The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive
The Poetic Warrior Returns to his Poetry after Illness Welcome One, Welcome All
An epitaph to the feline friend of Mason Cult.
Stone cats in the sun will they ever live again, feral destiny was never good my squashed cat friend has expired. His short coil now ended abandoned flat and no more, now his coat is his, all his soul has sped away.
We noted him, we will try to remember him, but I sense we will all be stiff one day. Our thoughts will be as rigid as our bodies it a price we pay for gods gift short or long, that is mortality for Pluto the tomcat he is dead.
Invasion from underground, the sleeping cities far from our sight camouflaged by dense mother earth activity beyond parameters deep below, all answers were supposed to come from above, beyond the stars in view at night but every now and then the earth would open and not for public view, for out there and deep underground a sound could be heard that of industrial cacophony too much to bare if you happened to be. close heat generated as earth opened up and out came new models of man, alternative humans of a kind.
A story from Mason Cult on the impact of withdrawing rail services back in the day by Mr Beeching. Longing for the sound of the train, but there is no track for I have to go a long way back.
Dark evenings in a moonlit village where street lights had not arrived, the smell of farms and heat from barns, as you walked on by, the sound of feet, ones that you recognise a village, a communal den of rivalry, conspiracy and gossip. So I dream in the core of that old village overgrown and derelict, on a chilly evening the time was moving close to 7pm an image of the thirty children came too me, I had been still, waiting, listening, the best I could for the persistent chuff and pulse of a tiny steam train with few carriages, coming ever closer to the village station and the scattering of cottages and farm houses bringing back the first brave who were tasting the smoke of industrial towns and the many new roles.
I was too young to know of decline but sure enough my family village died in a remote valley high enough up for snow to stay longer and steam trains to time there journeys. I woke up and looked for a sign, a derelict rail track sighted stretching and winding through a distant hillside, remains of hotchpotch dwellings, windowless and tattered linings of decorating paper flapping inside the weather raped cottages, old carbons in a naked fireplace waiting for the camping fraternity to pass by and re-engage the flue, in glow and imagination retrospective tatty artifacts to remind the transient visitors that living hearts and souls did beat, as longing as yours, existed
at two thousand feet up a hilly train track in 1959.
The mystery of the evil owl and how it came to pass , twas a dark resplendent moonlit night and snowy the white owl was skirting about turkers wood musing well oblivious to danger. Mason Cult’s cottage chimney sighed & bellowed black to the cold night, owl caught in a cloak of smokey darkness, lost his unique radar and slipped inside Mr Cult’s black pot, owl sensed and flapped in retreat up and up his wings beated out of the trap, into the night, with now sooted wings and from that night for a whole week Mason Cult mistook the owl for the devil himself.
Mason Cult was cautious upon the evenings for fear of catching the unfortunate owl and ensnaring a devil.
Will the wind become music but not as sweet as a popular tune, if we could catch a wind to where our soul desires then surely our hearts will flow with it, away from trouble and troubled vice.
On to the warm place where the lonely are not alone and evils are left to die and fall to the haunted reservations.