Noise and blackbirds

Noise
so many mouths mouthing
no one listening

everyone is right
the others are fascists
mouths open and close

trees flutter wings and a jay
concentrates on the swaying
of a grasshopper on a stalk.

Wind ruffles the grass
all the grass
not just this meadow
splash of green on a map

it is
because I say it is
I am
whatever I say I am

tumbling stream water
runs to the river
night falls
badger walks

and they plan cruises and binges
sprees and fiestas as if
the moving carpet was not reaching the end.

The voice of the wind
joins the blackbird’s song
and the robin’s song
tosses them high—

I count the new molehills in the path
the flowers in bud

and still mouths open
mouthing
but nobody listens

they don’t need to
they know they are right.

I cling to the simple truth
in the blackbird’s song.

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Never-ending story

 

I am tired of this cold and this death

time after time the retort

echoing until it is caught

by another and another endlessly circling

buzzards above a blue and green field

Earth suffers shrinks

calling wild things back into the darkness

because this world of light is denied them

trees die charred sticks and we

eat and eat and eat until we are sick

I am tired of hearing and seeing brutish stupidity

hearing the calculating weasel words

of those who could make the change `

set the blue ball spinning in clear waters

again

each needless death

our own children screaming

bringing us closer to the ignominious end.

Heat

1024px-Arthur_Streeton_-_Sunlight_(Cutting_on_a_hot_road)_-_Google_Art_Project

Light,

so bright

I hide my eyes,

but still the hand of heat lies heavy on my head.

Throbbing darkly like the sun,

shadows bob in and out of sight.

Flowers, an unexpected joy,

frazzle in their coloured crowns and gowns,

thirsty even after storm rain torrents.

Walking these hard pavements

is like walking the floor of Hell,

and the brazen coping of its roof

is falling in molten drops

on this dry, whispering world.

This is the way, the bright sky calls

Midi2

This is the way/ the bright sky calls,

To dusty death/ at the end of the path.

The tired push and shove/ to the haven of peace,

With no respite/ we follow our longings,

But the dream recedes/ into a blue haze.

Though I can almost touch it/ this magic we longed for,

Its glitter is veiled/ this place we constructed,

By the unyielding cares/ of our heart and bones,

Of a world full of darkness/ to cradle our ending.