Heaven.

Heaven.

The heaven I seek holds no guarded gate

nor boasts no throne on high

has no host on bended knee

no king to call us nigh.

Death shall not be our road of entry

no trumpet blast to show the way,

has no frontier guards for man nor beast

nor some far off judgement day.

The heaven I seek is here and now,

where symbols of power crumble like sand;

standing upright all men shall brothers be,

no one privileged with high commend.

Vibrant life shall be our only passport,

the glorious morning sun our only sign,

with true love of man and beast,

we can have heaven in our time.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Buried Treasure.

As life glides on, what do we really value?

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 sparked and flashed

bring 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,

outshine a prince's throne.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

I Want A World For The Soft And The Gentle.

       A poem can come from a thought, a word, something you saw, an inner feeling, a desire deep inside. This poem came from a deep sadness after hearing of the death by suicide of a dear friend's young son.

TO LOSE A SON.

It seems, in this harsh and callous world

There is no room

For the sweet, the soft, the gentle

Too many compromises to the inner self

Too many cruel realities pierce the heart.

How do you love

When survival bids you

Case your heart in an iron cask

Seal your skin in a titanium sheet

Fulfil the code and not yourself.

With pleasures locked in an inner chamber

Love hidden beneath a smile

Desires crammed in secret corners

All protected from the discordant demands

Of a rapid moving, confusing, pitiless world.

Where do the sweet, the soft, the gentle, find solace

Where can the heart float free

Where can the inner self blossom

Open for all the world to see

Accepted and un-threatened? 

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

 

I Was No Scot---.

      Sitting sipping coffee in a café I came across the paper "The Glad Rag". It was an interesting read, I like poetry, and its pages were a rich kaleidoscope of prose and verse. One in particular, to me at any rate, blew away all that crap about colour, ethnicity, culture, race, nationality, and showed that common thread that links us all. 

YETHOLM DAY.

When I first fucked an England born

Her ethnicity

Was not the first thing that came to me

I loved her cos she was beautiful and she loved too

The warmth of desire

Lying so close to me

The Green dawn rush

On the Cheviots

We washed all things well

In the tranquillity of Bowmount Water

She was no Northumbrian

I was no Scot

We were gypsies, travellers, subjects of no high kings

Love is a free born thing

Her love was everything.

      (Yetholm in the Borders has been associated with Romani communities since the seventeenth century. The last "Gypsy King" was crowned in Yetholm in 1898)

 By, David Stakes. 

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

Belonging.

What more can I say-----

BELONGING.

A gentle kiss that bears a promise

confirmed in that philtrf smile,

soft fingers like a breath on flesh

lingering, just a while.

Sweet words that caress

loving hands that speak,

these tell my wondering heart

here is the harbour I seek.

A closeness that needs no voice

a peace that stills the storm

this special human magic, can

an arduous world transform.

Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk

I'M PROUD.

I’M PROUD.

I’m proud of my people, proud to be one of them,

that great mass on society’s bottom rung.

Those who, with coal-dust under their nails

in their eyes, in their lungs

claw at the earths entrails.

Their brothers,

cement in their hair

in their mouth, in their ears,

oil ingrained in their fingers,

on their face.

Sisters, glistening with sweat

midst the ceaseless noise of machines

that throw out shirts, shoes, toys, carpets

for other people.

Those with soil and sweat stuck to their skin

smelling of the earth, feeding the multitude,

grinding out their lives in a harsh pitiless system

weighted down

with a sack load of half-dead dreams,

sometimes brought to their knees

by a tidal wave of despair,

never defeated,

groping in the dark to find tomorrow,

keeping hope alive;

they amaze me.

Somehow, from somewhere

in this cold, cruel

unforgiving scheme of things

they find love for their children.

Not a teaspoonful, not a cupful,

but buckets full, to bathe them in,

to pour over them.

They seem to know

that one day this world will be ours

and to take care of it

we will need those who have been loved.

ann arky's home.

IT'S TRUE, ANARCHY IS FOR LOVERS.

            There is so much going on in this world of corporate fascism, the struggle seems endless. As always, anarchists are at the forefront of any struggle for the freedom of the individual, the well being of humanity and freedom from the exploitation of people by wealth and power. Sometimes we are so involved in struggle and strife that we can lose sight of why we are fighting. It is not because of our love of fighting, it is not because the only way we can exist is by struggle. It is the opposite, it is because of our love, our love of freedom, not just for ourselves but for all, it is because of our love of the individual and their right to a decent life, it is because of our love of the coming generations. In spite of the bad publicity given to anarchists by the mainstream media, love is the foundation of anarchism. So on this day, February 14 we would like to take our rightful place among the lovers of this world and declare, anarchy is for lovers.

ann arky's home.

THERE ARE MEN TOO GENTLE ---.

       

         As the new year gets up and running and all the talk is of struggle and fighting, we should never forget why we are fighting. It is not for the love of struggle and fight, it is not for power and wealth, it is because of love and a desire to create a world where such beautiful flowers as justice, peace and love, bloom in the fertile soil of co-operation, so we can live in a world free from the fear of deprivation. We wish to create a world where the gentle can live and grow.

THERE ARE MEN TOO GENTLE TO LIVE

AMONG WOLVES

Poem by James Kavanaugh

There are men too gentle to live among wolves

Who prey upon them with IBM eyes

And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.

There are men too gentle for a savage world

Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween

And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves

Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws

And murder then for a merchant's profit and gain.

There are men too gentle for a corporate world

Who dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheels

And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves.

Who devour them with eager appetite and search

For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.

There are men too gentle for an accountant's world

Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass

And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves

Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.

Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant's world.

Unless they have a gentle one to love.

ann arky's home.