each day I pray for the death of Amerika
not the people, not the land,
but the fist, the crippled hand
of war, and secret empire.
each day I pray for the death of Amerika
to see the buildings turn to sand
all stripped of pride, of gold and
jewels that melt and tire.
each day I pray for the death of Amerika
05/09/2016
#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook pillars
Four pillars, fluted and scrolled, stand now in support
of nothing: in nettles, behind wire. They do not hold
the sky. Nor is there sign of what might have laden;
no twisted rust, nothing. Only in a moment, on the path
when pausing to look at a thistle half blown, do I
wonder what has been taken, and that which remains.
of nothing: in nettles, behind wire. They do not hold
the sky. Nor is there sign of what might have laden;
no twisted rust, nothing. Only in a moment, on the path
when pausing to look at a thistle half blown, do I
wonder what has been taken, and that which remains.
04/09/2016
#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook bliss
Let bliss be that moment, when footsteps slupper
in the dampness of sand and all sound rings with blood
in the ear. Where by reaching out without lifting
we may pull down the sky to rise, with tails flying,
with nothing more than the string of ourself
to hold us. And all around us glitters, pooled,
in the brilliance of light, for where we stand
and what we see reflected in clear air exhaled.
Let that be bliss. Let that be the bliss of knowing
that we have made track of steps without fear
or demanding eternity, for that moment we are.
in the dampness of sand and all sound rings with blood
in the ear. Where by reaching out without lifting
we may pull down the sky to rise, with tails flying,
with nothing more than the string of ourself
to hold us. And all around us glitters, pooled,
in the brilliance of light, for where we stand
and what we see reflected in clear air exhaled.
Let that be bliss. Let that be the bliss of knowing
that we have made track of steps without fear
or demanding eternity, for that moment we are.
16/08/2016
#poem #poetry #amwriting Prodigal
Prodigal
In part the feast, part seen in dream, returns
in the golden light of summer eve:
when through the elm tree avenue we walk.
Perhaps the drift, of slow cooked fish, caught
amid the clinking glass of chatter:
from the deck of the restaurant across the way.
Or the rain of breath, falling from the trees
to lift the step, and skip the eye
to those scenes we keep in corner sight.
There the table, white of cloth, with silver.
There the grapes, and hams, and breads.
For no more seen, than gone, that place
between the stone pillars:
atopped with urns, on which hangs
the memory of that rusted gate.
In part the feast, part seen in dream, returns
in the golden light of summer eve:
when through the elm tree avenue we walk.
Perhaps the drift, of slow cooked fish, caught
amid the clinking glass of chatter:
from the deck of the restaurant across the way.
Or the rain of breath, falling from the trees
to lift the step, and skip the eye
to those scenes we keep in corner sight.
There the table, white of cloth, with silver.
There the grapes, and hams, and breads.
For no more seen, than gone, that place
between the stone pillars:
atopped with urns, on which hangs
the memory of that rusted gate.
03/08/2016
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