Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Political Idealism

The silver sea is reflecting pink again
coldly washed in the winter's fading light.
Reminiscence? A gesture of contrition?
I don't know what.
Like a rose on a silver plate, afterwards.
An old ruse, tried once too often.

How many times? How many times?

You said it would be different.
You said it was time for a new start.
Your smile could melt wax, it's so warm.

In summer your plans were big; dreams even bigger.
Then came the harness,
then the plough.
And it was heavy.
Heavier than you imagined

And the Earth turned
as it always does
and the rains came
as they always do.

But you fixed it.
Sort of.
We didn't wash away, anyway.
You said encouragingly.

In the wan sunlight
you had new plans.
You'll see.

I just washed the pots
and scrubbed the spuds.
The dead roses reflected
pink in the dishwater.
And I waited.

And the worm turned
as it always does
and the rains came
as they always do.

And now it was my fault.
I never, or I always,
I forget which.
All you'd needed was
something you'd never had
and I didn't give you.

So you were cold
and you were cruel
punishing me
for your stillborn dreams.

And the moon,
cold and cracked
voyaged on alone
into the raging night
Even staring rudely
curtains undrawn
without even the
manners to hide its
face from the day.

And the season turned
as it always does
and the flowers came
as they always do.

How many times? How many times?

Your smile surprised me
like a sunny day in Spring
Like a wet dog with a ball
So we went out in the brightness
and we laughed and sang
and did silly things
and I melted like wax.


Saturday, March 23, 2019

Christchurch 2019

the crescent moon
is tear shaped.
Words of purity stilled
on martyrs' lips.

And the clouds whisper:
In the name of God,
the compassionate and the merciful.

Looking up from our phones
we find ourselves lost
Mountains dark and menacing
Soft white speckling
and the icy kiss of snow
pink frost and the crunch
of shattered crystal
under boots marching
in the moonlight.

And slowly it dawns
on a world we thought
buried in the library.
We have blundered again
into Akhmatova's dark valley.

Signs, not wonders.
Yield curves inverting;
deadlines looming,
tweets incoherent.

In nothing we trust.

And the stars say
there is no god, but God.

Slippery, the invisible hand
picks workers pockets 
in Philadelphian bars.
Birmingham, Budapest, Paris, Munich.
Robbed workers, clutch their
pride in cold dead hands that
would make them great again.

And when all the guns fall silent
cities riddled hulks
Women and children
Huddled in camps
lives of tears, and all 
that is left of hope 
in a plastic bucket
who is to blame?

Oh Christians
I say unto you
the second greatest Commandment is
you shall love your neighbor as yourself.

TV smiles 
assured of certain certainies.
Israel, Turkey, Saudi, Russia,
America, Hungary, Syria, Iran.
Criminal politicians
Orchestrators of hate,
Dividers of humanity.

Poison data
licks like fires
burning minds
in social mires.

And those who reject Our messages and turn away from them haughtily these are the companions of the Fire; and they shall abide in it.

There can be no victory without love
and those without love can win
but hatred and fire.

For he said:
"I refuse to accept the view 
that mankind is so tragically 
bound to the starless midnight 
of racism and war 
that the bright daybreak 
of peace and brotherhood 
can never become a reality."

And he said
"Hello, brother".

Speak not of those who are slain in God's way as dead. Nay, (they are) alive, but you perceive not.

So be it.