social security – Page 10 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

To The Glory Of Poor

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.

What Remains

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.

On The Road To Damascus

Walking around in Parameters of time the tin drum played a tune, calling all to the altar, to the altar and the shrines with a fizz for the past and present and those passing and those who stay. Standing still in the madness from time to time, till a bell strikes and calls us to order, to walk in line on the road to Damascus.

Why doesn’t Britain make things any more?

In the past 30 years, the UK’s manufacturing sector has shrunk by two-thirds, the greatest de-industrialisation of any major nation. It was done in the name of economic modernisation – but what has replaced it?

HOWL

I am the wolf in the sky you’ll hear me when I howl at the moon, I am the supernatural a mother of the night, calling my clan over the mountain tops and echoing in the swoop of the valley below. I’ll shiver your timbers in Turners Wood, I’ll smash your night with howls to remind you of my rule over you and the hidden kingdom of nature.