Lest

There is no gap between the dark and light
No break of day, no falling of the night
Our hearts may ache but fingers still entwine
Your share of misplaced blame lies next to mine
There is no way to say a last goodbye
Though worlds apart, I feel it when you cry
Should mindless spin rotate the human race
Away from common problems we all face
We’ll split the cost no matter where we stand
Our imprint is co-authored on this land
Remember how I whisper in your ear
That love will always hold the hand of fear.

Bird

In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid;
his young wife and child went missing when the bird fell from the sky;
and his neighbours come a-running from the homes that can’t be saved.

This man is digging with his fingers for the little girl he made,
desperation in his shouting that the bird took her away.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid.

There are tears across his country, but the grit is in his eye.
He is calling for his baby, but his throat is raw and dry;
and his neighbours come a-running from the lives that can’t be saved.

So many lonely people left by loved ones swept away,
by the restless wings of predators who fall upon their prey.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid,

but who falls upon the ground to dig his future from its grave;
and a miracle is lifted and is held up to the sky,
and his neighbours come a-running to a life that can be saved.

And a cursing and a wailing fill the hole that has been made
by intangible corruption in the shape of many graves.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid;
and his neighbours wipe the rubble from the tiny life they saved.

In our midst

These elfin must, you say, be kept in check,
be weakened by the wiles you litter round,
for in full strength they’d melt your measly words
and cease your constant wars and mongering.

In market halls, in places you forgot,
they work their wisdom calm and quietly,
and people who are tired by what you do
arrive for salve and kind solicitude.

These elfin, simply people who don’t bow
to fear and hate and spin, will tarry long,
and when you send your twisted stooges in,
be unapparent, veiled, but ever strong.

The Sound of Guns

Parricide is not pretty,

but in a time of swallowed splinters,

there emerges a new confidence,

and no one is safe from

the absolute certainty of the Crack.

.

When anger is awake and ungoverned

the Almighty Metal Guru draws near to tease.

The wheel turns as young wreakers and hoakers,

already tucking boredom in their belts,

dash through familial barriers

straight into the Crack’s improbable deathhole.

.

Suddenly, we are all prey:

heavy weights flailing and falling

past previously pitted lives

towards our own bloody demise.

.

Unable to climb smooth surfaces

society begins to fester,

scraping the walls with botulinal nails;

kicking itself with blister boots.

.

Oh, those ugly days of lost heritage;

elders supping tears together, whilst

so many futures are crossed

by the star thin silver reticle

of the Almighty Crack.

Building Affinity

War is a wasted land,

a wounded state where none may truly live,

so may not be defended;

whose deep ravines, made from dry, parted lips,

wide, fearful eyes, and broken homesteads,

are empty of prophet, in death, devoid of meaning;

where the very skin of earth is cut,

and love lies bombed and bleeding.

But

Courage can be a capital city

a freehold space where opponents come to sit

and hope be ever mended;

whose public belvederes and bowers, made strong

by transparent rumination and debate

all teem with life, in truth, where words have meaning;

where the very heart of earth is put,

and peace upheld with feeling.

Significance

Each hair-fine twist of a writer’s wrist
the least tiny parting of every pair of lips
may hold the latent energy of an inky thought
excavated by curiosity or care with great import

Each gardener’s slight leaning on a spade
an individual swimmer’s push through pregnant waves
may leave a lasting deep pressed indentation
enough to drive a wedge or heal a nation.

Torn

War comes suddenly.
Whilst I was sleeping
bitterness bit again
night terrors snapping them
from beleaguered slumber.

Is it like this every time?
Whilst I was eating
plagued and fragile
with fraught reason
they struggled to dress.

Not to worry we are ready.
Whilst I was driving
abandoning reflection
they ran from their homes
crying in early light.

About how far will we run?
Whilst I was working
they hid in dusty ditches
few belongings spilling
clinging to their children.

Heroes were everywhere.
I am curled around you
we are at home tonight
safe and sound we will not
see madness in the dark.

Guest Speaker

In frustration the voice of Silence speaks;
pestered out of exile by louder mouths;
cannoned by paternalistic might
into fields of feisty battle;
invited to defend itself against
the din of popular culture
intellectual masturbation
and arrogance.

Cease for once your boasting,
burbling, infernal blasting.
Cease your wrangling, warbling,
weak lambasting.
Silence has a point to make.
(The next few lines are intentionally blank)

Pink

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
with its pretty smile
in the dark bathroom
of abysmal atrocity

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
until fearful nightmares
are happy adventures
riding free in a fast car

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
to remove indelible stains
tattered sanity and
the smell of strangers

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
to repair its innocence
reinstate its torn trust
and drown the sound

of crying