This late morning's high noon scaling, steeply-ascending, ragged herald
Hauls himself upwards into the roaring expanse of the dizzying sky
To chance upon this, might though his very soul should be imperiled,
When lording over which is constrained within a dispassionate, encompassing eye.
From the feathered throat abruptly pours such Mellifluous harmony
As, lifting higher and higher, he negotiates a ledge inside a wisp of
broken cloud;
Those rich, dulcet notes, more decidedly sweeter than any liquid honey,
Irresistibly flowing Earthwards... a continuous symphony of unparalleled sound.
His alone the rushing glory! His alone this almost unattainable niche!
For up here, rarified and raw, the air is breathless and sparse where thins.
Then the song fully enveloping the shrunken patchwork of fields beneath...
Whereon, delivering forth from bursting lungs, that final triumphant salvo
he heroically flings.
Whispers of the wind rise through my pink hued leaves.
Ethereal evening glow lights the skies.
Raiders of the dusk, hovering on standby.
Walking my way past, I take the dais.
Omnipresent generals in attention stand along with me biased.
Longing wreathes wait on the carved guardians of kingdom mean.
Voyage through the vast unknown is on cards
Either a march to victory or martyrdom I believe.
Salvo of battle cry reverberates unseen.
In a report published by Air Mail, multiple women accused the 53-year-old star of Fight Club, Requiem For A Dream, Dallas Buyers Club and Suicide Squad of inappropriate behaviour.
Use of force is unstoppable when?
Whence?
Confined parameter of work space exists where?
Justice is will
Justice is and is not blind
Dialogue in Retraction as Retreat, A Study as Space
Are you a registered or speculation of lobbying
This is typified by Sicily in
Testa Di Moro
Sicilian Myths and Folklore videos are a salvo
Jenna, This is How You Remind Me
Peering true
Vanities Spite
Italian actress Claudia Cardinale
Peer into eyes as chant
Recant my verse
Impotent mascaras eye, lining your defeat
Instead of hours own
Coupled, they brave the storm
and critical exposure
forced by the storm to form
a perilous enclosure.
Under its salvo, they
press shivering shapes together
to limit the foray
of such unholy weather.
Embedded thus, they dare defy
the higher forces. Yet
his chivalry is impotent.
For nature soaks her wet.
A dense sky-rubble
trundled and spilled above the rooftops
a runaway thunder ground along unseen tracks,
a near salvo rocking mind-cradles,
then a muted detonation over a far off
storm bruised landscape.
The tumult cracked and sizzled-
leaden were the rayless shades.
I returned home in the nick of
a dispersing moment.
The house seemed crouched,
ceilings low and cowering;
a living-space quashed by a heavy hand
rooms sheltering from the weight of imminent
upheaval.
I paused for the searing glare of lightning
yet a deepening gloom
sparked no ignition nor flash;
only a pressing portent of menace.
Then as rapid as the booming
onslaught arrived
the heavens broke open,
gravity expelled a lighter breath
to rise ballooning into an airy light.
All who huddled beneath that cacophony
sighed now in shamed relief
a prayer unspoken upon their lips.
I did not leave my dwelling that day
until my timid tabby cat
bravely led the way.
A thundering spacecraft arriving out of nowhere,
a crashing, crushing presence
hurled downward until lamps blink, doors tremble
and roof shudders.
I count seconds into an electric darkness.
The next boom is distant, miles away,
just weather, not the menace
of an alien attack.
Then the next mighty boom
sounds like a salvo from a battleship.
A fizzing pause, a weak flapping, a scrabble,
as if a stricken angel had been downed.
Will a rescue mission be mounted,
some frontline extraction?
No wait...just a thunderstorm.
In the daylight will I find a few wing feathers
some mangled pigeon parts,
relics that must be ferried to the trashcan
under the watchful eyes of mourning doves?
Last night the Alder so deeply rooted in the hedgerow
was shot through by a bolt of climatic vulnerability.
I heard the smoking gun,
heard the clangorous salvo, the snap and break,
heard the unflexed crook of it pivot and shear,
timber dislocate, break, and crumble.
There was a fibrous unclasping,
then the unfolding thunder of impact.
This morning, thigh deep in its wreckage,
maneuvering through the downed foliage,
the strew of crumbled catkins,
I listen to its death throes
of leafage curling into whorl and lacuna,
the rustling whispers of a dwindling aftershock.
Splinters and twigs tremble, lumber creaks on
as a sotto voce rattle of demise
as if the tree was still collapsing beneath its fall,
as if this murmuring requiem
were a way to explain what the moment did.
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
It greets its own kind with an expectant wail
They may well converse and they may form a pack
But what do they keep in that very small sack
There’s others that come bearing more heads and limbs
And some that appear when the light of day dims
Its plans for a peaceful encounter can fail
Often the culprit has foreshortened tail
Quite unlike what might occur on the X-files
It doesn't spit fire but does hurl projectiles
It then splits in two, it knows where each one lands
And rushes them back to its other halve’s hands
It’s salvo continues ’til someone cries ‘ouch!’
One half then watches the other half crouch
It scans its surroundings to feed the small sack
Wherever it’s from it’s then time to go back
But first it must visit the red hi-vis bin
The small sack, now loaded, deposited in
Its travels may take it up hill or down dale
Six legs, two arms and often a tail
*
If you don’t get this, your minds full of fog
Or your brain just went south on a train
It’s only the tale of one man and his dog
So why don’t you read it again?
Aroma I feel is thy blood
Sucking thou until it made a flood
My teeth rooting into thy hypodermis
Fearlessness, braveness is what thou will miss
Because I escaped from Transylvania
To see thou, being in an utopia
I will be in the witching hours soon
When the wolves are howling to the moon
Thou have already got thy omen
Hide or thy house will fill with men
To recite all about your obituary
I will escape again at least to a sanctuary
Now thou may know me from my name
I am there with a high fame
A person with bleeding clothes who cannot be tame
Maybe thou wish to be the same
Yes, I am so vigorous than a salvo flame
Won't fall with your childish blame
Sharpened my teeth from where I came
Your veins and blood is my only aim
Ghost will just visit and go
Beldams will scare you not much more
But me as a vampire is a bedevil
Drinking your blood till my heart fill
Middle of the crossroads, I’ve found myself in
To my left stand the poets, holding their pens
On my right are religions, kneeling behind a cross
In front sit the atheists, debating who’s boss
Behind me an army of agnostics, look totally lost.
Let the dual begin, they all fight for my soul
Bards throw the first salvo, a stanza to behold
But god’s people retaliate, Bibles are held high
Non believers point to a rocket, above in the sky
Ones behind me, sit on fences doing nothing at all,
Meanwhile the debate rages, almost to a brawl.
Poets bring out big guns, Poe, Yates, winning me over
Religious read their gospel, drawing me in closer
Atheists go all out, with Darwin and natural selection,
Agnostics still looking blank, without any direction
I’m been torn asunder, on life’s meridian intersection.
Bards say without poetry, I’ll never be truly free
God’s people counter, embrace Christ and find eternity
Non believers tell me look at facts, in human technology
I go join the ranks, of recused zombies behind me.
By
David Kavanagh
I heard the clangorous salvo,
heard its joints pivot and shear,
the hips of thick branches crumble
as it folded into the night.
There was a fibrous unclasping.
The ground flew up
over its rebounding shadow.
This morning thigh deep
in foliage and catkins, I listen.
There are death throes, a green surf ripples,
rustling whispers.
Leafy mouths tremble. Bark lips
rattle and curl.
Vowels drum in burnt cavities.
It seems the suddenness of death takes time,
It needs a Requiem Mass of murmurs
to explain what the moment did.
Scales hardened over her skin
a condition called ichthyosis vulgaris
ik-thee-O-sis vul-Ga-ris
fish disease
(the ‘vulgar’ means ordinary
but at its worst
it is far from common).
She bled where the plaques chipped and cracked,
she leaked oils, but could not sweat enough.
She existed on her own sunbaked beach
gasping for breath.
She was a salmon fisher once
before she was encased in Piscean plates.
(The root of the word salmon
is ‘salvo’ meaning, to ‘leap’),
and indeed
for years she had tried to jump out of her skin.
One night
an easterly wind
brought a silver-eyed fisherman
to her breach.
In the swaying dark
he laid her down.
She suffered him to scrape
the arid scabs from her
with his skinning blade, hooked like a gaff.
He was exquisitely skilled,
gentle even.
Slowly he skived her sheath,
left her
glowing and wet,
beautiful and supple
on a heap of husks.
There beside the pitching surf
they made love.
Later,
he watched
as she swam away.
(The ichthys fish symbol
is older than history,
sea goddesses
claim it
as a symbol
of sexuality and rebirth).
This humble musician so sad,
got upset of being always trodden
by the swaggy salvo of neglect.
He tried to impress people by his music,
but its timid tune reached nowhere,
dissipated unheard in the thin air.
He once listened to the call of his soul,
wanted to be heard loud and bold,
so got a trumpet from cacophonous market.
On a moonshine night when people slept,
he tried but couldn’t blow his trumpet,
for it turned into a feeble flute.
August 30, 2019
Mueller is finally going to talk
Down the garden path this walk
If he could have said it was a crime
He is a republican they don't drop dimes
He had all of the information in his hand
And let Attorney General abscond the plan
He didn't interview trump or his Son
Both were holding the smoking gun
The meeting in trumps golden tower
Covered up when things went sour
They conjured up a story about adoption
A bold face lie in the face of collusion
Wikileaks fired the salvo
July 27th trump looking to let emails go
Mueller ain't the saint the media portraits
Its the republican with whom he always plays
At The Footbridge
Two Armies
One shoots off another salvo
The other fires back with gusto
Each offended
At the aggression of the other
At the footbridge
Foot soldiers die
In agony you hear them all bloodied, cry
War is a must and you wonder why?
Kings collect gold
Queens their ladies in waiting
Castles must be filled
With linens and fine silver laden
All with justifications
For the death of serfs and those of the invasion
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