New verse goes in the blog. Some verse I wrote earlier is here.
Let there be no barriers between us. As your words flow in my mind we become one flesh, like lovers though we only pass in the street "Just inner city", the Englishwoman said. What other city centre's locked at six Where troops patrol in lead grey armoured vans Where steel and cameras separate two tribes, protect the dole office, yes, and even the pub? Oh English, have you ever lost a war, known hate, or fear? What colour is your blood? A war memorial to the glorious dead Sean Savage, Mairead Farrell, Dan McCann in gold on granite glittering in the Sun a place for pilgrims! Little children play like puppy Dobermans, and Michael Stone is hero only half a mile away. The murals' beauty shall ensure that they live on. The English gawp, and do not see. (1988) Do not speak wisdom. When her body is concrete her soul vanishes I want to move house. On the Marble Cliffs my walls are six feet thick and twenty yards high. Day and night the pitch steams over the fire and the guards make sharp steel darts One for everyone in the World. But who is outside? A Saracen army, or people like me? I want a bungalow, brick built, with cavity walls and a ramp for wheelchairs. I would invite you in, and you would chat inconsequentially, and smile. Do not tell me what to be Do not tell me what to do Do not tell me what to think I am Who I am Do not tell me what to feel Do not tell me what is right Do not tell me what is true Tell me who you are. Tell me what you love. O Mr Badman, tell me your fears Tell me the words that you most dread to hear Tell me your cravings, the things that you lack I'll bring them all in a big Santa sack O Mrs Sweetie, silent and small If you do nothing, you can't take a fall Come smell the flowers, and stop cringing back Sometime I'll get you, with my Santa sack O Miss Adventure, seeking a cure Sensing the stillness, but not really sure Enjoy the darkness, you'll soon get the knack There's only blessing in my Santa sack The whisky is newly distilled. It is fiery, but needs to mature. The stone shines because it is wet. The whisky will mature. The stone will be polished. Permanently fiery Permanently shining From high ground, one can see further. Why is this not true of the Moral High Ground? Is it surrounded by mist? Does the rarified air cause delusions? Or, having climbed the Mountain do I stare so fixedly down at the Hillock that I can see nothing but the Molehill that is mine? In the moment in the perfect absence of certainty in openness to what is in beauty and harmony in service and delight in togetherness and solitude in wrongness and failure in the sea and the sky on the computer and in her arms in the leaves in the garden in fear and trembling in trust and acceptance where the unimaginable impossibility becomes a clear, obvious Yes where I stay and stand and sleep and awake where I move on in becoming and maturing where I begin to see and run and hide and cannot bear it and am lost yet safe competing and cooperating with amoebae and elephants breathing and breeding for all shall be well and all is well and the falcon hears the falconer There is the silence where we meet If I were to paint an Annunciation there would be no angel Nothing to perturb Richard Dawkins. When fornicators, outcast, died the fornicating child ceases to deny the signs, and cries "All generations will call me Blessed." I held the River. I stopped it. You may step into my river more than once. I love the sounds of my river trickling and rushing I love the surface of my river rippling, refracting: so I have kept them. You may wash in my river, for I cleanse all dirt from it and the coots have all they need. Who was He? An object of amusement for the sophisticated Tetrarch The standard of Right the Roman could not win The thing in the way of the High Priest's expedients The mob's victim, sold for a brigand, at whim A ram caught in a thicket The price of an apple, the gift of a King In a world of doubt and sorrow Thousand-island dressing, and despair I touch your hair Laughing like there's no tomorrow Wondering whom to blame, I call your name you feel the same My cat, Jeoffrey, tells me- Isle of You I love him too You are- quite pleasant I wanna be with you You make me feel brand new In a world of doubt and sorrow Doubt the doubt, and sorrow for- the rain it's such a pain Ploughing on my lonely furrow I look back, and see you through my fierce Mascara'd tears of seven years It's going to rain. Then it's going to drizzle for a bit Then it's going to rain again. Then it's going to rain like it's just remembered how. It's going to belt down, bucket down, chuck it down. It's going to rain cats and dogs stair rods Jeddart staves Then it's going to rain like it's forgotten England doesn't have monsoons Then it's going to rain like it's trying to win a prize Then it's going to rain like it just has and then it's going to rain What is Truth, said jesting Pilate and would not stay for- a what? An Answer? Could there ever be an Answer? What is Truth? said jesting Maxwell I, I am my answer but all my truth is work in progress And God made the answer and the answer was Good and the answer was Racial Purity and the answer was Don't Touch Me and the answer was repeating rifles and more rapid efficient firing. And the answer is satellite television and a Kindle with three thousand books and controlling all the supplies of Cobalt in the World and collateralised debt obligations I want the answers to get better for my Will is enough and the answer is just out of reach and I think I have it and-
if i know i know nothing god is what i do not know and
Though I search through all the realm and make my prayer to St Anselm My talent cannot overwhelm: I could find no rhyme for "Larch". I rode under a wrought-iron arch into a land the Sun did parch I rode all year from May till March I could find no rhyme for "Willow". I lay upon my sweat-soaked pillow dreaming of waves that writhe and billow and my unforgiveable peccadillo: I could find no rhyme for "Oak". No rhyme for that? It is a joke Such rhymes are written, sung and spoke in baby's cry and old man's croak and each intermediate kind of folk say rhymes like poke soak bloke cloak coke- but I can't find a useful rhyme for Oak