Ghosts of the past

If they could still be watching,
what sorrow they would feel,
at seeing that we did not learn;
how war still rules our world.
But soldiers are our shadows,
and no war truly just,
just lives the powerful sacrifice
to hegemonic lust.
We tell ourselves it's justice,
these battles then and now
but ghosts of truth will haunt us;
hypocrisy revealed.
If time peeled back its layers,
then we would see so clear,
that there is little honour;
no death can be redeemed.
These men were ghosts before they died,
phantasmal and destroyed,
by battle's bloody terror;
by truth so long denied.
Fate had made them killers,
for some ephemeral cause,
and sold their souls eternal;
as every war has done.
There's very little honour,
or glory in it all,
and even less integrity,
no matter what we're told.
The blood, the death, the misery
have taught us nothing much,
for if they had then war would be,
a phantom ghost itself.













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Trick or treat

The eyes were wide
with child delight,
expecting that the treat,
would offer something pleasant,
and not the trick revealed.

N.B. Halloween has not been an Australian celebration so this is a different take on treats and tricks.

Eight small stones

1. Spring sat silent,
Winter spat in Summer's face,
Autumn grieved alone.

2. Black cloud on winter
falling toward bright Summer
as if possessed.

3. Your tears fell slowly
upon waiting, grieving heart
to heal in sighs.

4. The moment drifted
onwards through a gentle smile
to settle on me.

5. Words wilt through me,
dribble into sullen places,
denying knowledge.

6. The mind rises

Holds and

Lights the way

Through tangled

Thoughts and

Swamped emotion.

7. Dancing fears and

Creeping lives,

The mind rises

And holds

The light.

8. So often life

Feels crumpled,

Dropped;

And yet within

That crushed feeling,

Such beauty.

 

Whore

You sold yourself for your own gain,
in an emotional sense,
corrupted our relationship
and called me whore instead.
There was no way that you would see,
the truth of who you were,
and how your actions labelled you;
revealed your inner core.
It was the lack of conscience,
morality and truth,
which labelled you, not me;
your actions were the proof.
And yet your own venality,
unscrupulous and raw,
left you without integrity;
made you the real whore.


WHORE

3: a venal or unscrupulous person

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The storm

Memories of a hurricane when I was living in Bombay. Thinking of people in the US at this time.

The storm is bared with bitter teeth,

As windy shrieks torment;

The sinking day is ravaged

The night is fully rent.

Within the howling arms,

we shudder to the floor;

Close mind and eyes to sight

And pray for peaceful dawn.

The shattering of windows

With glass in vicious dance;

The timber splinters wilfully

As homes are torn apart.

In small and shivered huddling,

We know ourselves as borne

On arms of deadly wondering,

As Mother Nature yawns.

The eye is hard upon me,

The mouth spits vicious breath;

The storm in violent birthing,

Creates, destroys and rests.

And in the silent endings,

As whispered words are held,

The living drag back into life

And death rings mournful bells.

The night has fallen into day,

The storm into itself

And life returns to broken calm;

Where order creeps in stealth.

The Moment

Is there in the moment

All that there could be;

Or is there in the moment

All that there should be

Or is there in the moment

All that there would be

Or is there just the moment?

Words

Who sorts the thoughts within my mind,

which brings the day to be

in names and judgements negative

to peace and harmony?

The dull and dreary does not live

unless I say it is

and boredom is another name

where reverie would breathe.

What’s in a name I stand and ask?

As mind holds brush aloft

to paint my day with bitter words;

ensure that peace is lost.

It’s in the name that meaning comes,

to make the day its own;

where dull can be a quietness

and boredom, time alone.

Within the quiet, easy days

when peace has come to call

it knocks upon the ancient door

where hope is Word no more.

It’s in the words unspoken

and those we choose to know

that day is made and brought to be,

what we would make it so.

It’s not just the beginning where Word

is found and called,

but in the middle and the end,

that Word does make our world.

So choose your words with care

and hold them to the light

that day may be in brightness

and not imprisoned night.

When women wish

When women wish for freedom,

they know the truth within,

that they are bound in ancient thread,

to men and all they think.
The way to liberation lives

in power relinquished long,

and damaged dreams of loving;

a war against our own.

We know there is no single truth

which can be brought to bear,

because the battle must be fought

with those for whom we care.

No man is ever called to fight

in such an awful way,

where parent, sibling, partner, child

are  enemy displayed.

No wonder women wait and watch,

and hope that time will bring,

the justice of their cause;

without the death of dreams.

women, men, power, wish, damaged, way think, single, thread, bound, within, we

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Perception

Within the dull and dreary days

when boredom seeks to call

it knocks upon the withered door

of hope that is no more,

Then can I see the dreams that live

within the sullen breast,

and know that they will haunt me now

and keep me from all rest.

It’s in desire, and wanting life

to be some other thing

that discontent can clear its throat

and loud and brittle sing.

And yet while I can see this clear

and know its truth is cruel,

I cannot seem to shift myself

beyond its narrow view.

The day can be no other

than I deem it to be

and yet to change its destiny

I must wrought change in me.