From the skies of heaven falls one black star

A choice is not a choice when both are marred.
A name that shrieks, a face consumed by rage
From  the skies of heaven falls one   black star

Who flung down  the invalid Mastercard?
Whose hand stirred to open a flawed page?
Whose will be the bodies burned and charred?

Welcome, to the bored, is a new war
Like Nero burning Rome, life but a  stage.
Though, with Macbeth, perhaps Shakespeare went too far.

Sweeten riots and smoke a  large  cigar.
Let the shops burn down, oh,more damage!
Do we care now who the villains are?

Let the houses fall,  blow up the cars.
Let the world see how the West is crazed.
Light the torch apocalyptic  with despair

Tell them that “Christ lovers” are deranged
Jesus spoke of peace not hate savage.
A choice is not a choice when both are marred.
Even cloudless skies hide evil stars

Slant sun

With winter frost, the sun beguiles our eyes
Making diamonds gleam to engage hearts.
In slant sun, the patterns solemnise.
With eternal frost, the sun makes sharp our eyes
Makes us look when we might compromise.
To be in focus, broad enough yet sharp.
This winter lost, a card disturbed the wise.
Whose drawn weapons gleam; who evil starts?

The Wild Swans at Coole

4662161_f260-3

William Butler Yeats (1919)

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away

Mainly struggling

narcissus2017-1-1About the journey, what to say,
That the infinite task was finite,
That what seemed impossible is almost done?
Mainly struggling with interior problems
Projected onto this heap of clothes and books
Maybe I took the wrong path, made a detour I didn’t need.
Maybe the struggle itself made me strong enough.
Now I sit weary, with a mug of tea by my side.
A channel opened and I was able to receive your gifts.
Now it’s not dark but a grey cloud is hanging low.
It feels like spring again

Why did they not tell us?

Playing on the high wires of space-time
Holding time back for an instant then diving
Into the unmapped depths  and deeps
Pulling space here and there
Why did they not tell us, music has its own geometry
Like  on the Spanish guitar , one second is not the same as  another
One holds back then runs, another steps out and waits.
It’s the mild tension and music in our bones that makes us sing and dance.
And they try to capture this on graph paper, oh so neat!
Maybe that is just to stop us falling off the edge of the world
As we gyrate.And is this not what the birds say in their whirling?
As we trudged home from school was it not this we  longed for?