FOUR POEMS

  1.

As we watch this moment endure

of itself, such is the struggle between

the man and his beast, that cuts sharp

all manner of its self, alone and in a darkness

of sound.

We alone cut the path, only of its source

do we see the mapped out vision of

its existence and its demise, a demise

of proportions never before regaled in this

land of our fatherhood.

He alone may believe that the answer is in him

or maybe a greater force guides the

swarthy hand across the page of love, hate

and apparition, such is the soul of now in an

abundance around our spiritual longings.

              2.

vague visions of yesterday, plumed with

a ghost that shatters the vision of stone

iciness enamelled upon a marble bier.

forgotten of late and buried under the chalice

brought out by breaths of stifled wind.

vague visionary that sees harm done

to a people starved of itself, singed by

the fury of desire and wanton warring.

this shall be the path of motion

enveloped by its strangulations of

power and peace hopes.

             3.

   Ripe paths of the landscape beckon

   to the sky blue, sea blue land.

   All about its existence is a mire of

   indecision calling forth the sad grey,

   mad gray light.

   Come forth they say to all as a lyre

   strums its tune of woe and wassail,

   purging the bowels of earth upon a

   calm sea of anguish, blood let by a

   bow of iniquity.

   Ripe sky larks swoop below the belt

   of scorn in its helpless rapture of death.

   Beaten back under a seemingly settled

   brow of evilness and mirth.

            4.

   All in all we sail below the ocean rather

   than ride its petulant waves briskly up

   towards the zenith of its powers behind us.

   Giant thunder roars of wash mark us darkly

   with no other means than of raping back our

   spasms of breath as they deluge the drift.

   Fire is its own element of fury dancing darkly

   on the brimstone cloud of earthy spume that

   ensconces all that man brings of fury to its maker.