Father Mine

Of the father might I speak for a moment more,
Of the man who threw my mother into the door?
Of how that cry as her reflection broke on piercing shards,
Can be no more violent than her cry as crossing the yard.
Me, but a boy in the hall with a view into the room.
Hair wild and black and hands racked with clenching.
So small and frail, yet filled to no avail with a rage
Far from fleeing even when silence comes.

Cast me a line, oh father of mine and maker of my bone.
A spark thrown into the darkness where fruit swells
And then born early and pale with yellow tinge, dying,
But with a Goddess trying to save a son soon to be her own,
Deep within my bone the iron forged and cast jaundiced tinge
Aside and set rose light to cheeks soon to know a smile...
For a while until eyes and mind linked can understand
How well you wish to use your hand on my mortal mother.

Call yourself Lover? Man with many hearts tied to his and craving,
While a family remains in purgatory and pain of slaving
To simply keep warm without light and heat because of you!
You wicked man that knew only coin and broke the box containing
So as with pockets full of fifty pennies you can venture forth gaining
The kisses of sluts and whores knowing we are starving here
While you fill your greedy, rotting belly with wine and beer
And leave us in the dark to know only warmth of cuddle and feel
While icicles form in the bathroom like daggers set on steel.

So cast me a line if that is all we would ever know,
While you work on the brother of mine and blood and bone
And turn his mind against a mother with only love to give.
To what aim was this game you feel to play and born to live?
To turn him from my mother for your bigger box of coin
To be opened like a cloud of locus to devour the join
Between mother and son and sister and brother
With the result of you gaining absolutely nothing.

So that was all then and the now is far from there,
But I hear you are dead and am conflicted with thought.
Should I grieve and wrought a pain so deep it buckles
The heart I have hardened against you who loves nothing?
Then you are not dead for it was rumour and lies.
No coincidence that such traits follow in your wake,
But let me speak for a while of the maker of me
And let him know I am not ready to set the cunt free.

Be gone from my eyes a moment, you dreamy tales of joy I wove.
Come forward frosty Jack with your cold hand and touch my heart.
Let the words that follow part with the chill I wish them to hold
And Dark Mother who I love above all, hear my wish for him to grow old!

Let him not die in the illusion of lost touch and disconnection.
Let him know of his son's severed cord and utter rejection.
Let him know the iron of my blood is now a sword held against him.
Let him sense the slash that will deliver not death, but utter pain to him.
Let age not come with grace to his polluted streams from where I was born.
No, not for he who knows nothing of love or the joy taught by the Faun
Or of the Mother Dark and between the worlds who clutches my hand,
And who whispers in my ear as I speak of murder "I understand."

Let him know I am forged within his very own cast.
For I am a belly full of rage and wickedness.
I am the sly, devious, viscous creature often feared.
I am the heart that pumps hard and if not warming - it sears.
If in Dante's tale, I am he who would not flee from the wolf
But rush instead up the sloping hill and feel teeth tear me.
Left bleeding I would rejoice in the bitter pain of the bite
Knowing that She would see my wounds and face - then weep.
Not allowing wounds to remain or for my red blood to seep
Into this earth She knows I have honoured and given up to
Without any doubt or loss of faith because I know the hand I hold.

Let him know I love him none.

Scarecrow

Eyes that can’t cry yet a face full of sorrow.
A mouth without joy and no kiss there to borrow.
Scars from the weather. His soul looks undone
While mocked by a passer drunken and young.

But that passer falls down from the back of my hand.
“Your mouth without thought is the curse of this land!
At him do you laugh when he works for his name?
Be gone wasted youth or feel my hand again!”

Pit pat and flap are the shoes of the fleeing.
Change your ways, my heart is pleading.
But still no response from my friend tied to his fate.
The youth has gone far as I climb the field’s gate.

I walk to the sadness propped up and forgot.
I study his torture; consider his lot

His back in such agony and feet stuck in clay.
A bold poker face enduring each day
Formed by a man with intention to frighten
But in living this life his joy does not heighten!

I have lingered here long and looked on with pity.
So much like him I am when returned to the city.

But if his mouth I un-sew then what would he say?
If I untied his back would he then run away?
Or would he just linger with no lover to hold?
He is loveless like many that fear getting old.

I untie the scarecrow along with my fears.
Un-stitch his mouth and free him from years
Of enslavement to toil and what ‘they’ think is right
Glad with bare hands I freed him from plight.

A ragged breath pulls past liberated tongue
And exhaled like the laughter of one who is young
His eyes grew so tearful and shaking his head
I’ll not forget what my scarecrow said…


“I have seen many come and then watched them pass.
No thought for my freedom - they haunt me with laughs.
The crows and the vultures may pray on my treasure,
‘Coz when stuck to a pole, gold gives us no pleasure!”

“It’s a friend that I wanted to hold me at night.
When the cold muscles in, the alone it would bite.
But to thank you my friend I have not a copper.
What should I do to make my thanks proper?”

“Live life,” I replied and those words made him sway.
“Know love above all and don’t let them say
What is right and what’s wrong – just follow your heart.
If you don’t live life like that, then there’s no need to start.”

“The pole is still waiting – so what will you do?”

With a smile he said "Thank you my friend, I bid you adieu."

St George the Fool

The Worm of old, it's long been told has perished over time,
Through gallant deeds from men on steeds, recounted over wine.
The Dragon praised by nations plenty suffered in our land,
And now it's gone and in its place we worship killing hands?

On English soil from pain and toil we grow from stress and war,
Chesspieces moved across the board to defend our emerald shore.
Our language moved with counter blows that swallowed the invader,
From the Nords to Rome the Royal throne has been our Country's Saviour.

But on those thrones the Royals grow from deeds of other men,
And pull the noose around the brave to bring them close to them.
Dressed in steel and armed with lance, these men were known as knights,
And earned their fame for facing foes, to win our country's fights.

But the Dragon lived as master of the land, the air and sea.
Majestic beast of gem stone hue and cloaked in mystery.
With a heart like man, they knew to love and passion was their fire.
They laughed at stars, cried at seas and knew the earth's desires.

'Not master of me,' thought George from far as he wished for ranking higher.

Because small in thought and short of years, George envied this fine creature,
And wished for love from maiden sweet to get her to the preacher.
He spread a tale that paints the beast as demons spreading death,
Then set out on his brainless steed to fake his very best.

The lance went in, but rejoice was stilled by voice from dragon's chest…

'You take my life?' the Dragon said as Death's dark dimmed out the day
'When all I did was rest my bones to watch flowers dance and sway.
Why have you come from lands afar to spill my precious blood?
Why pierce my heart with tips of steel to turn my flesh to mud?'

'You are great,' said George, 'but now am I not better for defeating?
Your death is proof that I am brave and fame will not be fleeting!
A saint I'll be for stopping you from spoiling England's soil
And in my name shall be the fame of what I did through toil!'

'By hand you're great and I say it Sir, that none could kill me better,'
The Dragon coughed. The blood still spread and made the soil wetter.
'But fool men are no substitute for such creatures of my size.
With me gone, they'll sing your song with tears to fill the eyes.'

The last breath passed the Dragon's lips. The blood had ceased to spill.
George clapped his hands and walked around the thing that was his kill.
Like a fool he tripped and fell face first to land within a trance.
On level with the dragon's eyes, George saw the flowers dance.



Written in honour of those that suffered Man's arrogance and hide now from our eyes.