossoms of memory.
Dumping them in a landfill.
With broken dolls, rusted 5 speeds, black lantern dreams.
Time is yellow rings of selfishness.
Forever hungry- lacks any empathy.
It devours the cream of life.
Turns the radiance of innocents into junkyard eyes.
Splashing gray onto the temple.
Welding bent hand to crooked cane.
Smashing everything in its greasy path.
Time is endless clownish-black comedy- a careen off a cliff.
A vintage violin at the bottom of a winter stream.
Time blasts into celebration when you're down to your last breath.
The mighty wind buffets
And the trees cry bitter tears
I try to hang on to my limb
"Don't let go!"
shutting my eyes to the debris
I'm torn loose,
blown away
through the empty air
nothing to cling to
panic sparks as I'm rolled
over
and
over
pulled this way................................... then that
too much wide open space
I'm battered against something solid
breaking,
cru
mb
ling into dry pieces
I
fall
to
the
ground
into a mass grave
of mirror images. mirror images
mirror images. mirror images
Mule minded
Plough, my mule
a furrow in my name
the almond tree blossoms
there will
be another furrow
in my name
memories collect
spent bullets
in a mass grave
in pursuit of knowledge
while yellow flowers
at the edge
of a memory
wilts
not robust enough
to plough another furrow
Mauve sweetheart of mountains
your petals pulse purple twilight and scatter small stars
amongst scars, whilst wars rage on the world's dark stage
and the stage disintegrates, becomes a mass grave,
scissored by shadow and scythed by sorrow.
Yet graves are amethyst-studded with promises of tomorrow;
lifeless lilac revived by meandering kisses of mountain streams...
Sleepy sweet-scented stars dream delicate dusk,
bloom on hostile ground, birthed from rocky earth,
storm-swayed but unbroken, budding
through the longest night, awakening
violet visages unfurling from the heart of dark
to be reborn in gold-gifted dawn.
Tenacious you cling as morning sings
to the small yellow sun that rises
in each resilient heart.
a tomb
you say
domed
and grand
and cherubin
temerity
a mass grave
of all of us
but
who still
creeps around
upstairs
Gene futility
How can we look at a child and kill it, by using “it”
we have distanced ourselves from the child they are no longer
unique, but just an expendable extension of us.
The intense love we have for a lost child is the grief
of our own demise…it is the only proof we ever lived
the loss of a gene, inconceivable future transgression.
A child killed in a drone attack in Pakistan stirs us less
then the sight of a bunny rabbit run over; how sad it
had to die, but it crossed the road. A naked Jewish boy
in front of a mass grave, his cap hiding his modesty,
I condemn all mankind for his demise, he is our cruel
gene-based viciousness, the survival of the genus and
for it to survive there is no room for compassion.
A man who kills children whether by drone or gun kills
himself and forever he shall walk in night's shadow.
In the heart of a war-torn country,
A mass grave awaits to be filled.
Piled high, the riddled cadavers,
Of the many citizens killed.
Their unrecognizable remains,
Haunts those assigned to the task.
To bury their friends and neighbors,
Each wearing a hideous mask.
There were many that prayed for peace,
But the Warlords would have their way.
Their methods of horror increased,
And became the trend of the day.
The bombs the enemy launched,
Would land on Ukrainian streets.
Destroying a thriving city,
Where its pulse no longer beats.
As they arose to meet the challenge,
Their lives were put to the test.
But their courage couldn't be thwarted,
And their will inspired the rest.
Now this country's character shines,
For the eyes of the world to see.
And the battle will never cease,
Until all of Ukraine is free.
Some summer night
The summer night is hot you can see the flames of hell,
acrid smoke and soot through the open window.
In the interior of the house, a primal scream
two wriggling bodies try to produce an offspring who
will grow up and be like them and die like them?
But not before it has tasted love, a seed of humanity.
Then sinking back underground, spent, forgotten
in the mass-grave of boredom
decorated with flowers that radiate deaths to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and forever
vanishes into an ancient forest,
While werewolves’ sways to a Mexican dirge
Skipping down the walk on a sunless, foggy day;
a bright red coat surrounded in shades if gray.
In a smoldering mass grave, on a sad and shameful day;
a swatch if bright red coat, surrounded in ashes if gray.
Inspired by Schindler's List
The wind of change
Blew off dust settled on my eyes,
I saw living corpses
Strolling the streets of urban.
It blew away the cloth
Tied around my face,
I beheld the mass grave
Of peasant farmers who died
From void promises for land.
The wind erased
Rhetoric from my psyche,
I discovered the skeletal currency;
Bones of a long breath departed economy.
I saw dead hospitals,
The ill buried alive in their homes.
I am a son of the soil
Living in a mass grave House of Stone.
Misrule
Misappropriate
Mass-grave
The park is nothing but a mass grave
for the plant kingdom when unravels the night.
Winter's spectral feet whisper like a knave.
The flowers they did not save.
A cloud barrier and light.
The park is a mass grave.
Every bough exposed, prepared to slave
many months carrying clumps of white.
Winter's footsteps whisper like a knave.
Mother's light diminishes like a hollow ocean wave
grass letting go of green sight.
The park is a mass grave.
An old eucalyptus looked upon the ground and forgave
the clouds who stole the sun and bound him in blight.
Winter's gait whispers like a knave.
Light charged with icicle breath and the sky steeped in iron, let's be brave
before gravity's chants begins and the ground turns. The truth will bite.
The park is a mass grave and winter's stride whispered like a knave.
We think we earned
this space on earth, and
we live dreaming
of the lost Africa of dance
lost under that ancient warrior's shield
with too many dragged
into the mass grave
when the weight of the world
pushed us down
Here in sorrow's dream land
we hear the songs like dancers do
our dance is the only thing that makes
the time pass here...
we find peace in the songs
(we can't get enough of them
we've memorized them all
line by line)
enough memories of songs
to last another generation
we drink in them, and
we dance with our eyes
times have changed...
it's a new world for everyone
when the songs in our lives
disappear
what will our dance be?
what should be done
with all the time
that lies ahead?
Is it possible to dance once again
to those songs in our lives
and be able to take
a completely different direction
to the one that has made us
who we are
This lost Africa of dance
has lost its meaning,
and in political arguments
we lost both war and peace,
and danced till sorrow
welled and spilled
and engulfed us
suspended in mid-air,
hidden behind Africa's anonymity.
In a mass grave so long ago,
They spoke to me before they died,
I saw their souls, the outward flow,
All hope buried beneath that tide.
The many starving, sent afar,
With wearied feet and hunger's burn,
Impel them on - my repertoire,
The children that fail to return.
I rose up tall against the shore,
Wood and iron to hold them fast,
Freedom vanished for evermore,
Slavery's journey to the last.
I set you fighting, tribe on tribe,
The dogs of war so fierce to roam,
Ensure no safety to describe,
What has worth if you can't go home?
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