Burnt Offerings

They took the lies and mixed it with a dosing

Of verbiage, badinage and dirt,

Boiled it up then simmered, prepping table

For a serving of the meal that shouldn’t hurt.

They burnt the pot while raiding through the cupboards,

Contents spoiled, carbon charred by fuel,

Still served it up with flourish, sleight of handling,

Scurried back to scullery, laughed at fools.

Dining on the premise of the promise

Of banquet advertised with cabaret,

Falsehoods, tongue-in-cheek, a token lie then,

Distorted to confuse and cause delay.

Beware the cooks who curry for your favour,

Who season dishes to the taste desired,

Appetising, tempting in description,

Swallowed whole, patrons’ promises expired.

Fire in belly, gurgling with the poison,

Antidotes are found, administered,

Never more believed, proofed in the pudding,

Sweetened bitterness of empty words.



She drowned that day for want of love and truth

And suffered blackest depths in silken waves;

Wrapped by grieving cold, unjust of lovers,

Embraced deepest liquidity of graves.


Other fault of miscommunication,

Disbelief, flawed lover, by no means brave –

To dwell on words of patent jealousy;

No trust nor second chance this love he gave.


Suspended, in timeless vault of darkness,

Eyes closed forever, nothing more to save;

Surrendered heart and soul into river

And damned by love’s mistrust became its slave.


‘Sweetheart, you not once believed my loving

If so easily heart has misbehaved.

Cherish only what was held between us,

A love, time was, assumed we two had craved.’

Not They

Who are these goons?

These lepers?

Apart and yet controlling.

Ignorant of the common man,

But determined to know

Every secret thought

And action.

Who are these jerks?

Watching my movements,

Listening to my words,

Reading my mail.

Are they representative?

Did we vote for this?

Are all the policies


Prior to election

A blind?

The motives deeper

And more devious?

Who are these bastards?

My mind is my own.

My soul belongs to god.

My words to whom I speak them.

Who are these morons?

Thinking we will accept


And everything,

Like the

Roman populace,


For handouts

And an arena

Where self-proclaimed

gods, decide thumbs up

Or down.

No Caesars here.

Who are these clowns ?

Thinking they are above

And beyond

The acceptable,

The righteous,

The moral.

Who are they?

Is this what we asked for?


And controlling.

We are the people.

Not they.

Ashes Of Peace

Ashes of peace,

Treaty entreated,

No phoenix to

Surface in flight.

End of the conflict,

Gives no concord,

Truce settled for less

Than they might.


Divergence of interest,

No contradiction,


In their discord.

Battle still rages,

Though behind lines,

Neither believes

One word.


Fear and mistrust,

Goodwill gone astray,

Ceasefire may last

For a while.

Without true intention,

A closer inspection,

No solution.

No style.



A Tinderbox

510Bush Fire

One flint to strike,

One spark to light

A tinderbox of fear.

Mistrust and greed,

All flames will feed,

Conflagration near.


A world where light

Cowers in fright,

Where wanton darkness dares,

Plays hidden games,

Devouring flames, while

We look askance and stare.


Dumbfounded tears

For wasted years,

Trust in awful liars.

They’ll burn the world

With power’s lust and

Destructive global fires.



Disclaimer!  (These photos are the copyright of others’ but unknown to me. Some are from national newspapers and others from private individuals. I will gladly allocate credit if claimed.)

With thanks to Mark’s Gallery for these pictures he posted, depicting bush fires currently rampant in Australia. He kindly obliged with photos of Fire after I had joked that I was going to write poems working my way through all the elements, having done some on Air and Water. These pictures, although of actual events, elicited in me an entirely different sort of response. My apologies if some of them are depressing! But some of them are loving and sensual. So a good balance I would say, eh?