Wednesday, 7 October 2020

Thoughts.

 

     Thoughts and words, melodies and rhymes, rhythms and beats, weave patterns, paint pictures, tell stories, portray hopes and fears. 

THE HIGH AND MIGHTY.

Politicians, high priests of the holy church
of greed,
yours are the crimes from which the many
bleed.
See, vice and corruption make their
stand,
with brutal tyranny, walk hand
in hand;
your arrogant minds, lost in ambition’s
cloud,
oblivious to the suffering of the humble
crowd.
When poverty’s knife makes our people
bleed,
your cancerous power is all you ever
feed,
holding high some ego-inflating avaricious
plan
that divides, soon pits man against
man.
Now anguish and war mark your mad
career,
covering our world in the brume of
fear,
then shedding youth’s blood by cruel
deceit,
with spurious pomp, lay the guilt at
another’s feet.
As we fall heir to a plundered
land 
  you tyrants walk in manner
grand,
what must we do to make you
yield
to see our children play in a bloodless
field?
Smash and crush your dark nefarious
power
allowing love and peace to freely
flower.

THE MURMUR OF THE POOR.


Brokers, bankers, Earls and Dukes,
callous, mercenary, pirate crew
gasconading through the land
bloated, pampered, privileged few.
Striding with selfish arrogance
plundering as you go
grasping at the fruits
the common people sow.

Take heed, you swaggering fat-cats,
in our world you don’t belong,
that murmur you hear is the poor
rehearsing an angry song.

The day is fast approaching
when our chorus loud you’ll hear,
then all your greed and treachery
will surely cost you dear.

A price you’ll pay for being blind
to the hungry at your door,
oh, haste the day our angry chorus
becomes a mighty roar.

THERE WILL COME A TIME.

There will come a time when the hordes remember,
who bound our grand-parents to the yoke of oppression,
who sentenced our parents to deprivation,
who bid poverty sink its teeth into our heart,
who teach our children, greed is a noble art.
Who sent our sons through the gates of hell
to a litany of cambist brawls,
crammed coffers with blood-stained gold
while laughing in Ares’ halls.
“Who does these terrible things to us?” they will ask,
and when they remember,
they’ll bring an energy that is endless
to drive a fist that is fearless.
Then this merciless market-driven world will crumble
under an insurrection of integrity,
the poor will emerge from the dark husk of capitalism
to live in the light of social justice.
There will come a time when the hordes remember. 
 
I WANT TO BELIEVE!

I want to believe
All that is good is out there
Sleeping in hearts that live in dark valleys,
About to blossom like some magic woodland,
In spite of war, in spite of greed
The essence that is humanity struggling to be free.
All around death arrives in many guises,
Silent as the frost poverty kills,
The ruthless march of war
With every drum beat seeks God’s blessing,
While the God fearing kill the God fearing,
Slaughter in the name of the greater good.

I want to believe
All that is good is out there
Sleeping in the hearts that live in dark valleys
About to blossom like some magic woodland,
Not just as the dream of poets.
 
Visit ann arky's home at https://radicalglasgow.me.uk   

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