The devil on a cross

The whisper of a shadow song

Morning star no glory

just a story

I am just lived backwards

hidden track words

scars like lines across paper

can I save her?

I am not what you think

drinking from a cup of agony

no God can save me

but death won’t enslave me

I am midnight verse

nails won’t surrender to my skin

the truth they told you the lies worn thin.

In the cupboard of lost purposeful poetry

In the yellowed worn out dusty pages

the poetry that had a purpose is not lost

no matter how much the ideas cost

In this cupboard space

like the recesses of my minds eye

Ideas on the page never die

the reader if they thumbed through my poetry

would likely gain a paper cut or two

red ink another happening

mapping the page

the poetic wars we wage

on this desperate stage

between poet and reader

In this cupboard hidden away

will these poems ever see the light of day

like the dead poet lost in time

his reasons and rhymes

still unearth histories

and mysteries of life and of the earth

from birth to the finish

these ideas won’t diminish!

Maybe behind the library rooms and shelves

the poet unpublished poet finds themselves

and their voice

And these poems and half finished ideas

give a voice to voiceless after all these years

will be found and treasured and made into books

that people will treasure read and look

after finding this lost cupboard.

We are gathered here today

We are gathered here today

To bear witness

to pray for the best of ourselves

we buried

so we could fill our food shelves

and work jobs we hate

but not abbreviate

our own sadness

madness caves us in

we are lost

in depraved cravings

as another migrants ship sinks

where is our humanity

we are on the brink

of degrading and hating our own species

or has that ship sailed on its own sea of faeces

I don’t know so say a prayer

for the people we could have been

if life wasn’t so mean

and we hadn’t of adopted

and been co-opted

into ideologies of hate

as we masterbate

over our own tribal race

and forget that we supposed to love every face.

Love music and wealth

In the space that moves in our hearts

in the words that rule them

a fools language called love

sent to quell.

A heart is made in heaven

doused in the lustful flames of hell

In the dawn the morning star

in the night sky the sun

if you chose the right beat

we’d all be one!

but the drumbeat has a silence

and an off beat out of kilter vibe

The scribe is not a musician

but he is at least alive

the changing of the patterns

the flow of electrons

introspection of personality

the tonal chords of brains with clarity

We dance to words without reasons

we give chords bass and beats flow

the movements we know grow into routines

routines that we form and sow

We drift into daydreams

sing of far off lands we yet to visit

and we gather the images we envisage

We look for our dreams

and measure them in gold

and diamonds sold

yet they are our wealth even in cold

wintery days where love is the only language

it maybe a fools language

but that’s all we have

don’t let our innocence be nabbed.

Unexpected artwork

The way the sunlight causes shadows through the leaves.

The movements of trees on the breeze

sycamore seeds twirl in pirouettes

as they helicopter to the ground.

Hag stones form

magic is born

from impermanence

decaying ghosts of leaves

erosion flowing free

the changing of the seasons

the reasons of life and death.

Unexpected artwork of nature

forming then fracturing and breaking.

The caricature of a feather floating free

in the minds artwork free

as a bird in rapture

captured in a photo in my minds eye.