death – Page 3 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

An Ode to the Vulnerable.

Science unknown to science, there was a calculated measured beginning in incalculable spans beyond our mental reach. Talk of rounds, seem to be a struggle, maybe not even true and who thought of us and the devastation to come man has been proved in creative fires and discourse but does not man improve, no he does not. The fault line is in the voracity of greed manipulation and destruction.

It is always others who appear to have more statues in time that stand and then fall. There should be no statues in a humanity that does not like one another it is plain to see the disabled amongst us are the easiest to target.

Mental health, well a bit longer before attacks reign down, as we know those that have ruled have an abysmal historical track record of the will to dedicate resources to these afflictions.

How fortunate they are, that they do not have to endure the closed doors. For many disability conditions, it is not trendy and campaigns are often window dressing for a self gratifying I am medal worthy so called society.

The world however is full of secret tears, behind doors, out of site so we betide any administration that dares to cut budgets to the health of the lost and vulnerable.

Abduction

Leave no stone upturned, that is what they say if you want to discover the truth this was the case with the missing saucers from Mars or thereabouts. Legend has it that many years ago in the early hours of Christmas 1958 those travelling to Scotland to visit relatives had the most startling and fleeting episode of that time.

A young boy in the vehicle turned by chance, only to be blinded by seven disc shaped bright white objects travelling at split second pace. Mum and dad for once took themselves out of their woolly jumper mentality. It was all too silent but it had happened, dad thought that nobody would believe them so for the next sixty years that they would keep quiet and indeed they did. That is until their son paid a visit to the Highlands. He had bought a hundred square feet of heather bound land, through a scheme. Whereby one could purchase a plot that would always be yours and also help preserve the Scottish Highlands.

The son with great difficulty managed on this day to find his tiny plot in the heather vastness where eagles circled and watched him, as if guarding a sacred area the son sat down and could sense pulsing and thin blue strands of light emitting from pinholes in the heather.

With mental precision he put together in his mind a jigsaw, his instinct told him “I remember this is one of seven saucers carrying adepts from all those years ago on a Christmas night. With that thought the ground beneath enveloped him, this was the price of remembering the light consumed him and this man, SON to a father and devoted mother was never seen again and the clock ticked and the night went on oblivious.

An Ode To Little Professor

The little professors of the English households they travel, they know it all, they believe they know governments, and all the characters. Wake up you are fools, you know them not. For it is all a psychological con, the con of control. For you are being gathered and controlled in a new Orwellian state a state of spies. Lock down gives time to sort the wheat from the chaff. But don’t forget we are all one world and not an eccentric folly. Promoted by silly ex public schoolboys who read the papers for breakfast.

New Poems Voiced Look Through Me & Silence & Grace

Look Through Me, voiced by Maria Cusick.

Look through me like a god, you know I trust you. Implicit are those eyes shining under the conspirators mantle. We are to believe you as a father figure, as sky universe and all that befalls us. In turgid times wandering to the cliff edge, decanted, to the beach. Washed with an outgoing tide down to another life unseen.

Silence & Grace.

Silence and Grace ice death. All still, but water runs and streams, make rivers that flow out to the sea. One day they may come back and leave another upon this sandy shore, as the tide comes in. Sunrise the following day, you are but an empty shell on the sand. You grow and run away to who knows where. But the past will not follow you, to be born midway. Childhood will not be revisited suffer no more.

From The Fish

And so we came from the fish climbing the bank and there after came us, presumably as in evolution in the defendants of the rhythm of life in the millions of couplings, to this point, we have come with no further roads to know. Other than that of the chaos and confusions we see and feel. We wait for the flood and a solitary Lilly floating once more to establish a root race further than now. I leave you with this thought, out there in the wilderness, for this moment in time, of the now, before the morrow comes. Wading water, high in the flow of the conscience that births us to the roots of creation.