Brueghel's 'Landscape with the fall of Icarus'

On the high hill,
the lone man follows the plough
and makes his mark where he will.

In the field below,
the shepherd observes his flock,
knowing where each lamb will go.

Across the green bay,
the galleon unfurls canvas,
makes ready for the sail away.

Above them all,
the watcher waits to choose
which one will stand and which one fall.

Not what you might think at first. This about the act of imagination.

Witness 69

Self-composed, cocksure,
as inquisitors doze
throughout the inquisition.
Their eyes glaze over.
His black needle points
pin them to his page,
delivered matter of factually,
unfaltering, dispassionate text.
Heard it all before,
of course, the ill concealed smirk,
the half stifled sneer,
unintentional illuminators.

How many lies can balance
on the head of one pin?
An infinity of falsehood
so it seems.
How many lives lost
in spin?
Not enough to make him sweat,
not enough for even one regret.

How many more millions have been wasted on Chilcott and still the criminals are not put on trial?

A Fistful of Poetry ( the book )

As you will see the advert for the book has now moved to the sidebar and the poetry service will be resumed shortly. In the meantime may I remind readers that proceeds from the sales of the book go to medical aid for Palestinians. Haiti, however terrible, was an act of nature. What is being visited upon Palestinians is an act of man which too many of us still seem to be willing to overlook.

History is bunk!

I spit
on the history of cities,
constructed
with sword and skulls,
myths created
by torturers,
architects of slaughter.
Ranged along broad streets,
( firepaths on their secret plans ),
statues of these butchers abound.

And in their hushed libraries,
mouldering books
clutter each shelf,
economical catalogues
of facts chosen
to perpetuate the deadly toll
of profit and loss.
Let sleeping books lie.

Nature knows
their every secret
and shits on their smug faces,
slowly erodes
each self-satisfied smile,
wipes carved stone
clean.

This poem has been lying around for long enough. It didn't take much dusting down.

A Sleeping Child

The moon stutters through
a shredded curtain,
hanging where a door once stood,
to shut the bad world out.

In a patch of weary light,
she lies on the neighbour's floor,
curled up, tight as a comma,
coughing and twitching all night long.



Dreams disturbed
by whirling blades,
slow burning of lungs, the red
stickiness between her fingers.

A scrawny kitten licks her
savaged face, in delight
at finding unexpected warmth.
The girl's eyes flick wide open.

Yet she sees only that same sight,
half her brother's face grinning back
out of the black crater
they once called home.

To the Lighthouse!

The ocean is a fickle bride,
wild waters swim before our eyes,
but surely that's a light
twinkling on the distant side.

We have sailed so far together,
long into the everlasting night.
Even the seas of stars
have long since disappeared from sight.

We have held fast together,
lost in swathes of fog, then
hurled from home by storm.
Who knows where we'll land, or when?

Now, though eyes may be failing,
to the east see the gloom start paling.
Silhouetted against a rose red sky,
we sense the lighthouse looming high..

This picture shows what remains of the Nineteenth |Century cast iron lighthouse at Whitford Point on Gower. This and part of the sound track of 'The Motorcycle Diaries' were the starting point of this my 62nd birthday poem.

Unmasked

The glass does not lie.
The face that she sees
is her face, smoothed white,
the red, moist lips
are hers, the eye
that fixes her is her own,
steady in the quivering
morning light. Her maids
have done their work
and this is the very image
of the Virgin Queen,
red hair alight, precious
to her finger tips, ready
to turn history's next page.

Is this the same vision
Norfolk stumbled on
unannounced? She had her back to him
and the evening light was weary and dim,
so for a moment he did not realise
whose was the crooked spine,
the wrinkled skin,
the short grey hair,
but then he caught her eye
and knew that all was wrecked,
felt, for the first time
the axeman's foetid breath
on the back of his neck.

Just like buses...you wait for one for ages then two come along.

Press Pack

The dogs are circling with intent.
Once, when your table was overflowing,
they were content to feed
on left-overs, but now
nights are drawing in
and all signs point
to the table soon being bare
and dogs know all too well
where the next meal will come from.
On lazy, sunny days
they were always willing
to roll on their backs and play dead,
just to humour you, but
had you been really wise,
you would have noticed
the keen redness of their eyes,
observed how every now and then
they would slink off
after some other wounded prey,
but now, it is you who limps
and shivers with the cold.
It is your trail of blood they track
growing steadily more bold.

I hate to be biblical but as you sow so shall you reap! Thanks to my Macedonian correspondant for pointing out my schoolboy error!!!