A Sonnet for Johnny Taliban
Reflect O good Mistress of light and moon,
not dark of soul nor burdensome hardship,
but warmly over my love in distant lands.
Shine well and long lift golden hearts aloft.
See hear nor taste the shadowy stench of death;
illuminate senses in touching fingers
as soft tips deftly hold our fallen at safe
Bastion’s walls and shut the gateway to heaven.
I pray you would shine so full and clear
you blind the Hawk and Owl, and hold Eagle still;
yet most I wish your might hides bright happiness
in sweet fair Robins breast, beneath the bushel laid.
My love, home soon together, staying silent
not two minutes for jolly Johnny Taliban.
Hugging the Devil
It’s funny how you can become that which you hate the most.
Sit with a murderer all day long and you’ll want to kill them.
This can happen only if you are the object of their hate.
Then, of course, it is not murder but only self-defence.
Love works in the same way; powerfully yet slow.
This is why a good priest will at first sit outside the cage,
watching carefully, waiting for the bars to bend in his favour.
For only then may he enter and safely hug the devil.
Filed under Poetry | Comment (0)Evolution: Birth of Medusa
From a worm, wiggling in the bed of the Med,
to a sperm, banging my head on an egg.
Behold the evolved: a sperm with a perm.
Angry at life, what a fight for my right yet
not lying dead with the rest but the next.
Long curls at my birth, a mop on my top,
there’s some debate: It just isn’t straight.
A cheer, and some tears, and then sneers.
Their fear is clear, two sticks quickly click.
It is licked. A woollen bonnet lies upon it.
With a flick and a nip the curls are on it,
sentient dreads shred the pestilent threads.
Their hand-made fleece is in pieces
but there are no moans; they are stone.
All dead, standing at the bed of their Med.
Filed under Poetry | Comment (0)Apple Schnapps
I am rotten.
An apple on the edge,
at the very top of
my oak sided barrel.
I am drunk.
With my own dark ooze.
This juicy fermentation
trickles down to those below.
I am manner.
Wasps fight for the ripe,
nibbling at my soft flesh.
Stinging the hand of god.
I am patient.
Crushed and bled dry,
pigs scoff on my core.
My essence distils slowly.
I am power.
In the voice of your youth,
renewed strength in his arm.
Fuel for your weakened mind.
I am death.
The impulse of a thousand
stabs and cuts or tightened fists.
My enemies fight on my command.
Chirstmas Gift
Filed under Poetry, Senryu | Comment (0)Christian ethic –
will you let me burn in hell
by taking your place?