Without Us

You don’t understand me, perhaps …

But you certainly don’t like me;

Because I’m mine and

Comfortable with the fact.

I recognise your token sympathy

For the false pity that it is.

But hold: there’s something

Far bigger happening.

We should spit on our palms,

Make some kind of a deal,

So step aside, hold out your hand

Or go for cover, because it

Can happen without us.

Distant Blows

Distant blows –

Source unknown –

Sledgehammer?

Rimshot?

Shell?

Each replying to

Its own call;

Echo meeting shock.

Distant, rolling blows;

Definite, getting closer.

Survivors listen for the

Passing cracks,

Not knowing if

Construction is approaching

Or its alter ego: destruction

Is heading down the plot.

Unconcerned, the men

Digging trenches

Lean on shovels,

Knowing the soil

Will succour both …

And more.

 

The Way I Was Taught

Ought to get back –

The way I was taught –

On the horse that’s

Not a horse;

Get something to

Put by in the bank

That’s not a bank.

To remind myself

That the road that’s paved

With gold is walked by

Saints and sinners

As well as those

That have never noticed.

More Than Disconnected

There he was –

And here he still is –

Pride-blind stubborn man,

Reaching for the silver,

Expecting the love.

There we were –

Here we are still –

Though far more than disconnected;

Well past dislocated dysfunctional:

Bitter-orphan diversities.

Pretending not to listen,

Not to care.

The big casino simply

Wasn’t room enough.

As Tides Always Will

Those years ago,

Our first encounter,

I had only sounds …

Sounds and the pictures

Behind my eyes.

Now tunes return, as

Tides always will

And now I am able to

View the world-as-was.

I cannot help but smile

– So rainbow wide –

At the waters deep,

The bridges long

And all of those

Glorious adventures

In smoke.

By the Harvesters.

Of course, it’s got to be

Better not to dwell on it;

But we’re all going

To lose it one day.

He shouldn’t know it,

This head-down young charger,

Won’t know it until it ambushes him,

But his day is today.

Every Man

Two and a half days

Pushin’ bare earth ‘n’

Cold blood ‘n’

Iron bones around.

Send me the word,

Oh send me the word:

The one that means

Slaves can have honour,

The one that’s carried

By the northern star

And passed on by

A man named for colour,

A man named for royalty.

Every man headed for freedom

When the word gets here.

Waiting for You …

In the land of many ills

There’ll always be the one

That’s listening to the voices

(The ones nobody else can hear),

Where grain costs more as liquid –

In the city where rock is

Melted for gain and steel is

Twisted by prophets.

Lookin’ for Someone …

A little tremble

In the full lips,

A little tear –

That nobody ought notice –

Building in a blue eye;

Blonde hair waterfalls

Across a single loop ear ring.

Me? I’m – mostly – comfortable

Waiting for an onward connection

In this universal airport gate chair,

In this end-of-tour skin.

But this lady has my attention;

Lost maybe and in need.

I catch her gaze, hold it.

She forces a smile:

“Don’t mind me,” she drawls

“I’m just lookin’ for somebody …”

“Me too,” I’m thinking,

“But, Hell, Lady,

I’ll stop lookin’ if you will …”

But she’s gone before

The thought is complete.

Those Echoes

When inventions weren’t

Nearly enough, the

Mothers smashed the

Candy-store windows;

Fast fingers, diamond lips …

Even though he had

Done no wrong, the

Gentle man was pushed away.

Some nights, an old-sweet child,

Hears those echoes, and

Is crying still.