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

Why

Why give it a name if it is all but a sound, by an outer life glance. Is all who is the inventor of all, invented by beings and who is this super cell in primordial deluge of matter, that forms and reforms until being becomes shape and movement.

In many and most firms, that of cunning evils, the suffering of the meek and poor is immeasurable.

As quantities grow by miles and miles of cruelties and pain followed by silences so how can one being exist to mete out suppression by volumes of cruelties and deaths. For he the perpetrator perishes too along with the meek, for man, the evil gained nothing and will perish also.

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.

Mason Cult the Cruel Misuse of Land.

For all known time so called man and some women have taught and claimed land territory, whether in democracy or eventual dictatorship. It has happened, the politics of the one person state. We know who the examples are, no need to go into that one. However with that said, along comes starvation and mass exodus, those affected fleeing to countries that are already overcrowded.

In some cases people flee from famine ravaged countries, but some do not and that usually comes down to those countries occupied by evil regimes. They are in many ways occupiers of fertile lands. This seems to indicate that the human race doesn’t deserve the title of human, when the real facts are that of misuse of fertile underdeveloped landmasses, that are halted by either dictatorships with inhuman leaders or poor countries. Kept poor by agricultural ineptitude lack of investment and beyond this, it becomes simply obvious that millions of lives crammed together in overdeveloped cities and towns are going to fail and this does fuel interracial tension, of which, in developed countries there should be none in the year 2020.

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.