Poem — Houses of the Mad

Living in the houses of the mad
One would ask: when the bells strike three
Would the roof of this circus kindly,
in the loyal spirit of sir Galahad
Burn quietly from the hands of bourgeoisie;
Those that we no longer follow blindly?

Comforts lie in ruins at our feet
The horrors of capital gain linger
Yet Marx and Luxemburg could not attain;
For the sins of the Mass’s heat
Would lead to humanity’s whimper
So soon, and bleeding from its jugular vein.

Many were warned, perhaps too early
Of the acidity of the situation
There is no lie greater than the personal
Dwindling thoughts that act upon controversy
That led to a thoughts stagnation
That found Democracy more purposeful

In great truths lie the political
Even when humanity may ramble
Too lost in its burnable places
It will be impossible to remain uncritical
When even a roman candle
Can cover humanity’s traces.

Society started with patients
Not with doctors of learning
Or with a dogs whimper
It was general hallucinations
That kept human fear performing
Never the warmth of the freethinker

The death of Socrates led us to believe
That it mattered what one could never see
And that the afterlife was worth the trouble
Belief, they would say, was to preconceive
Belief, they said, was key
And since then , wisdom has always had to stumble

Poem — A Lost Voice

A gun and a television screen, the machine and its noise
The children screaming, all for ratings and losing the fight
Only after the deaths may we say, that these kids have a voice
It comes to the point, where it becomes a bad joke

When Valentines day becomes another massacre day
Here we are, yet again, deaths next mad master stroke
Or a boy, led to hate is calm while he shoots never reluctantly,
Perhaps led to believe, that love will come to him in TV lights

In calm voices our children are told what is safest never was
Nor what was beloved was never protected nor the safest
When it comes to one another, God, or Democracy
It will not matter, when our friends and loves are dead.

Although maybe it was so that children become beasts
Under the law of the land or the violent rites of the hateful
Whether hereditary or even consequently we learned to hate
Or taught fearful moods because of the nightmares we are fed

It did not matter that one another called the other mad
What we are taught to fear comes to us naturally at an early age
Oracles of the past, whether right or wrong
Seem to be a better compass than the centre stage

History is no morality tale; it is written by only the future
A future that learns its morals from the past, as well as its follies
So tell us then, what may we learn when we see the screen
What may we think of the past, will that become our sage?

Poem – You Can Smell Fire

You can smell fire, even from here
It even can be smelt on the other side of the bay.
While dreams and homes are burnt to smouldering rest
All hopes and well wishes, even the best, will be ashes too.

The fires that stain and burden the heavy air
Are results of an abhorrent sun and destitute care;
Only the people left will keep to the land, even as it abandons them.

Hills are always charcoaled when kept this way
The land itself knows the fierce winds and the suns ways
The stench of flames are always here
A reminder of what cannot be saved

Once we saw a koala, its skin barely held
Together by the crumbs of skin still left
its fur all lost to heat and natures theft.
We laid a bucket next to its head
Where it drank from its watery top
In the last moments of its life, it could drink what it could

Although koalas are not seen to drink
Nor notice a humans hand
It seemed to thank us, in its unnatural embarrassment
Then died when the smell came back.

 

Poem — Midnight and Worry

Midnight and worry go hand in hand
When you cannot sleep nor reason
All the hells of the world find a home
on your cold and shivering shoulders

Your lack of clothing permits a shiver
the mind is confused about your terror
Even if the world would fall into your lap
The anger of impotence would be your trap

Do not worry though, it is not your problem
We will teach you to simper into squabble
No problems come from a lack of knowledge
Than the blue “F” telling you what to acknowledge

Something tells me that we need to talk
We seemed to have forgotten the war of Iraq
Shocked as we pretend, or think we are
Of the atom bomb, we still shall thank the neutron star

Death, as a concept, will never be far
when that flash of lighting or shooting star
Lights the darkness and holds it hostage
It may help, perhaps, clear your mental bondage.

Writers of old, when writing in shorthand
Or musicians performing Vivaldi and his seasons
Would take the night, let the minds roam
Darkness, after all, can be bliss for a minds shelter.

 

 

Poem — Rain Drops Dripping

 

I Can Still Hear the Rain Drops Dripping
As morning dew drops on scented leaves
caught in lives still stuck in memories webs
and the mind I still hold, still splitting through.
And your eyes as clouds, beheld and true
pouring the drips across my cheeks
As it ripens, wet and warm, as it weaves softly in foggy visions
And I lie naked, with the cold ice forging
The water pasts over my head
and I want you here again sleeping
sleeping again, here with me
in the dark corners away from god and all
With earthly beauty, still with me forever more
and I lost my way, as we stopped sleeping
sleeping together as we did before
The grass is softly touched by frozen water
The field’s green stretches out into white mist
My breath frozen into air colder than ever
Blistered cold sifting through
and the drops of your bare skin
your lips heated away in Fontainebleau
and your heart beats with drops on the tin
Saying that all is okay, I am staying with you
I Can Still Hear the Rain Drops Dripping
Across the tainted windows slipping
And tapping softly on the roofs of tin
Feeling the cold water upon my skin Down my cheek, with cold and hot
Of my tears blue and sky shot
With drops along my neck
With salt and sunset glistening along the bottleneck
And I think of you, now away stripping
And singing away, as i stand still with the rain drops dripping
If away you sing, calling for none but me
With a siren call and a stinging kiss
And the heat slowly simmering away
And with my beating heart, slowly listening
waiting for that stillborn heart
flown away from here, by fears both yours and mine
freezing the ground still only slightly heated
by you, and my feelings floating
So only as you are far away
still running from the rain drop’s dew
and you hear me calling, only softly Recall to you of the times we lost
Of the bare bodies we used to own
before they dripped and shed
like the rain drops above my head
If you can hear the rain drops
as clearly as though a fresh storm
and still hear them dripping down
and hear my call for you
Then here I will lie and sit and stare and sigh
only here, where I can hear those rain drops die

 

 

Poem — Lonely House

 

When the rage of time
Lies nowhere, but in your skin
Then rage, old man,
For time is a blight
A cross for all to bare,
A sin for its own sake
If dust should fill your lungs
And fog your eyes
And your lusts forgiven
By time’s fading light
Then call for the nearest storm
And find it’s way
Its winds are killing your house

Do not be afraid, old and gentle man
This is what was always meant to happen
If old age did not come, nor your love soften
Then what would Time ever want from you
When the houses lights fade forever into sand?

Even when life dims across the plain
Of your minds webs and instances,
It’s tethers of memories and dimming mane.
Should passions of the past remind you
Of lives you should of protected;
that’s why old photo’s are built for brief glances

This life you may have lead, with small poetic visions
tainted with the faint whisperings of “I love you”
Says to you, forcing you to make weak decisions,
that what may have washed away in your lonely house
The clanked clogs of your brain will still utter: “this will never do”

I know you thought
You could make life perfect, old man
Thinking the world more safe
Than what you would like to think
My heart sometimes,
only sometimes though,
wishes to hear you out

It will always remain difficult however
May it never be the same
As it was before
Nor leave it in a place where
Anyone could find it
Or see it, see it fade
Like a whisper in a windy valley