Nine to fives.

November 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

blog
For the lonesome press and the tired-out writer,
the nine to fives and those who want to be wilder,
to the speakers of the north and preachers in the west,
is working all our lives really what we do best?

To those down-trodden morning journeys,
the walking mishaps and local commuters,
are we really that bored that we have to gorp at our computers?

You brawl: ‘We’re tired! ‘We’re hopeless.’
Washing your dreams away, why are you workers in a continuous haze?

For those who call their habits hobbies,
try using your imagination if you’re really that tired:
Who cares if you get fired?

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Our sorry spring garden

February 21, 2013 § 2 Comments

bs
Another restless night meant me going insane,
just as my night ran out, dreams hammered my brain.

A stillness drifted over a friend,
who trolled through my garden, his kingdom again.

I set out to confront, the night birds and their songs,
as if interrupting this story, desperate not to be long.

I saw a sight to be seen, him stealing my honey,
taking my territory ground, yet he still did not hurry.

Without a flicker or scatter, did he head to the roads,
just looked at me gently, and told me he’d ‘sowed’.

Come pathway, come hither, he lead me to place,
where he knew I would love, for me he wanted to create.

With not a siren in ear, nor a maddened unnatural sound,
I was in the garden of a church house, yet in winter spring grounds.

‘You can gorp all you like’ He said, gently closing my mouth.
In awe I then followed, heading down greens and down South.

What was this of me to feel slightly angry?
When this friend had allowed me into this beautiful alley.

A stream mirrored our heads and slight smiles,
As I asked what this was, and mainly pleading why.

‘Just thrive and enjoy!’ He told me quite boldly,
Having me wondering further,he finally told me.

‘I’ve opened your underground, with roses and green,
to show you not all things in this world are like me.’

This man who was sorry, sept into my heart,
transforming his bad into clever, loving art.

Where as I will stand by you.

February 18, 2013 § 4 Comments

cropped-treestone1.jpg

Competing against you, yet revelling for you.
Pity for poor men, yet listening out for rich men.

Cooler than air, your return is demanded,
though like a still born, by hell you’re remanded.

For those standing by, deception is easy,
where as I’m who beside you, is seen more than sleezy.

Those rich men I seek, are for your defence only,
allowing professionals correctly, to break your cage and your lonely.

Your possessions in baskets, on racks and on shelves,
blade knife for redemption, body it swells.

For me I don’t see this, as hard work nor a chore,
though maybe I should, to stand by you some more.

Your ex existence or importance, is now well hidden,
in your terrace of wooden, where you cannot be forgiven.
Those oak streets we all dream of, uses a front we wouldn’t die for,
yet you’re there without care, nobody to bother anymore.

Giving up Horse

February 12, 2013 § 7 Comments

horse


Selling a white horse, sending her home,
The Ark behind her, in their whispering dome.
The Ark will charge her, force her, fantasise her,
From the being she’s been ridden, and events that occurred.
The mammal full up, in eyes and in strength,
Ex enemies behind her, now almost a friend,
Using their push, a shove she can’t ignore,
Now in the pack, travels start towards shore.

Riding, wild high, with precious soft pride,
Prancing in winds, together they plied,
No black beauty but graceful as white rain,
The Ark now completed, united again.

Shaking the ground, a darling hoof of hers trips,
Aggravating the mud, to dust as she kicked,
The Ark taking notice, stomping and howling,
Awakening the village, fouling and scowling.

Our friend, knew the Ark, our friend of the gods,
What has fallen beneath her? On we can’t plod.
A lick of the ear, a brush to her jaw,
A kind gentle thought, but no air into maw.

Screaching in winds, the Ark grew Voracious,
Respecting the friend, but feeding the children.
With sorrow they swallowed, still attractive and gracious,
They headed up glen and continued tracks Southern.

Cries up the hill, a loss like a fox,
Like an entrance to prison, she is not forgotten,
In search for her taker, her human, her rider,
In the know if to find him, to devour like hawks.

Her rider, who took her, turned her into a human,
could not cope with the steam, the owner, no true man.
In search for the culprit and striving in anger,
No time to protect, or unfortunately save her.

Naturaleza del vacio / Eduardo Mata Icaza

February 11, 2013 § Leave a comment

Naturaleza del vacio / Eduardo Mata Icaza

Michael’s Job

February 6, 2013 § 3 Comments

cropped-steiner.jpg

No money, but spirit
No sense but one strong heart.

No reason but you knew it,
You know that you will start.

No ambition but with passion,
No care but you want ground,

To feed this young small baby,
One day that you had found.

 

 

Giving up Horse.

June 7, 2012 § 1 Comment

Image
Selling a white horse, sending her home,
The Ark behind her, in their whispering dome.
The Ark will charge her, force her, fantasise her,
From the being she’s been ridden, and events that occurred.

The mammal full up, in eyes and in strength,
Ex enemies behind her, now almost a friend,
Using their push, a shove she can’t ignore,
Now in the pack, travels start towards shore.

Riding, wild high, with precious soft pride,
Prancing in winds, together they plied,
No black beauty but graceful as white rain,
The Ark now completed, united again.

Shaking the ground, a darling hoof of hers trips,
Aggravating the mud, to dust as she kicked,
The Ark taking notice, stomping and howling,
Awakening the village, fouling and scowling.

Our friend, knew the Ark, our friend of the gods,
What has fallen beneath her? On we can’t plod.
A lick of the ear, a brush to her jaw,
A kind gentle thought, but no air into maw.

Screaching in winds, the Ark grew Voracious,
Respecting the friend, but feeding the children.
With sorrow they swallowed, still attractive and gracious,
They headed up glen and continued tracks Southern.

Cries up the hill, a loss like a fox,
Like an entrance to prison, she is not forgotten,
In search for her taker, her human, her rider,
In the know if to find him, to devour like hawks.

Her rider, who took her, turned her into a human,
could not cope with the steam, the owner, no true man.
In search for the culprit and striving in anger,
No time to protect, or unfortunately save her.

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