As Charged

Atoms that are loaded with potential, packed and brimming

Intentional infusions stocked and stored

Batteries of power, impregnable, informed

Ready to release of own accord

 

Costs have been recorded, bills accruing, payments due

Demands invoiced in columns that can’t match

Subscriptions to democracy pending rights renewed

Interest lost and gained, small print attached

 

Entrusted with a duty, that’s the theory, though no proof

Accountable inculpate, by design

Responsible as reprobates, acting outwith laws

Pretending to the jury that all’s fine

 

Careering in a stampede of confusion and illusion

Battle plans undrawn but troops deployed

Empire of the naked, Churchill’s children, through a peephole

Nothing to be seen till we’re destroyed

 

Heroic unto heraldry, pennants charged by sin

Unfurled but hanging limp at arm’s length

Wisdom gone in wind rush, petty racists of a flag

Diminished by the loss of common sense

 

So, atoms that are loaded with potential, packed and brimming

Intentional infusions stocked and stored

Batteries of power, impregnable, informed

Ready to release of own accord

How The Mighty Fall

Rainforest

(source)

fell the rains with mighty blows,

with ease sourced sap will bleed,

rivulets, their journey south,

unheeded for misdeed

of giving life and living well,

canopied to sky,

roots put down that furnish home,

nourishment from sighs,

breaths of air from tingled tips,

camouflaged as leaves,

sentinels that serve us well,

powerhouse of trees,

minions merely to our needs,

as silent voice gives breath,

blow by blow, by fatal blow,

might falls, might fells, our death

Nemesis

Are you my Nemesis?

Raining righteous

Vengeance from above,

Quelling hubris;

Dark companion star of man?

 

Are you my Nemesis?

Tempting me till

Right has lost its path,

Echoing Narcissus;

Smug vanity?

 

Are you my Nemesis?

Purposeful but lost

Into the world,

Pleasured life;

Epicurean here and now?

 

Are you my Nemesis?

Pop-cultured

Neutrality;

Champions lost

for weak and weary.

 

Are you my Nemesis?

Inescapable

Fortune beheld in victory,

Armed to flay and weigh;

Impartial justice.

 

Are you my Nemesis?

Goaded goddess,

Implacable;

Unmitigated

Truth?

 

Are you my Nemesis?

Elusive, fatalistic, flawed of countenance?

So I’m asking.

Are you my Nemesis?

Or am I my own?

Stealing Time

A new day arrives quietly in the small hours. No sunrise to herald its arrival; no light to show the way for those who await its coming. The seconds tick by slowly and sounds of a settling house interfere with the silence.

For those asleep the night is upon them. For one who watches, the morning hours are at hand; the hours when a body should rest and rejuvenate itself in sleep.

Only in sleep can the mind and spirit settle the cares of the day just gone – making sense of the madness that is life. In sleep the answers come unbidden.

To the one who will not or cannot sleep the answers are elusive; the questions foreboding. How will the new day work? What will it hold?

Without the rest to take upon the new day’s cares the minutes tick by endlessly and, although morning is come in the early hours, yet it feels like the longest night.

To begin afresh one must awaken.

And to awaken one must succumb to slumber.

How to close the eyes and mind to all that is gone and is yet to come? The mind will not rest, the eyes will not close until physical exhaustion dictates that it must be so.

Awareness of duty in the day that lies ahead pushes the feet in the direction of the place where heads must lay to rest.

And so, although the morning is here, the night begins.

Too short a night for true rest and rejuvenation, but time enough to replenish physical well-being for the activity that lies ahead.

To lie asleep the next day until body dictates wakefulness will be the dream, but only that, for when duty calls in the voices of those who cry for attention the body will answer despite its desperate need for sleep. And then the real day begins.

The wakefulness of the bright morning is harsh; the one which should herald hope in a new day.

Hope will find a way to penetrate the activities otherwise the body could not go on.

The pen can write no longer for to do so would deny the needs of those whose cares are priority. When the children call they must be answered. It is written so. The needs of the children must come before those of the parent.

Only sometimes, when all duty is done and love has played its part, can the parent relax and steal some time in the small hours of the morning when real morning has not yet come; when night still lies ahead and when, eventually, the dream of sleep becomes greater than the need for quiet time to oneself.