The Big Issue

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Bodiless message

Reached me around sun-up:

No place, today,

To rest, to think.

Dragged my bones to

The Markets of Faith,

En route to the

Hall of Candles;

Met a man

Who offered

All that he could,

The sum-total, in fact,

Of all that he was –

He wanted my trust,

But needed my money.

“Why aren’t you working?”

I dared not ask,

Too

English-polite to offend.

I have been carrying a cross

For a life time now,

One that I should lay

Next to somebody’s name.

I should ask them

That very question:

Why isn’t this man working?

What will you do to help him?

What are you doing for this local,

Here-every day, everyman?

Why would you rather commit my money,

My future, that of my family,

To those we do not know.

Such Glib Honey Promises

I threw a lot of pendulum-golden time

At the creature that bodied something like a man,

That wore a crooked mask which made him seem a friend;

That rode my burdened back, stole my very breath

While saying he would shorten distances,

Show me how to make giant trees artistic small, be by

My side when dragons appeared threatening unholy violence,

Dig holes on which to build diamond futures.

 

They make such glib-honey promises,

These fake-silver-tongued goblins, but,

Feeling no remorse, learn no redeeming lesson …

Get left behind – when god light dawns –

Chewing on ancient curse-dust

And the cracked, dry bones of albatross.

Once …

Long drone; persistent, low

Reminds me that

Summer is heading south …

But the familiar beat

Runs on, insistent;

Little lady mysteries

Scattered like crow-charms

On new-broke ground.

We were once angels of the

Darkest, happiest thunders,

Now we stare through

Barley-glass panes at

November’s secret lights.

We have to learn to

Make fires of bones.

 

Bones of Rainbows

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                These are the stones,

            Where hooded scavengers

              Each day pick apart the

                 Bones of rainbows,

                 The distances that

               Halted the march of

         Empire’s greedy ambition;

             That defined a nation,

      The place where the comeback

            That ended in nought,

     Began to generate excitement.

           But the breathing here,

      The tales that were born here

     and weave, like treacle smoke,

     In and out of lost eagle winds

     And wool-hung rushes were

       wall        

            Worth it all …

            Worth it all

      And so much more.

 

24/5/2013 (Birdoswald Fort)

Photosources: Top photo: http://www.mikepitts.wordpress.com

Second photo: www.fairtradehadrianswall.co.uk

The Loki Throne

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A little bored,

A little angry

With the world

Aging February

Slinks into

The Loki Throne,

Fingers the runes

Carved in the walrus ivory arms,

Speaks the Words of Summoning

That draw forth

Ice-harsh winds

That whip and claw

The earth below.

Reactions of the mortals

Bring a grim, satisfied smileto

The corners of the cruel mouth.

February dons the Misrule Mask:

“Light you fires?”

He mocks in whisper-voice,

“To warm the bones

That you borrowed from clay?”

“To purify the ground?”

“To summon the Fisher-King?”

“Mark my words well

You Sons of Passing Time:

Does he listen for your call,

This tree nailed,

Twice drowned fool?

“For answer, cast your eyes to

Your stuttering fire:

I doubt it!”

 

22/2/2013

 

Rough and bone deep damp:
Cold enough to kill the Devil,
dark enough to fright he angels.
the coward dial of young-year clock
Cannot console and
Walnut framed mirror
Turns an unfriend face,
Showing me bones, buzzards
And a going-down sun.

The road from ignorance
to complacence
Is lit with poor-tallow candles
And wet-wood fires.

10/1/2013