Tag Archives: poetry

Franz Kafka Knew

Franz Kafka Knew

Franz Kafka knew,
he knew it was bad.
He could see through,
so clear it seemed mad,
until he grew
too stern to be sad.

They made it grim,
the machine men in charge,
they who had power
to wield loud and large.
They hit the table with a hammer,
to silence the regular folk
with their petitions and appeals,
to make them fail, quail and stammer.

So he wrote his tales,
one of a man
who woke as a spider,
another of a man
roughly arrested and put on trial,
never knowing for what crime
or who was the decider.

Let us for a laugh,
imagine him sat in a café.
He orders his meal,
his stomach is cold,
his hunger feels real.
He tells the waiter,
his onions are over fried,
and his peas are burned.
The manager listens,
but does not recognise him as a customer,
so his pleas are spurned.

He walked the streets like everyone else.
His coat got soaked when it rained.
His feet cold in his shoes,
he grew pale when he complained.

Franz Kafka knew,
he knew it was bad.
What he thought true
was what made him sad.
He was too sane to say
who he thought was mad.
Franz Kafka knew,
but what could he do,
except write his tales,
concoct his own brew?
Franz Kafka knew,
he knew what he knew.
Franz Kafka knew,
he knew what went into the stew.
Franz Kafka knew.

 

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Falcon Moon

Falcon Moon

Falcon moon.
That’s what happens sometimes
when you are moved to find words to fit a tune,
you come up with something like falcon moon,
then you study it like syrup balanced in a spoon
till falcon moon leads to raven sun, eagle earth,
and you ponder what each word might be worth.
A swan glides through reeds,
sparrows peck at sunflower seeds.
A pebble drops in a lake,
rings circle out,
as you strain to be satisfied with what you try to make.

Only the lion paces with no fear over the grass.
It does not matter who you see when you look in a glass,
all of it will pass.

Obsession with the body seems worst in the west.
When the spirit is forgotten you cannot be your best.

Time with the one you love is a summer long song,
every note clear, every chord strong,
means you can get right what you used to get wrong.
Yes, time with the one you love is a summer long song.

Falcon moon, raven sun, eagle earth.
Wonder what each word is worth.

Abandoned Child

Abandoned Child

Some women shop for hand bags in Harrods,
I’ve never seen them but I’m sure they do.
Some men smoke cigars in night clubs,
only order the finest brew.

While out there on a bare mountain
lies an abandoned child.
The wind carries its cries,
its pain never dies.

What is it that is real?
What does the mask conceal?

Some men run up escalators,
they have not time to pause.
Some women want more than diamonds,
sapphires with no flaws.

No matter how much they impose a structure,
this world is wild.
Out there on a bare mountain
lies an abandoned child.

It was left on a ledge too high for the hyena,
even the eagle and the hawk.
At times we sense such things
then we carry on with our walk.

Is that what lies at the core,
when the mist lifts, cloud shifts,
out there in the wild,
high on the ledge of a bare mountain,
an abandoned child?
Abandoned child.

Waiting For The Sphinx To Speak

Waiting For The Sphinx To Speak

I sit in the desert,
old but not yet weak.
No one knows I am here,
waiting for the Sphinx to speak.
And when he does,
he will tell me everything,
complete the pyramid
from root to peak.

I am happy to be sitting here
in the desert sand
with nothing in my head or hand,
like a bird with a seed in its beak,
waiting for the Sphinx to speak.

I once saw a face in a drawing
that knew everything.
I stood and listened
for what it might say or sing.

The story of the silent seekers,
the mystery of the meek,
I wish to know as I sit,
waiting for the Sphinx to speak.

Tom Appleseed

Tom Appleseed

Tom Appleseed woke from a dream in a wood.
After bread and berries for breakfast,
he felt refreshed, put on his cloak and his hood,
grateful for the gift in his hand,
to pluck and strum the strings of his lute,
and with his song, like birds in spring,
bring mirth to the air and the land.

On the back of a cart, he wheeled into town,
stood by a stall in the market square.
The apples were green and the berries were brown.
All in harmony as he planned,
he plucked and strummed the strings of his lute,
and with his song, like birds in spring,
brought mirth to the air and the land.

And where are you now, Tom Appleseed?
Have you returned to your dream in the wood?
Do you sleep warm in your cloak and your hood?
Do you still have the gift in your hand,
to pluck and strum the strings of your lute,
and with your song, like birds in spring,
bring mirth to the air and the land?

Bring mirth to the air and the land.

 

 

Cat and the Butterfly

Cat and the Butterfly

My present interest in nostalgia
I take as a good sign.
It means I have not lost my memory
and like to keep my roots in line.
The music I liked best in my youth
has stood the test of time.
You cannot beat a good tune
welded to a decent rhyme.

As I look out my kitchen window,
I see clouds shift and pass,
sparrows pecking at sunflower seeds,
and a black cat sat on the grass.
I watch it glare at a butterfly
that flutters by the shed.
Like a winged twig it rises
above the black cat’s head.

That cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.

If you live near a volcano
you hope it won’t erupt
in an avalanche of lava,
sparks and smoke, lethal and abrupt.
It would chase away the tourists,
scar the land and choke the air.
You don’t want to feel a shudder
when you’re climbing up a stair.

But one thing is certain,
that cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.
No, that cat does not know that.

From Black To Blue

From Black To Blue

You can make the wrong decision,
at the time it seemed right.
You can train to be a pilot
then freak out on first flight.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.

You can look cool in sun glasses
but then it starts to rain.
You can pass your health check up,
then feel a sudden pain.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.

You can dream you are a mammoth
then wake up as a snail.
You can earn your certificate,
and still feel doomed to fail.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.

You can vote for politicians,
see not one promise kept.
You can see a far off widow
who has all her tears wept.

But life has a habit
of making each day new,
to change the view
from black to blue.