A Linnet Sings On A Spray

A Linnet Sings On A Spray

A linnet sings on a spray,
be the day bright or grey,
may its wings never wane on the way.

I have the brain of a bird,
I peck round for a word
that rings true, not banal or absurd.

A discarded verse, a ruled out line,
marks of the brevity I sought,
honed to the essence of my thought,
the attempts that failed,
till it was fine, I had it nailed.

A pyramid carved in stone,
from the root to the cone,
strange that it grew from one mind alone.

A linnet sings on a spray,
be the day bright or grey,
may its wings never wane on the way.

Snags In The Way

Snags In The Way

Too many cars on the road,
that we can see,
we don’t have to be told.

Too many planes in the sky,
means more people
can now afford to fly.

Too many ways to pollute,
too many trees
are cut down at the root.

Some people like sugar in their coffee,
some people like lemon in their tea,
some people are really not that fussy,
some people like to disagree.

They carry signs to protest,
they want to free
the south, north, east and west.

Too many snags in the way,
faults in the plan
to heal the world today.

Some people like sugar in their coffee,
some people like lemon in their tea,
some people are really not that fussy,
some people like to disagree.

Flag of the Free

Flag of the Free

A figure walks under
the tail of a tornado
by a hill crowned with thunder,
seems to carry a burden
but his steps are steady,
his back is straight.
Not a prophet or a pilgrim,
for him dawn never comes too early,
night never comes too late.

Now his face is clearer,
his skin well wrinkled, rust red,
yet his smile is broad with wonder.
White walls of a city
gleam on the far sky line,
urging him on.
He fears not the wolf pack or vulture,
his iron spine has melted,
his doubts have gone.

Out from a cracked waste land,
some kind of catastrophe,
he’s not broken or wounded,
he has in his pouch a key.
He once had a lot on his plate,
now the dawn never comes too early,
the night never comes too late.
Soon he is lost in the distance,
not troubled by bandit or hole,
on the plain he leaves behind,
the flag of the free on a pole.

Finished Work

Finished Work

I hear that Michelangelo
walked out from the circles of the city
to go down paths where time moved slow
to stand on the rough floor of a quarry,
his gaze on a massive boulder,
till in it he could discern a figure,
from the head down to the shoulder,
and then the chest down to the feet
till the figure was formed complete.
He then began to carve the boulder
with his chisel and his hammer
till the figure he first saw
was the statue stood before him,
be its expression calm or grim,
be it an athlete or a god.
It was he who drew the line,
it was he who held the rod.
Relate that to a novelist
who sees a story on the page
before he writes a word
or to a song writer
who hears a song in the air,
finer than the chirpings of a bird,
then puts words and tune together
but feels his finished song
falls far short of what he first heard.
No creator can be content
when the finished work is done.
The only thing to do
is to begin another one.

Surrealistic Cartoon

Surrealistic Cartoon

A whale goes scooting by
on a pair of roller skates.
A juggler in the sky
juggles clouds as if they were
a pile of plates.
On the edge of a crater,
an angler sits glumly with his rod,
thinks there’s no use fishing on the moon.
Could be mirrors from a dream,
a surrealistic cartoon.

A castle without a drawbridge,
a tower or a moat,
surrounded by pelicans
who demand another vote.
Camels chewing cabbage,
donkeys mumbling through a screen.
The art of conversation
they purposely demean.

I see this is going nowhere
and yet I scribble on.
I never found a subject,
the inspiration gone.
Is this a poor connection
or just a crackle in your voice?
I would choose another station,
if there is a choice.

Attend to the angel on one shoulder,
not to the devil on the other.
That is old but good advice,
when you’re frightened by a fire,
and the smoke you fail to smother.
That prolific person, Anonymous,
has written so much rhyme,
most of it forgotten,
partitioned off by time.
The referee blows his whistle,
the linesman brings down his flag,
to bring the end of nonsense,
with not one log left to drag.

Who Slew The Swan?

Who Slew The Swan?

Who slew the swan with a crossbow bolt?
Where is the villain? Where has he gone?
Was it done in the dark
or when dawn lit the park?
What a fine pattern to break.
Who slew the lord of the lake?
And even if the dark villain
is found and fined,
the swan would still be dead.
Would the judge and his judgement
burn the slime that clogs the root of the dark villain’s brain
in his cold and hollow head?
And though the people who stroll on the paths
and picnic on the grass
feel the horror of the park keeper
who found the swan slain in the reeds,
they like him know the pain will pass.
Dark villain, where do you keep your crossbow and bolts?
In a box under your bed?
In an attic or basement?
Will you ever try to heal your cold and hollow head?
The history book pages,
stained with the deeds of dark villains,
who broke the pattern to know pleasure,
who liked the robbing and hoarding of treasure,
who caused a fracture impossible to mend,
a dangerous burst hard to stem,
it seems they mostly ran free of everything,
except our need to have to put up with them.
And every now and then,
one man stands up who wants to rule every land,
his madness that complete,
his ambition that grand.
And even though he fails,
and even when he’s gone,
he still left his dark mark,
like the one who slew the swan.
Meanwhile, a magpie swoops down
to balance on a branch
in early summer sunlight
that makes the garden green and yellow,
and despite the dark villain and his crime,
a man can still feel a free and fortunate fellow.

Our Defiant Song

Our Defiant Song

No fisherman could haul in
all the fish from the ocean
nor could any citizen take in
every fact and notion
from the coronavirus news.
Low in the lock down,
compelled to watch and listen,
we cannot begin to take it all in,
how bad, how sad it is.
We fear sprays of spiky orbs,
animated on the screen,
our invisible enemy revealed,
magnified our foe unseen.
We have no silver armour
to defend us from those darts
that fasten on the lung,
leave behind broken minds, hollow hearts.
When scientists speculate,
branch out to what may be
if the curse of the virus
invades refugee camps,
and lands of war and poverty,
it is hard to hold on hope,
if vision is cleansed clear,
and reports honed to honesty.
And yet we know this time of coronavirus
will be overcome.
The wheels will turn again.
Our defiant song we will sing loud and long
that now we can only hum.