Your Angel

they said she would hold your heart

in the deepest darkest part of her soul

her love for you burning like a curse out of control

but they lied or was it fate

because love is hate

war is peace

and you are still free

but dumb in this land of the glum

A setting sun wanting to be her equal

by the quill you write with

you fight with

you love her with respect

does she respect you?

for you were her favourite

where you depraved right?

To turn and walk and away

when she seeks other men to kiss on her pillow

you are just a weeping willow

she cries on

a somber song she lives on

But when is all said and done

you fight for her when the worlds unfair and wrong

you are her strength

the love given that makes her strong

and when she finally sees

the forest from the trees

will you guide her

keep her stride

for you and her make world collide.

Every picture tells a story

In the middle of a picture of industries gates

sat a man who just waits

Unemployed from his 30s onwards

looking for an opportunity

in this life of lunacy

photographed as a sign of the times

this life is full of grime and thought crimes

have we stolen a moment

is there any atonement?

for the man who now sits on a corner

from the established systems in place

who like to hide from the despair on his face.

Do you think they will ever care?

Do you think they will ever care?

the rich and powerful and the big banks

own us with their guns and tanks

will they care when we are gone?

they siphon our money through a straw

Just so they can get richer through the profits of war

on everyone including the poor and disabled

the immigrants and working class able

We are slaves to the rich in this so called Christian country

full of those who would spout forth

I speak of my discourse

but wasn’t it Jesus who said

that it is as difficult as a camel to go through the eye of a needle

as a rich person to go to heaven

the hour is getting late it’s way past quarter past eleven

Or is the doomsday clock wrong

we live on knife edge don’t tell us we are strong

In being poor

heaven can wait for our souls

we need to be cared for…

The language of love

Is it hidden?

This body language

which rides up

the hem of skirts and trousers

Is it a smile that stokes the fire

like a poker

is it the emotion of being a joker

a fear of being alone in the dark

no spark to light your way

Is it truth?

or is it fiction?

is it an addiction?

or is it in the scent

of pheromones or the way you gently moan

when you are touched that way?

like alley cats

we spit, bite and snarl

but all the while

we need the language of love

and it speaks through everything we say

but in mystery is still shrouded to this day.

This Love

This love is hard like a crystal

soft like I kissed you

the drop of dew on a rose

I love you more than I supposed

your eyes hold a religion

a candle in the dark

the spark which burns light.

your speech is familiar a voice that speaks

tears fall from eyes down my cheeks

but I want to hold you like gravity

and love you more than avidly

you are my truth

my story which will never be ordinary

you sends shivers down my spine

every time we meet

you are divine

and I can’t retreat

from our divide

Which is a singularity like a soul

which when it rises it burns out of control.

The silence before a storm

We are waiting in the voiceless shadow

Padded cells inside the gallows

angels chained inside a soul

legion my man is out of control

dripping darkness of the void

whisper your name before it’s destroyed

life’s a curtain lost not deployed

life’s uncertain it’s cadence a heart beat

ghosts and devils retreat

in the violence of your stare

in the glowing embers of a fires glare

in the stabbing tenderness of an aching heart

beats a rhythm that no one can tell from the start

but the storm is brewing in the sky

like the reapers blade in the shade

the song bird cries

but all I am left with is sighs

The fabric of our being

Two eyes that see

One heart that feels

Is the soul real?

Or do we have an existential crisis?

in the very fabric of our being

I suppose that’s the cost of dreaming.

Reality is stranger than fiction

it is my addiction

to believe in both dreams and reality

but both are restrictive

because both our limited to habits and thoughts

and we are caught

in their spiders web.

Charity

I am me and you are you

but there for grace of god, go you or I

sleeping rough on the streets

one job loss away

or one benefit sanction

how can you think you are better

than your good luck

born into the right family

having the right salary

to keep your head above water

I caught you cursing those who claim

the poor and disabled

we need to give them a ladder to climb

out of their circumstances

or is it another life to be thrown away

with no more chances.

These are the days

There are days when we toy with innocence

there are days when wear despair as our clothes

days when we truly open our eyes

days when we want to keep them closed.

Days when we have to restrain the pain from our hearts

and there are days when that pain departs.

Days when we feel loved in the morning when we wake

and days when we feel so far away from that love

that we just have to hold on and take the love we are given.

Days when we pretend to be free

and days when we really do hold the key

to doors unopened before.

Days when we feel we can take on the world

and days where we hide in the corner.

Days when we appreciate the flowers and fauna

when we see the beauty of a drop of dew on a rose

and see a new religion being formed

a new baby being born.

Days change what we think and who we are

days where we travel near and days we travel far

drink in the moments and savour the day

because its drifting away

and its all we have!