stonepoem : 365

Words
are warriors
let them ride
over mountain’s teeth
let them climb
let them leap
like ghosts of mastabas
over sands and tradition
raised against ignorants
peeling skin of sycophants
mouth breathing their falsehoods
with dead machines
only numbers describe
but never heal.
Words are warriors
let them run
between fallen honours
let them charge
let them roar
loud against the halfwits
and their door sniggering
doomed meat stares
never seeing stars.
Let them loose
among dumb and damned
let them out
let them free -
speaking to the idiots
line dancing in blood.
Shred ropes of shock and awe
before ask and lust for more.
Dead must be hypocrasy
and words must fight.
Now stop the war.

Doubt

rains down

like hunger creed

false smiling me.

White noise

tired eyes -

mumble handed

wails

all minded in ignorance.

Dread and burning sand.

Last breed’s last cry,

second best last try.

Don’t let it last.

Make it,

Stop.

All human life is here,
And the water doesn’t mind.
Young wavemakers in laughter,
Mothers below the wash,
Fathers sucking stomachs in.
And the water doesn’t mind.
It doesn’t mind the chemicals
The toddler piss, the heated hiss
It doesn’t heed the constant churn
Of carefree souls that never learn.
All human life is passing through
Equal skin in belly of pool.
Dabbling playful shallow,
Daring deepest end,
Darkest unknown floor.
And still the water
Does not mind.

What they had is gone,
And all I feel is blankness.
Numbed like some medicated fool
Avoiding their wretched reality.
It’s not indifference or avoidance though -
I suspect it to be more a kind of odd guilt,
Like a fog that pities the landscape
But nonetheless must smother the light below.
Something IS there, but must not be seen,
Something is aware, but nust not be known.
All they had is gone and I’m numb again.
With hollowness, with vague intent
Writing to you under
Postcard-dry skies.
What else can
I do?

Eat for the hungry,
for they cannot feed themselves,
then swim for the dust-bowl kids,
who crane to catch the water drops.

Be stylish for the ragged dressed
in sun-bleached *ethnic* clothes,
and laugh out loud for desolate hearts
who know not love nor family.

Run free for the stumbling ones
when they cannot leave the dirt,
you can wake and smell the roses
for sake of sewered folk and down.

Speak joy for these muted souls,
Rest serene for all their wearied toils.
Then sip tea and watch it all, on your TV
(for those with no electricity).

Between the coffee and the chocolate
that’s where we will be -
checking out, before the check-out,
eyeing basket tell-tailed groceries.
Our non touch dance without romance,
and furtive glance of no demand.
A flirtation, so subtly voiced
between the heaving aisles.

He is grinning,
Like a coldwax peach
Curled and constant,
On guard like a twisted
Forever-slept dog
Or a sleepover sigh
Echoing daydream
Stilted night.
They’ll be
No melting of this
Strange wax though,
No turn that breaks
The seal of time
Stood high upon
His rough hewn
Armature.
He grins,
Because of will of us
Who traipse to watch,
Along the path
That never wavers,
That never arcs
Like aspic oxbow
Frozen flow.
A thousand, thousand
Footsteps seek and feel
With tread and weary romp
Of seeded needs.
All buried deep
He holds his poise
Then contemplates
Why it is that he alone,
Should be the one
Who smiles.

This one’s for the quiet ones,
The ones who sit and wait -
The people leaning at the back
Depended on to take the slack.
This one’s for the mild souls,
The some who stir no wave -
The some preferring calm
To seas not yet as plotted brave.
To reticent hearts, to those
That softly speak - go prideful
In hushed guile and gentle leap,
Over paths on which you seek.