To the Élite (a luc bat)

 A voice cried 'Sleep no more!'

So little time, before the dawn

of helplessness is drawn

across our withered lawn of hope.

Wide-eyed but blind, we grope

the darkness for an opening glint

of grace, the merest hint

of honour in the flint-locked heart 

of privilege. We start

to blend excuses, partly through

our latent goodness. Who

can countenance the true extent,

the reeking sacrament

of evil, reinvented by

the shitterati? Why

dissemble? Liars all,

they'll engineer the fall

of empires to forestall their own

exposure. They have grown

to hate us all. Their only aim –

perpetuate the same 

impunity, reclaim the power

that crumbles by the hour

as truth reveals their towering guilt.

Till, skewered to the hilt,

they writhe, they squirm, they wilt and pray

for light to skulk away

so they can holiday again.

Tomorrow's Bread

Briefly alive, a long time dead,

trying to make the best of it.

Give us, today, tomorrow’s bread.

Picture the lilies! Jesus said

Solomon wasn’t half as fit.

Briefly alive, a long time dead,

how shall we sleep unless we’re fed?

The board is bare; why would we sit?

Give us, today, tomorrow’s bread.

We tilled your soil. Our fingers bled.

The famine struck. We took the hit.

Briefly alive, a long time dead,

with every Autumn comes the dread

of sicknesses we daren’t admit.

Give us, today, tomorrow’s bread,

you Great and Good! We're going to bed.

We pay your tax, endure your shit.

Briefly alive, a long time dead,

give us, today, tomorrow's bread.

If the cap fits...

NEW REGIME

We are the resurrection of the dead

forgotten ways. We cultivate despair

in veiled anathema of womankind.

We are the ancient writings reassessed

by gunlight in the aftermath of war.

Ours is the only truth you need to know.

Defence intoned

Defence intoned, 'If we convict
this man today, we do a great
disservice to the cause. We play
into the hands of those who race
like lemmings out of season
to self-destruction!' Then, with softer voice,

he said, 'Better that we should voice
distrust of those who would convict
even their mothers in a season
of madness nurtured by the great
and good among the race
of self-styled orchestrators of the play.

'Have you not seen the games they play?
They talk to you with silvery voice
of purity of caste and race-
seductive lies- yet they convict
only themselves. The great
heresy must not live another season.

'Rather, let this be the season
of reconciliation. Play
a nobler part. We can do great
deeds, by speaking with one voice.
And let us not convict
the fellow who has stumbled in the race.

'Imagine you were asked to race
before the tide, the changing season,
manacled like a common convict.
Would you show readiness to play
or would you raise your voice
to rail against the injustice of the great?

'I think we know the answer. Great
performances demand the race
be fairly run. Then lend your voice
to serve the people for a season!
Bring justice into play!
Show courage, jurors all. Do not convict!'

Who would be great before their season
let them but race to join the play.
Give voice to truth. Do not convict!

New Regime

We are the resurrection of the dead
forgotten ways. We cultivate despair
in veiled anathema of womankind.

We are the ancient writings reassessed
by gunlight in the aftermath of war.
Ours is the only truth you need to know.

Ode to Consciousness

There is a meeting place of mind and eyes
where images compete for conscious view
and where perception banishes surprise
at what is beaten down, and what wins through.
With or without our influence or ken
it's here our individual selves begin;
for some are dulled and others walk in sleep
never to wake again,
though quiet voices whisper in the din
of time for laughter and a time to weep.

That part of us that is no rushing thing
awaits our quietness, or our fatigue
if nothing less can calm the eddying
onrush of our futilities. Intrigue,
infatuation, habit and despair
crowd to the fore, impatient - yet it waits
forever and beyond. Is it so weak
that it cannot declare
an interest in our battle with the fates,
or does it hide because we fail to seek?

What flows below the words may yet awake
remembrance of an earlier array
of promises fulfilled. Each new mistake
derails the latent urge, with each new day,
to change before the changeless. We can hear
the choral syntheses of soil and soul
proclaim the unity of earth and mind
in answer to the fear
of gradual dissolution of the whole
of consciousness, as molecules unbind.

The Weft

For less than the price of a pint, and free if you are a Kindle Unlimited subscriber, The Weft is a selection from my poetry files. For those not familiar with my material, I am a New Formalist, meaning that I use classical verse forms but modern standard English, not 'poetic diction'. This collection contains sonnets, roundels, sestinas, terzanelles, ballades and more, with plenty light verse interspersed with the more serious offerings. Please take a look.

kindle version

paperback version