Fire Poem

This is my fire poem,
When it's cold outside,
Rainin' or snowin' ,
The thought that warms,
And keeps me goin',
Is an open hearth,
With a fire glowin',

Flickering flames lick,
Whilst hot chocolate is flowin',
And only if you strain your ear,
Can you hear the wind, a blowin'
Over the crackles and roar,
Of the fire growin',
And the chatter of my Mum,
As she's sat there sewin',

Cosy and warm,
Is my Fire Poem,
But draw in near,
For the second showing,

Wild and ravenous,
Is the forest fire,
Consuming all,
Like all consuming desire,
Inevitable, unstoppable,
Hotter and higher,
Like the tide of the sea,
but fiercer, and drier,

It cuts you off and surrounds,
Like some scalding barbed wire,
Like a hellfire preacher.
In priestly attire,
Won't quit catching,
Till it's you it acquires,
Roaring it leaps from branch to branch,
Like it is building a choir,

To sing it's catching, tagging song,
Tag, you're it,
Now Poof,
You're gone.

Wild and ravenous,
Is my Poem of fire,
But even wildfire,
Can be a purifier,

It cleans out the old,
As it blazes through town,
It might bring buildings
Crumbling down,
But go out into the street,
In 'Jama's or gown,
In a couple of months,
Listen for the sound,
Of the rebuilding,
Of what is coming round,

The ashes it gives,
From ashes to rise
The hopeful phoenix,
Takes to scraping the skies.
Newness can come,
From the fire that flies,
Through the town,
And now new buildings rise,


Fire can be dangerous,
Fire can be kind,
Fire is to be,
Respected, mind.

Fire is a predator,
Fire is a friend,
Fire is a curious,
And peculiar blend.

Fire will serve you well,
If you remember it is hot, like hell,

But my favourite fire,
Is when it is rainin' or snowin'
And inside my house,
There is a fire glowin'
And there the crumpets,
 And hot chocolate's flowin'

There you are, Naomi,
A few verses for showin'
This is the end,
Of my Fire poem.

A Place Near Your Altar

Feathered down,
Bedded down,
Nestled,

Warmed up,
Fed here,
Yes, settled,

High up, here,
Safe and,
Protected,

Loved here,
Nurtured,
Accepted,

This nest is all I have asked for,
All of my yearnings and longing,
A place near your altar,
A place, beloved and belonging,

Hawk eye sight,
The searching of flight,
When all of my searching,
And all of my flights,
End with you.

You are my work, my play, my rest,
You are my destination,  my journey,
My home and my nest.

You are the home I leave in search of,
You are my longing and my longing's fulfillment,

You are my starting point.
You are my end.

Here I have made my home.
Here on this journey.

A place near your altar,
The shadow of your wing
Here I live,
Breathe ,
Sing,

I would rather have one breath here,
Than a thousand anywhere else.

My eternal home.

This Gun

This small lump of cold carbonised iron,
And all it's alloys,
Is no ally
To girls
Or boys,

 

It is no friend,
It does not employ,
Social graces,
Nor a smile of joy,

 

It's small pursed mouth,
Remains unmoved,
Whatever comes,
Or passes through,

 

It is indifferent
And cold to you,
It does not care,
Who you are,
Or what you do,

 

It does not care,
About the colour of your skin,
An excess or lack,
Of melanin,

 

It asks no questions,
Of political belief,
No distinction between,
Saint and Thief,

 

It does not discriminate,
Between two religions,
Not a jot,
No, not a smidgeon,

It's features remain blank,
If you ask it what,
You do for a living,
Give it your best shot,

 

It is not swayed,
By the arguments,
Of controls or rights,
The squeals and grunts,

 

Protest is lost,
Get a grip on it,
A gun does not,
Give a shit,

 

A gun will come
Between me and you,
It does not care,
For the why or who?

 

It doesn't care,
Who pulls the trigger
Who is smaller,
Who is bigger,

 

It doesn't mind
On which side you end,
The trigger or,
The business end,

 

This Gun is none,
No respecter of persons
No expresser of preference,
It can't know for certain,

 

This gun does not have
A sense of fun,
It feels no exhilaration,
To see you run,

 

This piece, this strap,
This moulded steel,
It is not angry,
It does not feel,

It does not empower,
Or say what to do,
It leaves those things,
Entirely up to you,

 

It cares not that,
Hot bullets of lead,
Tear through flesh,
Kill children in bed,

 

Make widows, and orphans,
And murderers the same,
It feels not pity,
It knows no shame,

 

It is unresponsive,
When four shots are fired,
Though windows, to cars,
And the driver's expired,

 

It has not noted,
That this was a routine stop,
Nor the black driver,
Or the white cop.

 

His Girlfriend begs Jesus,
But this seems one resurrection,
Too far for,
The Good Lord's attention,

 

(There will be insurrection)

 

It does not weep,
Over pools of blood,
Of Snipers fruit,
Or the Crimson flood.

 

It does not mourn,
For the five police killed there,
It doesn't hear their cries,
And it still doesn't care,

 

No we cannot blame the Guns,
We can only blame Humans,

 

This Gun is mean,
This Gun is cold,
But no meaner or colder,
Than the one that holds,
This Gun is only doing,
What it's been told,

 

No we cannot blame the guns,
We can only blame humans.

 

 

(This is not a pro gun poem in any way. My feelings are quite the opposite. I just wanted to highlight that human nature is behind the problem with guns and that the darker elements of our nature  combined with such a killing machine produces incidents like the ones that inspired this poem)

Aaron's Rod

As the bovine Hercules,
(A beast the size of which you only read of in myth),
Charged down on us like some vengeful demi-god,
Tore up the field,
And kicked it away behind itself,
In it's thunderous run,

As the church-folk quivered,
And sought the safepoint of the style,
You stood,
Towering your five foot ten,
Like a monolith,
Made monstrous in my eye's mind,
A monster to make dwarfs of your foes,

You were like Moses,
Like a deliverer,
Furious with the golden Bull-calf,
Your staff in both hands,
Your feet, like your furrowed face,
 Set,

Mud-stuck,
And with a single thrust,
With rod aloft the air was struck,
I was agasp, struck dumb,
The dumb luck beast,
Faced down,
Your Thunder,
Your frown,

That old friend and confronter of mine,
Turned defender now,
Your rod and your staff,
They comfort me,
Chastiser,
Protector,
Hero with your hands out,

Aaron's rod
Held aloft,
You cried out,
Like a snarling cowboy,
Driving the whole heavy herd with his growl,

And like the Red Sea,
The field was split in two,

The fleeing flock on one side,
The Bull-calf on the other,

And you,
The dividing line between them,

Whilst across the boundary we put feet on the safety of the promised land,
You held the bull at bay, with outstretched hand,

You whispered soothingly,
And the bewildered beast was mesmerised,

And you had done this so oft' for me,
To stand in the gap, betwixt me and the sea,

Though I saw not the danger ahead,
Though I feared not for life,
Though I felt not the dread,
You stood in the gap for me,
So often barring doorways,
You stood,
At times on your knees,

And held the tides at bays,
As then you appeared to my boyhood gaze,
And as flawed as you are, through all my days,
You stood in the gap for me,
And held bulls at bay so I could go free,

And slowly you back down the field,
Your arms still stretched out,
You retreat but not yield,

I know the style is now closer to your heel,
And the final freedom you can almost feel,
But you are backing your way down there,
The bull through the years still feels yours stare,

And I watch you proudly from behind,
Bearing this in mind,
As my radiant face with pride did shine,
The father who saved us, is mine,

When (Questions)

When the how,
Has replaced the why,
And by who,
And what for,

 

That's when,
It's time to ask questions.

 

What have we become,
Where have we come to,
How can we get back,
And to who should we turn.

The Philosopher's Stoned

The Philosopher's Stoned

The Priest is not hearing confession,
The Philosopher is now stoned,
The Government Official is corrupted,
And Bono's no-where near a phone,

The Writer is now written off,
The Actor has been upstaged,
The prompter promptly fell asleep,
The Artists brush slipped from the page,
The Doctor has phoned in sick,
The ethics committee is out to a three course lunch,
The Stock broker has gone broke,
The Police are left without a hunch,
The Forensic experts are all advising on TV,
The Psychics have all lost their second sight,
The Military advisers have blown themselves up,
The Comedians are a joke tonight,
The Devil waits for Hell,
And, at times, I fear for me as well,
And "God is in his heaven",*
Like Heaven's some kind of cell,
So I now have one remaining hope,
And one more question too,
If the Philosopher is Stoned then,
Jesus Christ:
What's wrong with you?




18.11.08 *Quote from "The Warm and the Cold" by Ted Hughes

I Am Taking Pictures (Gallery of Memories)

I am taking pictures,
Taking pictures with my eyes,
Lids for shutters,
From waking till twilight,
To sun-down from sun-rise,

I am catching memories,
Trapping them behind the nets of my lashes,
Squinting shut the trap doors,
While the rest of the world,
Disappears in flashes,

And there, within my dark room,
I am not merely fast asleep,
I am developing negatives into dreams,
Moments I cannot hold onto,
Into dreams that I can keep,


I am making little wooden frames,
Making frames in my head,
Curling browning corners held down,
Behind the glass lid of my eyes,
Keeping precious buried moments from ever being dead.