High Noon

They’re struttin’ in the media,

A swagger to their hips,

Totin’ power like marshall law,

Twistin’ lies and lips.

They’re chewin’ gum imagin’ry,

Pretendin’ to be cool,

Wouldn’t hold a candle to

Most kids we’ve met in school.

Except, p’rhaps, like teenagers,

They’re mostly bluff and bumph,

I’ve sympathy for evolvin’ youth

But the others get my humph.

Agreements tacit – purposed point –

Parties merge for aim,

Shoot the outlaws, hang ’em high,

Scupper cowboy game.

I’d rather be the native

Or the bountied head – no liar –

Than opportune for photo pose

Captioned, ‘Guns for Hire’.

No slickness here, no brylcremed wave,

No texture to their smooth,

Slippy, slidy, greasy-poled,

Slinkng, cannot prove

A single point, so just pretend,

Repeat prophetic rote,

Fingers crossed behind their backs,

Prepare the new scapegoat.

Run it into wilderness

To carry off their sins,

Load it high with guilt complex.

We’d better bloody win!

 

No Dress Rehearsal

Who would shun the chances that life offers,

Negate potential gain because of fears?

Who dismisses what each chalice proffers

But begs with thirst and cries for wasted years?

Why would any soul still fond of living

Draw blinds when sunbeams herald daybreak’s gift,

Huddle down in darkness, scared of shining,

Allow all fleeting moments then to drift?

A sullied sort of existential ruin

That wishes for and prays then barters grief,

Wails their woeful howls at waning moon, with

Persistent yet but absent self-belief.

‘No dress rehearsal’ – words fit to ponder.

Gratitude and action make for wonder.

The Scottish Lament

An apt and beautiful piece from Susan as we approach the vote for Scottish Independence.

Owls and Orchids

#The Scottish LamentBlood-soaked Culloden after the battle.

Proud and free they lived

Asking for nothing but a free life

In mountainous Highlands

And Lowlands valleys

Taking only their right to freedom

To breathe the sweet air of the north

Wild and free was their Spirit

Taming a land of wild extremes

In icy freshets they bathed

‘Parritch’ their staple fare

Living where no-one else dared

The English called them ‘heathen’

They also branded them ‘Jacobite’

For the want of a monarch

Bonnie Prince Charlie was he

To live a live they chose

At Culloden betrayed they were

By the pride of Laird and Prince

Their Prince’s money….. Vanished

In their hearts naught but cold and hunger

Nor weapons for their hands

Still they stood to face their foe

Only their pride held them stay

Only pride to fight the bloody affray

Keeping the hated Redcoats at bay

A hopeless cause from that…

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Tripping The Light

A place to pass, undivided,

came she calling,

tripped on moonbeams,

at her feet, carelessly,

closed eyes to evidence

of all obstruction,

felt her way,

edged darkness met oblique.

A passage in an underworld

known better

than light afforded

rights of pathways trod,

undeterred

in shadowed frozen starlight,

a slithered facial glimpse

of subtle god.

Resonance held bound

by briefest meeting,

a pocketful of light

to carry forth

into the dreams held back

in conscious waking,

a hesitation’s gift

of deepest worth.

Hidden Gems

Dulled with hidden sparkle

Uncovered in the core

Polished velvet glove redeems

Golden glitz and more

In where and what

The earth conceals

In muddied waters deep

Gems revealed in sparkled form

Release

We must not keep

The treasures as they surface

In the light of oxygen

Whose breaths we live

 Replenish

So life begins again

The Gentleman [Ezekiel’s Song]

Words of tender love and hope. Ethereal and beautifully expressed by Daniel.

Daniel Swearingen


In the shadow of modern daybreak he approaches tenderly, a young man with brunette tresses bound by red thread naturally. He is taller than a seraph humble almost shy, and when you look into his eyesight, you see a world that’s born of sighs. In his attitude is passion born of latitudinal rhymes, those words that create mercury that never can oxidize. The wind it flows right through him, all its colors born upright, lest a shadow should be waiting, the sun stands still against the sky. If born of womb and sorrow he would be master of deceit, likewise, he moves above mere element, ages gather round his feet. He strides without aggression, antithesis, of all that is new, his forehead growing lighter, the old woman in his view.

She is three score, nine a lady, with light gray about her hair, she’s been shopping, eyes born waiting, for…

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Acclimatising

Blame not

the cast of shadows

on corners closed to light,

But flame the torch,

sconced,

awaiting willing hand.

Trip not,

in hesitation,

cursing blunderous steps,

But feel cracked pores, crevassed pointing,

thirsting

for faith touch.

Idle not

in disharmony’s speculation.

Rather, murmur

faint remembrances

Till refrain

makes glorious your voice.

Fear not

the underground passages

dependent on your darkness for existence.

Rather, shelter there,

acclimating

eyes to gloom’s recognisance of faint shafts.

«««««ZOOM»»»»»

I’m doomed, alas!

It cannot be.

6 1/2 weeks felt like 3.

And as I sit

At 12.15

I ponder all these days have seen,

The plans I had

That went astray

As I relaxed, relearned to play.

I did not paint the garden fence,

Nor tidied wardrobes as I should,

I really wasn’t very good

At doing all I said I might

Or sticking to a plan at all

But what a blast! I had a ball.

And so, although

This night right here

Ends liberty of carefree cheer,

Off to school,

To class I stride

Knowing well, deep down inside,

That, even though I love to teach,

«««««Tempus fugit, really fast»»»»»

More holidays will soon be cast.

I love my job!

Blind Ripples

The time will come, as sure it must,

When flesh and bones return to dust.

Ere this happens to mine state

I challenge life, what may await

Round corners I have yet to veer,

On roads and paths that I must steer

As true to self as I can be

While hurting none as best I see.

The trouble with my self-direction,

Modus operandus, introspection,

Is, I can’t see what acts I do

May taint the world for me and you.

I struggle on as blind man feels,

Alerting senses to what’s real,

Believing that my ripples cast

May count for something that could last

Into eternal consciousness

And, somehow, one day I’ll be blessed

By loving light that comforts soul,

Suffuses dark when all is told

In story of my life on earth,

That task completed had some worth.