Exposure

Paint your portrait,

Canvas stretched,

Framed, by other words,

Splash with colour,

Light will find

Art and truth in daubs.

Capture soul,

With candid shots,

Exposed by camera shot,

Communicate,

Whatever means,

How all change is wrought.

Speak the words,

Listen too,

In lines we read between,

Doubts and questions,

Head held to side,

Squint before the screens.

Not all pictures

Breathe fine art,

Not all media true,

Interpretation,

Opinion polls,

Up to me and you.

 

 

Pressure

Do you bend under pressure or strengthen

As steel that’s forged in the fire,

Alloyed, allied to greater intention,

Striving, with faith, to aspire?

Do you buckle and break like softest of metal,

Non-resistance a foregone conclusion,

Or gather the girders supporting your mettle,

Fight on, to the end, for solution?

Have the fires of the furnace burnt out your heart,

Ceding the will to go on,

Or has tempered exposure, given will to impart,

Galvanised, proofed, made you strong?

Many there are who burn wth the flame,

Alight in their soul and their eyes,

Growing in number, growing in name,

Swelling to quell all the lies.

Many there are in smelters worldwide,

Sweating and toiling for truth,

Raising young blood to embrace every side,

Teaching tough peace to our youth.

Are you standing with armour of love in your soul,

Battling with right on your arm,

Wielding the sword of justice for all,

Ready at klaxon’s alarm?

Our shift’s almost over, done for the day,

An army awaits at the gate,

Legions of light who fight for fair play,

Vanquishing greed, poverty, hate.

Apprentices needed in yards by the Clyde,

In offices, in factories, in arts,

Tradesmen and women standing firm side by side,

Trained to know and to start

A war of attrition that smothers the power,

Extinguishes those who digress

From bringing the seconds of minutes to the hour,

Languishing in workers’ largesse.

If metal there is that runs in your blood,

Mercurial, when driven mad,

Strengthen its core, let thermostat soar,

Fired pressure, a cause to be glad.

It’s the strength of the ore that lies in the earth,

The power at Nature’s behest,

It’s Gaia calling a time of rebirth,

Listen well, Mother knows best.

 

 

 

 

By Silken Threads

Unrivalled, the spinner,

intent on the task,

exuding,

controlling the yarn,

Four to the left,

four to the right,

light foosteps,

spinneret charm.

Tangled the cables,

coiled for effect,

cushioned to nest,

to ensnare,

Sonar, so plucked,

message relayed,

advancement of mate

with a dare.

Captvity calls,

tightened the threads,

matured in

hungering thirst,

Escape impossible,

tho’ eyes all around,

serviced, betrayed

by bloodlust.

Filigree’d netting,

coating of tack,

a lick and a spit,

paint the web,

Ravelled in silk,

by finest cord bound,

anaesthetised, numbed,

not yet dead.

Enter In Mirage

Where deserts undulate in moving landscape,

Come away, enter in mirage,

Penetrate hazed sandscape gathered round us,

Whirling golden pockets risen fast,

Ride to dusk in ship upon sands’ ocean,

Sunset beckons, razed relief from noon,

Pilot seas where storms arise grain-weathered,

Obliterate horizons come too soon.

Bow to enter tents, erected shelters, on

Holy ground, collapsed in shifting weights,

Follow dreams, red clouds’ appointed charter,

Abandon all reality at sand’s gate.

 

Two Tides

There’s a pull from the moon,

As he’s smiling,

From the eyes

In the window of his soul,

There’s a mystery

He’s hiding, so beguiling,

Like he wants me

To swallow him whole,

So the light that he’s gathered

From the sun orb

Can be carried

Deep inside of me

And somehow, though

He’ll be trapped inside my person,

It will set our

Two tides free.

 

Hades On Horseback

What cloven horsemen ride upon the wind here,

Striking hooves on sharpened edge of waves,

Hunched and headlong, shrouded cloaks protecting,

Eyemasks glinting red? No fortune saves

Any in their path, though flight above us,

The heels of jeopardy are felt below,

Riding willfully to depths of nowhere,

Pistols drawn and daggers tucked to show

No enemy that’s found within their flightpath

Or foe espied, from fathoms far above,

Have hope or faith, outrunning is no option,

Bow’d their heads, and ours as sacrificial dove.

What earthly gate or hellish palace hides them

In daylight hours, these princes of the dark?

Where upon the shores of any peoples

Do black knights harbour steeds and stable mark?

Who betrays location as they search here,

Plots the points upon the charted graph?

Who drowns gladly in the tidal wave of hoofbeats

Pounding on while evil horsemen laugh?

Are any there who hear the fairground laughter,

The cackle of the master turning wheels

As rainbow-coloured equines carry minions,

The hounds of hell on horseback as night squeals?

 

Motivation II

Why do I gotta do homework,

Why do I gotta do chores,

Why do I gotta do what you ask,

Why do I gotta? I’m bored.

Voice of children all ask this,

But, owning up here, it’s me!

Why do I gotta do stuff that is pressing?

I’d rather be writing for free!

Stew’s bubbling away as I write this,

Tatties all peeled for the pot,

Uniforms ready to start back,

Doing stuff I’d rather not.

It’s terrible, this strange obsession

That has me right by the throat,

Throttling desire from everything else,

Pulling priorities apart.

Sod it! The tatties are pending,

Rumblings are heard all around,

Dinner is just one more distraction

From computer keys I’d rather pound.

It’s really too bad this fixation,

Doesn’t pay any bills,

I’d be working at what needs no encouragement, though

The fridge would be empty – they’d kill!

I’m really a part of the problem,

Well maybe the whole of it – they’re vexed -

Nought can compare to the feelings I get

While writing – well, maybe, sex!

But I can’t do that when I’m cooking,

Certainly not when the kids are around,

So writing it is – it’s orgasmic

And I don’t even make a sound.

So, yeah, I gotta make dinners,

I gotta get chores all done,

Gotta to do homework but then, oh boy,

I’m gonna have me some fun.

I mean writing.

Get your heads outta the gutter!

Tatties are boiled. :)