In twilight’s dank and odious arbour,
I look for solace among dead vines.
Their choking hands admit and harbour
Many lies from within their strands.
Too deathly pale the honey suckle rose,
Its pallid echoes breathe and gasp.
Its frown then holds me, and does suppose,
That I too, am often left to the cold.
I bite on rotten forbidden fruits,
Long forgotten and refused by time.
Frightening, but appetising are these shoots
They let me retch whilst savouring.
Inspired by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Those who plant the trees
To grow inquisitive roots
Will never know shade
Excuse my misleading tags: WordPress is now having an invisible man hissy fit. I cannot see or delete what I am typing for them… hence my absence, among other things.
A magnificence of feats,
if dear hearts survive testimony,
witness to the ills of humanity;
stubborn as it is smart,
lethal as it loving –
doomed from the off.
If one red breasted heave
survives our test of time –
life has not been in vain.
A Quadrille consists of 44 words.
A rumble of silence creeps
into the veins of
tangible pain, numbing senses
while corruption still tortures.
Our touch contaminates
until we sicken
nature’s soft noise –
humanity’s sonorous roar –
animals need to sleep
amid our mess.
Tribes and wildlife and ecosystems need to exist –
amid our mess, not endure enforced extinction.
We have made some
of the biggest mistakes
of our existence.
But we are who we are,
and mistakes will happen
until we are no longer here…
amid our mess.
On this touchstone, torch lit night,
vast painted echoes, blue and bright,
are released in the Sun’s explosion of mistrust –
long apt to ignite… sending us back to dust…
There is silence from the suffers of old,
who now come in from the dextrous cold,
forming porous, multiple, textured lines,
in hues of subtle forms and lies,
inside grand, coarse grained schist
that keeps us from burning warmth and myths,
and who hold this evil darkness over us –
ever at our resting souls.
Should we be so bold?
What does this all mean,
‘never to be cold?’
But, fiercely, we are armed still,
but, sadly, tis only with misery.
I must not wonder –
as I wonder most of all –
what the future,
has in store for us all.
And I must not venture,
as I must not stray and fall.
Is this really
Has any of it been real at all?
Walking though the world
Hand in hand with nature’s dilemma
A cool breeze still blows
Pour my blood on thick,
Lay petals on gossamer nets
of human error and folly,
pinned there for all time
on a journey stilled by reckless
acts; all wildlife captured
become ageing slaves in limbo.
We share destiny.
Is this our eternity?
A Quadrille is a 44 word verse.
gone in seconds.
Race with butterfly nets
across fields with jam jars aloft –
Keep badgering your local and central government until they get to grip on industry and look at rhe real issues afloat here. We have a right to clean air and water. They do not have a right to extortionate profit making at the expense of humanity.