Nothing is true or false or it’s erased

Addiction can be learned at any age
There is just  the content  and the choice
Why not do it now,it’s all the rage?

For me,it’s mainly  words on one book page
Ideally spoken by a human voice
Addiction can be learned at any age

Once your will is to your mind engaged
Forget your human eyes were ever moist
Why not scream  right now,it’s all the rage?

Beauty,truth and love can be debased
It’s popular right now to practice  lies
Addiction can be learned at any age

Nothing is true or false or it’s erased
Reality by dream is well advised
Why not kill it now,it’s off the page?

Children grow up and out of toys
Why should the addict be de-voiced?
Addiction can be learned at any age
Does even a baby love their cage?

Dark where loneliness hides

http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/5495

 

DARK WHERE LONELINESS HIDES
© 2000, Tatamkhulu Afrika
Cat’s small child cries
in the dark where loneliness hides.
Cat’s small child beats
its breast in the soft
furriness of its need.Cats don’t beat their breasts,
cats yell with lust
in the dark where loneliness hides?
Is it I, then, that cries,
mad child running wild?

Is it I that lies
in the dark where loneliness hides,
that listens as the wild geese wing
past short of the stars,
rime my roof with their dung?

Cat’s mewling, sky’s
sibilances, these
are the thieves of my ease?
What else waits
in the dark where loneliness hides?

My song has a crooked spine.
Should I break a bone
as I straighten it?
Or birth its crookedness in
the dark where loneliness hides?

A dead tree full of live birds

http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/5452/auto/0/A-DEAD-TREE-FULL-OF-LIVE-BIRDS

A DEAD TREE FULL OF LIVE BIRDS

A dead tree full of live birds.
Why should I set this down?
On a young man’s palm, a spiky clump
that could be a dried dog-turd
seen through my spectacles becomes
a cluster of baby snails, bodies clear as glass
but horned, shelled, complete,
one climbing toward a finger.
Who wants my news of tiny slow new life,
or flickering life amid stiff, brittle twigs?
The impulse to celebrate
is paralysed after a moment’s thought.It is not merely that another youth,
his bunched up fist aloft, declaimed:
“I am Azania…I have no time for liberals…”
while at the same concert for the Art Centre’s friends
child-mimes with the vivid grace of mice
enacted angry pupils and their wicked teacher
whom in righteous triumph they lynch with stones and fire.
Not just that responsible thinkers announce
demands of History, revolution, sociological times.
Not alone the dumbing of a girl’s desperate death,
its charge of griefs and guilts that my words won’t bear,
by which I’ve lost a line of meaning
and an heir to some of my books, some of my hopes.

Also, in this mortal mood I am appalled
beneath the weight of books. The shelves are laden,
the shelves in my room are laden with books –
and of even the most urgently treasured through decades
of fishmoth and dust, I shall have left many unread.
While beyond, defying the spans of all who care,
are vast collected libraries
expanding to a cosmos of the unexplored.
Not another page, another line,
is needful.
Job and Arjuna already asked my questions.
The “Ode in Dejection” wrestled with my paralysis.
Over such baffling, tragic tides as ours
“Dover Beach” and “Lapis Lazuli” have given
ageless answers.
Whatever I may find to say perhaps was said
before I breathed.
But even if my news were news,
useful, bearing on the predicament,
there is enough already greatly given
waiting to be unforgotten.

The smell of mint this morning
invading the bathroom when the window was opened
will aid no struggle, rescue nobody,
save no one from despair,
nor even yield a Zen illumination
no matter what I may connect into the moment.
Yet I am naming it –
as though the shaping lines that hold
my animal or vegetable moment out of time
could grant me, my own reader, life
before and after.

And those immensities, the libraries,
inhabit only us, our intimate space.
Read and  unread, my shelves of books
are my urgent life, and I,
their possible reader, am possibly theirs.
It is the `dead’ past now that we live out
with no redundancy, no repetition,
live out, becoming its continuing tale.
Defection into silence would annul
the inner galaxy.

Names

Why does nobody seem to call their child Plato?
Plato Chips
Plato Bred

Since Adam and Eve are popular why not Euclid?

Euclid May

Who are Eucliding?

Moses  is a famous prophet and indeed is still a popular name
Moses Might

In the UK nobody is called Jesus but Joshua is popular

I was only joshing you

Jewish  names are common and we didn’t know in the UK

Michael Mary Ann Ruth Rebecca
David
Joseph
John

Herod is not common

But Greek names are not

Socrates Spatt
Oedipus Wrecks
Aristotle Lears
Plato Tarts
Electra Ruin
Eros Again O’Lord
What about Roman names?They are popular
Augustine O’Cummin
Julius O’Jokes
Julia McGenerates
Playme O’video
Gemma G’eneralise’d
Brutus B’erates
Crime N’Punishment ; that’s not Latin,editor.Stop!

 

 

 

Misperception

What I  thought was glowing evening sun
Turns out to be a neon light come on too soon
And what imagination sees a gun
Where there is but a fine toothed hair comb?

The mind is waiting with a bunch of signs
To fit perceptions into  ready truths
Though I’ve not seen  a  gun nor made designs
Nor used a  nit comb since I was a youth

What we see is what will interact
What we desire,we love, or what we hate
From all the memories that are well packed
Into minds with  independent states

And so we quarrel , murder, go to war
With those who  look from different  coloured doors

 

Grief

Grief  and love are linked by  metal chains
Imagination cannot  foresee change
When love’s killed, its ghost will haunt  and blame

In our wanderings in our mind’s domains
The  furniture  appears,is rearranged
Rage and love are linked by a  steel chain

The mind itself can change the human brain
The one most strong may be the one insane
When love dies, its shadow will  remain

The hate of loss  is like the mark of Cain
The rational one can be almost deranged
Grief  and love are linked by a  strong chain

What is lost will  heal in its due time
Murderous love   comes from the most estranged
When love’s killed its  ghost will  cause  much pain

Suffering most acute is now in place
Chronic losses cause a pale strained face
Grief  and love are linked by a  gold chain
When love’s killed, its ghost will haunt  and blame

Apple wood

I have a piece of apple wood
I have my whittling knife.
I want to make a gift for you,
That will commend your life.
Apple wood is sweet and sound
The tree grew here by me.
I chose the best part I could find
From the virtue of the tree.
Apple wood is a rare gift
We must make something whole,
For if you touch my apple wood
You can feel its soul.
The sweetness of the fruit of love
Is there within the wood.
So all who touch the apple here
Will be moved to good.
What knowledge did the tree conceal
That Eden was destroyed?
This is a good metaphor
Yet why was it employed?

Recycle sins

Rain stopped prayer.
It never drains when it pours.
There’s many a true word spoken as  a test.
“Tis better to have lived at cost,than never to have lived at all.
Where have all the showers gone?
I love you only once a day.
Wisdom is the king of humour.
He shall tear his frock…. stop stealing my clothes!
Was Jerusalem built here,in England’s mares and evil spheres?
We here believe Jesus was white and an Englishman,
I wish you a merry Litmus.
Please don’t leer at the women.They are all wearing vests.
I was tried many times and pleaded for sanity.
Where have all the old men gone?
If,homeless kindly sleep in Church.Thank me,too.
If depressed kindly weep in Church.
If shy,please don’t mention it.
If worried you may gnaw your kneeler.
If paranoid,we are looking at you sideways.
If fasting,kindly faint quietly.
If abstaining,please weep softly.
If dead please report to the Vicar.
If wicked please play away.
Tread lightly for I have shared all my dreams.
Don’t stop till the gnats have all stung.
The vicar went out with a wrangler.
If you need legal advice you are in the wrong place.
Fish and whips available in the bookstore.
Handcuffs are going up as Marks And Spencer go down…
If completely expired keep mum.
If past your use by date don’t rot till after the service then kindly place your body in the compost heap and you can call your soul your own for a while.

Whip up a mousse for the desert.
If weighed down by sins kindly recycle them in the church Bin.

Viruses

dandelion 5.jpg
In winter time we’re forced to give
Homes to naughty viruses
Because these little creatures
Have nowhere else to live.

They take up their abode
In our noses, in our ears.
I need some sunny weather
To make them disappear.

But we have had the coldest winter
For a hundred years.
I’ll have to hypnotise myself
Then visualise sunny days.

I bought myself a little book
From Amazon UK
You can learn self hypnosis
Just inside one day.

I dream I am reclining
On  a beach in Italy
With a beautiful  young gigolo 
Lying next to me.

I dream of soft blue water
Reflecting sunny sky.
While lying on a mattress
Watching folk go by.

But when my trance is over
I come to in my bed
With a  giant box of Kleenex
Right next to my head.

I am strengthening my diaphragm
Coughing night and day
And cursing all these viruses
You should hear what I say.

But is that very wicked
As God made viruses too?
Do they have some special role,
In  enlightening me and you.?

So should we learn  to love them
As our nearest  neighbours.
Whilst our immune systems
Carry out their labours?

I hear the  garbage lorries
Collecting  stuff outside
I wish they’d collect my viruses,
And take them a long ride.

Because winter is so beautiful
The snow,the sun,the frost
If only I was feeling well
And was not fever tossed.

Viruses are not whole beings
They are just bits of DNA.
Be sure that you run quickly
If you see them coming your way.

They carry  information
They want to  reproduce.
And if they get near enough
They’ll put you to their use.

They are like selfish people
Who do not think of you.
Only think what  need you serve,
What they can make you do.

They are  egocentric
They want the central place
We are here to service them.
We’re just the human race!

As honeysuckle on the walls

They lay down in awe and fear,
Of what their love was bringing near.
They gazed into each others eyes
And so did tantalise.
They lay down to gaze into
the eyes and soul of one who’s true.
They gazed until ,when overcome,
They were united into one.

Their souls and bodies were conjoined,
And thus their hearts were well entwined;
As honeysuckle on the walls,
In joy’s sweet arbours does grow tall,
Their loving lips and eyes and hands
Gave pause to time’s soft flowing sands.
and as they touched and gazed and longed,
The birds sang out in glorious songs.

Which is me and which is you?
Are we one or are we two?
I give you all myself today,
So this shall be our way