We live in a world where Covid19 casts a dark and frightening shadow, where the blood of imperial conflicts colour the seas and stain the land, where armies of innocent flee across man made borders to be greeted with cruelty and humiliation, where hunger's cruel claws tear at the young and the old. It is our world, a world we can't escape from but can try to alter. However from time to time I take a walk down another bye-way and seek a little respite in the land of poetry. Today I'll take that stroll.
Though I like a laugh and a giggle, most of you who have read anything I have written will realise that those features seldom, if ever, find their way in to my written word.
The following poems are all from a wee book called, "They say I'm Crazy."
A couple on my mother's death:
The Lonely Wynd.
At the bed, death's waiting room,
the family muster,
with empty words wrapped in thoughts of death,
gaily chatter.
Outside, hungry birds feed, sing and fly,
their chirpy songs seem to call her death a lie,
but summer's sun
reaching through the window pane
sadly smiles,
knowing they'll never meet again.
I wonder,
in coma wrapped, what were your thoughts.
Pleasure,
looking back at what used to be?
Pride,
at how, to this life happiness you brought?
Perhaps it was a welcome rest from pain
a just pause in your long struggle,
alas too late, this enigma with me remains.
So rest, in your rest peace be your gain
for you dear mother, an end to trouble
as love's boundless force could not break
death's firm grasp upon your heart,
passionless devouring cancer
unmoved by prayer on our part,
took your hand along that lonely wynd,
death took time
fused the moment on our mind.
In the midst of family
alone dear mother you had to die.
That Part Of My Life.
Everywhere I walk,
she dies.
I walk the leaf covered park alone,
she dies.
In each glen, by each loch,
she dies.
In the midst of each merry throng,
she dies.
With everyone I meet,
she dies.
each time I think of times gone by,
she dies.
When the future I try to grasp,
she dies.
There is no place can hide from
her death.
There is no act that can obscure
her death.
My life is now marked by
her death.
Her death now shapes my life.
On Western imperialism.
Remember Iraq.
Mammon, God of the New World Order
has spoken:
Any nation who blasphemes
against the scriptures
of the Holy Free Market economy
shall find its people scorched by fires
that rain out of the western skies
and the people shall suffer perdition
through all eternity.
All the world shall see
Mammon's hi-tec retribution.
A couple of personal views.
The Illusion.
How frail we are
how tenuous our hold,
what a strange trick of nature
that we should feel so bold.
To life tied by a silken thread
burning youth,
a new world vows to mould,
oblivious, as fate blindly cuts the thread,
without a sigh, leaves sweet youth so cold.
Middle age with confidence comes,
experience expands the illusion.
We cover the world in words of wisdom
believing we
lead nature to the right conclusion,
but she with ease, a beauty all her own,
shows our naive plans as utter confusion.
At what age will we realise,
we always pay for our arrogant intrusion.
In old age we accept the fact
our time in nature's span is small.
How rich, life in nature's domain could be
if to foul greed we refuse to fall.
Accept, we as beggars in her presence stand,
man can flourish and grow tall,
act as her lord and master,
she'll cast man aside like a cheap rag doll.
Buried Treasure.
Rich, man I'm rich,
this life, this treasure chest of mine,
crammed full.
Those moments of ecstasy with forgotten names,
burning loves that broke the rules,
quiet meetings that burst into flames,
short lived loves
sealed with brittle vows.
Passions that sparkled and flashed
bringing warmth, even now.
Ruby red anguish that shaped my heart,
diamond friendships this world can't part,
a son that changed this world to gold
adding pride to my treasure chest.
A daughter brought radiance beyond compare,
of precious gems, they gave the best.
These jewels, these precious stones
this bounty beyond belief
all mine,
outshines a prince's throne.
A couple on the death of my dad.
Ten Years.
It's been ten years since, dad,
do you still remember,
how your coaldust cover body
clawed in that dark abyss
for your share of sixpence
to feed your hungry kids?
I do.
Do you still remember,
how each day you descended into
that dark hell, laid your life
on the line, just to clothe
your family and your wife?
I do.
Do you still remember,
how throwing crumbs from the window,
with skill the blackie's song you imitated;
settling down with a smile,
the humble comforts of our home appreciated?
I do.
Well dad,
it's been ten years since you died,
I still remember this and much more.
Then I always will ------- for a portrait
of your humble courage
hangs on a wall,
somewhere in my heart.
The Gift.
You promised me Jerusalem
a socialist paradise,
I have world
of greed,
brutality and lies.
You promised me Jerusalem
a land of hope and plenty.
I have a world
of want,
fear and envy.
Still,
from the bottom of my heart
I thank you for your gift,
a precious dream. I thank you dad,
for all your life you tried.
Just a thought:
The Seasons.
When you look, it's plain to see,
spring has crossed these mountains,
--------------many years before;
kissed their slopes, with shoots of hope,
promised so much more.
Then sweeping in, in a blaze of life,
summer saw the promises bloom,
---------------many years before;
bathed the dreams, in bounteous streams,
birds began to soar.
So with stealth, and deceptive charm,
autumn cooled the gurgling streams,
-----------------many years before;
slowed their pace, to one of grace,
quietly closed a door.
Now with vulgar haste, and callous force,
winter assaults those mighty peaks,
----------------of many years before;
as gathering clouds, spread their shroud,
memories start to pour.
I hope my little wander down that bye-way brought something to you, and prodded you mind away, for a while, from our Covid19 plagued and trouble strewn world.
Visit ann arky's home at
https://radicalglasgow.me.uk
