The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive
The Poetic Warrior Returns to his Poetry after Illness Welcome One, Welcome All
If as matter we do return after death, then back to the beaches as grains of shiny sand caught as jewels by the sun, shimmering back at the living as a constant shifting puzzle augmented by wind, sea profound. Pulsing in magnetised gravity by a needy moon pulling rushed stellar moments to a receptive living over-mind, pondering in a space time continuum.
The indifference of lapping water in a sealed land locked harbour, water, it laps goes backwards and forwards. Even mother moon has no impression upon this wind variable lagoon of intransigence, but thunder will come, changes will be be brought forth profound upon this semi stillness. The walls in this circle will be broken and once more the waters of life will flood back to the divine gravitates of an unchanging sea ruled by mother moon.
When it comes to problems with housing in the overcrowded Terra of England it comes to mind that we are a realm of politically controlled snobs, who gives an owls hoot about the rickety housing ladder now missing many rungs, please do blame the legion of silver surfers and the greedy working class who exploited the never should have been right to buy it is properly built and administered social housing that should now be prominent. The working class have blotted there credentials by post industrial borrowing upon the over inflated ex council homes, thus blocking and stopping the council house supply chain.
The only reason it looks better than it did is down to the borrowing (shame on the banks.) The older generation have completely sold out the young, the disabled and mentally afflicted, but guess what folks, politicians love your votes so morals and principles go out the door. We are media driven class snobs in this country and try and survive under a pot boiling mix of jealous false friendship as a country we are finished.
To the glory of but the poor remain so have to refrain from anger but it boils today not as yesterday, this is now restless and wanting a heavy stone becomes heavier oppression becomes suppression of supposed intent of control and timing the royalist distractions.
Events to cover all horrors of harm and unseen destitution, the poor have lost the voice banging against the transparent screen, voiceless in the assemblage components as big signals make deeper impressions, but somehow a quiet crying is alluded as dark confetti fills the street in protest presence without voice.
The legacy of a strong presence, it had been a long time since we had visited a cottage called Cold Place, mud and dust, global spider webs over objects abounded the key turned a faltering mechanism.
A soft creaky push opened the door so heavy it had momentum of it’s own we lit ancient scented candles as we weaved through a cobweb menagerie of damp furniture toward two gentlemanly high back chairs that faced one another in gloom, with a black leaded fireplace we both sat cold in bold dampness but all the while a buzzing was a niggling away at our senses, profound as if some inevitable awakening was coming to greet us and it did, the fire combusted to life wind broke through, dry rot window frames all that was damp unfurled itself. Dry cobwebs blew sucked by a moving internal vortex the family wished us back.