I came across a new word
so I thought of sharing it
no not out of ignorance
perhaps twas my share only
yet it’s a new word
we can all now see
anger
panic
corruption
all in one word
call it
Conniption
will ye…

You cannot make a man ashamed
Without his conscience, a mate said
Moral rectitude imparts same
To know and do good from wrong
Echoes the voice of conscience within

Exam malpractice reigns in schools
Some know no way else than to bilk
Call it sorting, micro chipping
Played by both students and teachers
Values suffered setback at birth

Society sank in decadence
From the products of wrongful acts
Children who con their way all through
End up corrupt office holders
Wonder not on polluted system

Lightning flashed across my midnight sky
A Valkyrie with flowing hair
My heart was pounding, I blinked my eye
But no, she still was there

She took possession of my soul
I knew I was lost right then
What did she want, what was her goal?
It was beyond my mortal ken

I was to ride her windy horse
This puny human, a wreck of a man
I asked her why, she said, of course
“It is because you can”

My world spinning
The air is thinning
I gasp with no relief
Where peace has gone
I have not heard
Life's race is more then I can take

My cathedral crumbling
My god let me down
Religion has lost its touch
My life now bears a frown
My rosary said for no one
When pain comes and
Joy ends
Struggling just breathe in

Here at the waters edge.
Where forest limbs reach for me
There betwixt this greenery
And yon further bank
Within a quietened flow of life.

I hear my own hearts pulse
in sync with the rivers flow
hope you too are trying to see through
the pitch darkness
a light within me
that shines
my love only for ye

day in day out
be it summer
autumn or winter
through the snows of December
I still hear my faint heart’s
hope in murmur
you are somewhere there
waiting for me.

hours of day
held beneath
sweet nail

the sterling
scars
on hoops
knuckle nicotine
stains

fingerprinted
zips

tailored scheme
club smudge
ink
from satin linnings

tired calves
on long legged
gazelle shuffles

shadowlands
in nightfall
sitting rooms

a voice crawling
beneath
the velvet entrophy
of intricate ink

trophy
glimmers
in shower states
and demarcations

lean meanders
of sanity

Roundworms Tables and Clowns

They don their crowns as
they sit at the round table,
talking about war, well
those who are able.

They don’t see war as
life or death, but more
of a means to an end.
They’ll not be the ones
taking a final breath, to
busy counting the cost
of every bullet or missile
they send.

Oh they won’t pay for the
artillery, men or bullets that’s
used, they’re simple silly men
who never answer for whatever
they’ve abused.

If poems don't
resurrect the orphan
red-headed parts of us,
gateways to
what we never knew.
If poems do not
dig up past lovers we
never fucked well or enough
from
love's bone yard.
If poems don't rage and then
settle peacefully like doves on
every line, I can't tell you if it's
your fault or mine.

Life claims to remain the same
insane, untrue
Who knew the subtle clues
left behind for us to find
combined
with the lies that are already tried,
we would still survive?

Through the mess of disgrace
laid at our feet we,
of course
want to weep keeping a seat
on the throne of our despair will open
our eyes to
trivialized appearances
minimalized perseverance of
moral kindness taken for granted
oral blindness leaving us frantic

glittering
the tail dreams
sated with salt
the bitter sea
taste
from scales
to gooseflesh
damp permeations
like a wave froth
captured in the dimples
and resting on the
upper lip
submerged and risen

depth promise
swells
damp valley
runs
alive in sunlight
sequined