Tragic Agenda

Away in the wind when the storm blows

distance the sounds of a horns crow

Bagpipes are feint; sing about a saint

mama passes over afore a long ole wait

the big ‘C’ burdens thee, is it time? possibly

striving to come, agony to go, confusion maybe

would you wallow in shame or weep

go in peaceful friends as sheep

A ship sails the troubled way across the sea

to a land bewitched with sinful peasantry

enjoyment in a find the strange noise sounds

chants of calling to pray on the mound

beautiful flags of hatred hanging

St George the foreign Prince a dangling

England became a place of hell

viciousness under a racist smell

Tonight eating a curry from my Indian friend

tomorrow a Chinese restaurant sends

a pizza flops meaty mozzarella cheese 

amazingly tasty, send some more please

Sting in the tail of a locust

poisonous death from a snake

no - only one way to warm a glove

a hand of warmth and filled with love. 

The Broken Horse

Barbed wire namely life shredding skin 

the once upon a time you were  

irrevantly perturbed in guilt ridden sin 

the little child growing in time long  

ages to grow, fed lies which maketh one strong 

then; eventually destructive force hits  

truth hits hard as a horse with a bit 

all hurt, pain, destructive force 

catches up energy, dies of course 

accepting it is as it is with remorse 

existence as a broken horse.

A Working Man’s Legacy

I remember sixteen as if it were yesterday 

five different jobs not a single day away

wanting success, keen to be blessed

yet secretly, deep down, wanting caress

working in a greyhound stadium with my dad

on the tote, a brass museum piece clad

painting, selling, Amway was bad

so many jobs, not a university grad

years have gone, still without a song

never to join a rich man’s throng

not up for the challenge, can’t be bothered 

work, wore my life thin, then I felt smothered

Just like John Lennon, a working class hero

who created nothing then went to zero

intelligently stupid, a rich man’s tool

living a life, yet feeling the fool

When I die, it will not be long

To  join Jesus or Elvis to sing my own song

then he’ll say to me ‘come along’

There is a staircase for painting and it’s very long

Soul in a hole

I am fragile, I love life, I love people, I love all 

being kind and caring a reason to feel tall 

why then does my reason for living get tested ?  

turning thy tentative nature of I am, in to small

Satan is not part of my soul yet evil invades

it enters every orifice through any hole

destroying my inner peace, is its devilish goal

I feel that death is the answer to overthrow 

Why can’t I be happy being me, living life happily

it sycophantically destroys the person I wish to be

a loving person surrounded by fragility 

emptiness is denying my virtuality 

To feel love and to give love is everything

to believe within love we can win

ignorance is my only bliss, in thought

everything can be cured with a hug and a kiss

Quaintly Forgotten

The land darkens as cold air draws close

shadows! the only friend that is near

a cold island island the man I be, sublimely 

quoting with confidence, the sight of wonder

yet speaking alone, I sit and wonder

if I died would I have not been known

to disappear in the mist forever err, alone

Did you live ?

I speak of Nazareth, inconspicuous sleepy town 

people roaming about quietly without frown

I speak of Nazareth, quietest sleepy hollow

each person wandering around on the borrow

a sparkle one night sky at Bethlehem 

I speak of Bethlehem a gift to them

I speak of a boy for Mary a joy

a son in gods favour, born as the saviour

speak of a boy, a ruthless child

calming the lost, alone and wild

Jesus saves if you choose to be

free from the pain and strong as a tree

Down on the Farm

Down on the farm they spin a yarn

There is twine from the sheep, a blanket for sleep

Where the little children lay at peace 

Mother working, has carpets to sweep

The dust lay around from the struggle she keeps

Farmer comes home late after toiling the ground

Creeping in silently not making a sound

Crawls in bed, it is half past nine 

Clothes are still hanging on the washing line

Up at four o’clock the next day is new

Precious times now may be short or few

A love of strength, a hope in heart

The weather is grim yet rain doth start

Poppies bring hope, from an angels harp.