Anger is the grenade
I throw when someone’s made
A breach in my defences.
It happens when I’m laid
Low by stress, or I’m afraid,
My walls reduced to fences.
It almost never works,
And afterwards it irks
Me to think I threw it.
Oh yes – there are perks,
But hidden danger lurks,
And I always rue it.
You see, the problem is
The shrapnel, which can fizz
About and hit a friend
Or even me – and miss
The real target! This
Is why I intend ………
I am the fleeting shadow of a passing cloud.
For some – a momentary annoyance
For others – a second or two of relief
For all – as quickly forgotten
For none – as much significance.
(With clinical detachment)
Its a transient psychosis.
(Nicely, but coldly adamant)
A tiresome mid-life crisis.
(Eyes that betray true sentiment)
A nasty messy business.
(Deeds that execute judgement)
Quite definitely leprous.
Where are you going , Johnny?
Know you the way?
Your face so bright and bonny
Laughter so gay.
I’m going your way, Daddy,
Take me with you.
I’m going nowhere, laddie,
Will you come too?
If we’re together, Daddy,
Nowhere is fine!
My hand in yours, laddie,
Your hand in mine?
I am always cold now.
The sun only warms to burn,
Mellows to melanoma.
Damn those tricksters faith and hope!
And love – the Dark Lord
Who takes his time to kill.
The music of the Spheres
Is betrayal.
Gravity and silence are all.
“I’ll get it, luv.”
“Hey, Jim – its them – with the Watch Tower stuff
‘The world is doomed’, the man says.”
“Cor blimey, luv!
Tell ’em – ‘The questions are quite bad enough!
So who on earth wants answers?'”
Am I lonely? Never more
Than when this question I explore.
Are you lonely? This I say
To keep my loneliness at bay.
Are we lonely? Let us dream
That life is not what it may seem.
Dry as a cough and stiff with spines
Whose points inject what he opines
A venom that all minds would close,
He never thinks – he merely knows.
Bibles bash or Bibles burn
Wine into water he can turn
Birds of Paradise never fly
In the thin air of his bleak sky.
If I had said “I find myself enjoying D.H.Lawrence”.
My mother would have looked anxiously for a vaccine.
My father regarded him with such absolute abhorance
That even the letters D and H were faintly obscene.
An open window always gets more shutting than it warrants
I suppose to keep the furniture and fittings clean.
By road, by market,
Where the olive grows,
The dolls-house shrine
Makes weak faith firmer,
Glistening white.
Yet tis the dark it
Hoards; and, homely, knows
Things fade when shines
The untempered summer
Sun too bright.
With room to park, it
Focuses. All know
Its mysteries and sign
The cross, and murmur
In their plight;
Touching the ark that
Covenants to those
Who bread and wine
Revere, succour
In the night.
Where life is stark, its
Symbols and those
Painted saints combine,
Wisely, to colour
Faith with – just a little –
Sight.