Sex – Page 4 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

Fingerprint From God

Fingerprint from God; Guess who, it’s me. Many years gone now, but in the leaves of an old prayer guide my fingers wandered. The subject matter from another time telling me I had to obey and respect my master, however I wasn’t quite sure who my master was. Having possession of my own self this seemed reasonably offensive but still relevant.

In oppressive sections of a world still evolving, then it clicked, I was in possession of my late father’s prayer guide book. That of his conformation as a Christian human. I did love my dad, but he died when I was fourteen years of age dad was a cheery optimist, who had faced many adversities and whilst reading this small prayer book guide, I realise that somewhere in the corners of these pages was a world, for awhile it was saying too me, “this is a fingerprint from God, guess who it’s me.” So there we are, affirmation. From dad once more, I am with you, as much as you were with me, and with that you have my love. I’m telling you who to protect and they are the vulnerable ones, they are my grandchildren you see them through my eyes.

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.

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.

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.