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Sullivanthepoet

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Plymouth, England, UK

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Father

by

Sullivanthepoet

So frail.
Nut oil brown still from three score and near ten vital, sun soaked, swallow filled summers,
as if in spiteful ridicule,
now broken and weary and spent, diseased and wretched. Burgled by fate of its very being.
Yet still that spirit.
At once loose and hard shackled, free as an Irish mountain zephyr, yet bound tight by chains of duty:
holding me fast in its shadow, yet letting me run free, childlike, in the gentle spring rains,
standing sentinel over my grazed knees and muddied elbows, torn trousers and berry stained shirts...

So bent.
Knobbled bones, ungainly, disjointed, clattering unhappily within their puckered, parchment skin,
loose and awkward,
like broken sticks, dry and withered, slipping hapahazard and unwieldy in a corner shop carrier bag.
Yet still that will.
Cold iron resolve, unyielding, granite hard that asked none, and in return gave nothing in quarter,
that supported my child's fragile, careless world on its back like a cloth capped Atlas,
gathering up, unspoken, my broken bicycles and broken teeth, lost shoes and bloodied coats...

So weak.
Spent and enfeebled, muscles strain, once more to pull erect their rapid failing scaffoldings,
failing they fall, desperate,
spilling and clattering, falling loose like an abandoned spastic, string cut marionette.
Yet still that strength.
That potent wraith, hard muscled, all steel sinewed, wind and weatherwork tanned,
tossing me high aloft, carefree in cloudless skies rich with warmth and summer scents,
chiding, unknown, my tormentors; standing fortress against the storms of a young, fragile life...

So weary.
The skeletal fingers that clutch feebly at mine, cold, mechanical, their flesh withered,
holding reluctantly to life,
reaching out for release, for some small mercy left in passing, for freedom from their tormentor.
Yet still that dignity.
That head up jut jawed, cannon barrel gazed, proud, arrogant, hard fisted and defiant,
parting burly, heaving crowds; cutting them like ploughed snow to suffer me safe passage,
Bulwark to the tidal surges of childhood; taking the breakers on his back that I might play in the wash...

So tired.
Tremulous, morphine laden lids, pallid, heavy, leaden shutters dragged open by sheer dint of will,
lift eyes straining now for focus,
shining the sun found lights and shadows of a last precious day into a rapidly clouding mind.
Yet still that light.
Burning now, in eyes that lit with laughter, took tears at kin's passing and melted in love,
eyes that blazed once iron furnace red with anger and sparked yet with a thousand Erin stars,
watching always, yet invisible, knowing, seeing, forgiving, punishing; each in its place...

So sad.
A gentle hand on my forearm, as my tears run, wetting the waiting shrouds of hospital corner sheets,
"Why the tears boy?" Concerned. Compassionate.
"I don't like to see you this way." A child again, the pain of imminent loss torrential, all consuming.
Yet still that voice.
Still timbred, manly, familiar.Above and apart from the cancer that consumed him - Untouchable.
"We've known each other a long time haven't we?" Words. Man to boy. Man to man. Father to son.
"And we didn't always like each other..." My heart aching, bursting, my chest too small to contain it.

"But you were always my Dad - and I always loved you..."

My father left us that afternoon - I miss him still...


Forbidden Fruit

by

Sullivanthepoet

Anticipating, half a beat, quicker now on airlit feet,
Butterflies, their wings a-thrill, half a beat now, quicker still,
Calling, crawling deep within, in your throat now, taste the sin,
Darkly, stealing, cravings soar, quicker now, a half beat more.

Ebbing, flowing, liquid tide, half beat, full beat, speed the ride,
Fever, burning from below, rising, spreading, squeeze the glow,
Gnawing, burning, up the beat, up the ante, taste the heat,
Heartbeats thunder, feel the sound, beating quicker move the ground.

Inching, probing, close the space, up a half beat, up the pace,
Juggling, struggling, whirling mind, hesitant, afraid, resigned,
Knives of conscience, to the hilt, drive them deeper, taste the guilt,
Lusting, wanting, fluid need, up a full beat, gaining speed.

Moving closer, tempting, trying, blood on fire, pulses flying,
Nearer, sensing, taste the air, shallow breathing, take the dare,
Only inches, doubts recede, smell your heart pound, taste the need,
Pain and pleasure intertwine, when lusting, borders, ill define.

Quicker, merging, single beat, too fleet to count invites defeat,
Roaring, rolling, still denied, hot flesh, fluid, melts inside,
Surging soaring, pain divine, break the bottle, taste the wine,
Tingling, drawing, closer lay, raise the bottle, seixze the day.

Upward, onward, fever burning, closer still, feel the yearning,
Violent, heartrace, in your throat, singing faster, feel the note,
Wanting, willing, ride the flood, pull the knives out, taste the blood,
Excitement smoulders, sparks to fire, touching lips now, light the pyre.

Yawing, drawing, black desire, surrender reason, tatse the fire.

Zenith passes, guilt revives, Pay the piper... Twist the knives!

Within The Serpent's Eye

by

Sullivanthepoet

I watch,
the nicotine stained organza of evening as it casts its wreaths on the body of the dying light,
the hip sweet, detail dissolving stench of inevitable evening, as it sucks the juice from my sight,
the darkling oppression as it steals, touching close, to gulp the air and drown my lungs in fluid night.
I watch... It watches... It knows I am alone.

I listen,
for my black winged serpent iof solitude to come, acreep, among my half mad, half imagined fears,
for its rise, quick, on silent wings, a liquid, living shadow among the suffocating gloom it nears,
for unseen fangs, afleck with anticipation, glist'ning in a wetly voracious maw like quicksilver tears.
I listen... It listens... It knows I am alone.

I feel,
as the loathsome hellworm strikes, black, savage, throwing living coils, ice cold, about my soul,
as it feeds, gluttonous; swallowing the black, gnawing rats of my half imagined miseries whole,
as they flee, squealing half shadows on the edge of vision, among the rot and debris of my self control.
I feel... It feels... It knows I am alone.

I smell,
its suffocating scent of raw loneliness as as it throws acid tendrils into the dank recesses of my mind,
its hot musk of companionship, a lost memory, tearing at the muscles of my aching heart confined,
its well meant hot razors of perfume as they make me crave again the sweet aromas left behind.
I smell... It smells... It knows I am alone.

I taste,
the sweet cloying warmth of this terrifying darkening which hangs on my tongue like honeydew spit,
the hell hot, scalpel tart light of once benign possession as it curdles, rank, in the throat it once slit,
the faint remembered tang of constant companionship burning livid scars into the tongue it once bit.
I taste... It tastes... It knows I am alone.

I know,
this darkness; so ask not to take it from me, for it is me and I am it and without it I will surely die,
this torch you would light that I may bathe in its glow, but do not bring it close for its flames lie,
this bitter freedom conveyed in solitude and what liberty lies therein... Within the serpent's eye!
I know... It knows... It knows we are alone!

Rogue's Charter

by

Sullivanthepoet

'Fore length'ning shadows' martial march,
as though there tolled a silent bell,
too swift 'hind bolt lade, chain clasped doors,
does dusk the twilight folk compel;
as frail legged sheep in fearful flocks,
they hasten tend their prisons' locks.

Tho' none has single crime commit,
to warrant curfew thus endured,
no trial stood nor jury found,
such penury to 'come inured;
no sentence passed, nor penance posed,
defend good lives be thus enclosed.

Yet when the shades made velvet black,
by daylight's wretched evening flight,
wrap tight within their living cloak,
such craven hordes as shun its light;
a creeping, crawling, darklit scum,
do self appointed warders 'come.

Hacked deep from Hades sulph'rous throat,
and spat upon the city's face,
a blackly spattered human phlegm,
thick oozes 'mongst those shadows' base;
as hell released its seething deeps,
with evening each the surface creeps.

Where freed day's fiery crushing yoke,
as Satan's blood it leaching spreads,
to claim the murk with mass consent,
it slides from foul infernal beds;
there seething in the murk it writhes,
to seize dominion o'er our lives.

Who prised that first demonic crack,
in tol'rance name what gall first borne,
what foul endured, what slur forgave,
when bled us first that velvet thorn?
As inch, by inch, with best intent,
we knowing yet our freedom spent.

'Twas then, had we but wit to see,
upon the future written bold,
in bloodied script and sightless words,
this chide would wrathful hindsight scold;
"That tolerance impart too free,
of justice cruel assassin be.

Yet laid we all each brimstone slab,
each pricking, craven conscience saved,
when with such fine intentions we,
our way to hell so freely paved;
thus first surrendered we the right,
to bathe our souls in blessed night.

Rogue's Charter

by

Sullivanthepoet


'Fore length'ning shadows' martial march,
as though there tolled a silent bell,
too swift 'hind bolt lade, chain clasped doors,
does dusk the twilight folk compel;
as frail legged sheep in fearful flocks,
they hasten tend their prisons' locks.

Tho' none has single crime commit,
to warrant curfew thus endured,
no trial stood nor jury found,
such penury to 'come inured;
no sentence passed, nor penance posed,
defend good lives be thus enclosed.

Yet when the shades made velvet black,
by daylight's wretched evening flight,
wrap tight within their living cloak,
such craven hordes as shun its light;
a creeping, crawling, darklit scum,
do self appointed warders 'come.

Hacked deep from Hades sulph'rous throat,
and spat upon the city's face,
a blackly spattered human phlegm,
thick oozes 'mongst those shadows' base;
as hell released its seething deeps,
with evening each the surface creeps.

Where freed day's fiery crushing yoke,
as Satan's blood it leaching spreads,
to claim the murk with mass consent,
it slides from foul infernal beds;
there seething in the murk it writhes,
to seize dominion o'er our lives.

Who prised that first demonic crack,
in tol'rance name what gall first borne,
what foul endured, what slur forgave,
when bled us first that velvet thorn?
As inch, by inch, with best intent,
we knowing yet our freedom spent.

'Twas then, had we but wit to see,
upon the future written bold,
in bloodied script and sightless words,
this chide would wrathful hindsight scold;
"That tolerance impart too free,
of justice cruel assassin be.

Yet laid we all each brimstone slab,
each pricking, craven conscience saved,
when with such fine intentions we,
our way to hell so freely paved;
thus first surrendered we the right,
to bathe our souls in blessed night.

Death of a Poem

by

Sullivanthepoet

Wet charcoal black and stained yellow white the corpse lay leeching
its life into the gutter like copper smell molasses,
Its syllables, bleeding from the softening pulp of its body, running
black in the acid rain of a thousand blood, turned rust, turned pencil
grey stained sharp steel words.

Tapping, tattling plastic camouflage knives as sharp as charity
flicking and guttering across the keyboard as they cut and slash at
its failing eyes,
Slicing and slipping, opening its tender throat to the light and dark
of their jibes, each laying siege to its paper heart with their
quickening scalpel edged taunts.

Splashing its visceral secrets out onto the death dark tarmac of
possibility before sliding back, back into the slime slicked critical
gutter,
Slithering, stinking, intent on nothing but the sound of its panicked,
headlong flight from the horrors of its own body.

Why? when it was conceived in the deepest, most private recesses of a
tortured soul, loved and nurtured above all,
Was it let be born into this cruellest world to lay raw, red meat to
the ravening wolves of conceit.

Offered up on the altar of poetic critique to tempt a thousand jaded
palates, to whet the voracious, pompous, jealous, zealous appetites of
self satisfied maws,
Thrown, torn and bleeding, to excite spit and blood flecked gnashing
jaws invited as literary cerberi..

Left naked, unclean, that the hawks might rip and feast upon the
entrails of this first and last tender and unknowing pup of a unique
litter,
Down, into and down, on down, into the welcoming comfort of the black
embrace of the tortuous phrase spat street drain of obscurity...

Locked in its final choking, gurgling, life defying throes in that
sewer of contempt and lost dreams,
How many blood and ink stained bodies still lay, contorted, smashed,
twisted in its ebony gut?

Had they survived... how many would have died young?
How many would have lived for ever had they not been taken at birth?

Out There

by

Sullivanthepoet

What gross deceit to dream life's well should favour but one cup,
or 'magine for a heart beat's width thence only man might sup!
What pomp decrees that chalice sole should from its bounty slake,
one thirst for form, for thought, for life, whilst other lips forsake?

A thousand times ten thousand lights bejewel a darkling sky,
each spark a brightly shining grail, think all but one lay dry?
When through that sequinned curtain lay, had we but wit to part,
Ten thousand times ten million more, bright veils within its heart.

And with each beat, each pulse, that heart, another star gives birth,
Oh! How we microbes in life's blood do overweight our worth!
When savage eyes we dare to lift; to starward turn our face,
What fevered soul dare contemplate one tread above our place?

Above the worms and angels waits, in unfamiliar guise,
Celestial kinship for mankind had we the heart to rise.
For life will not by rock be stemmed, nor fear congel its blood,
It gives it bounty not by sip, nor trickle, but by flood!

A river, rolling, surging, strong, its spray the mists of time,
whipped hard by interstellar winds to living, fecund rime.
and where it whets, with life it coats, cold unforgiving stone,
with living form, in alien flesh, to garb some alien bone.

Tho' we, still damp, dare yet presume, thigh deep in shifting sand,
of all the shore's life's sea has wet, it moisten but Man's hand?
Drink deeply worm, aye fill your cup, bear not a droplet's loss,
For 'ere you savage cease to be; You've ageless wastes to cross...!

Reflections

by

Sullivanthepoet

From flesh and bone my mirror framed,
reflects a face gone by,
so fresh, so young, so full of hope,
such bright and twinkling eye.

The living image mocks and taunts,
yet loves and draws you near,
to wipe away lost hopes, lost dreams,
each torn and wasted year.

The shattered spirit strong again,
the flame of life grows bright,
my mirror lives, in heart, in soul,
its' brave young heart gives flight.

The fire that courses through those veins,
the same that burned in mine,
I stand again as though reborn,
my heart, my soirit thine.

When years subdue and image fades,
when heart and will are done,
may you in turn your mirror find,
my life, my hope, my son!

WE

by

Sullivanthepoet

I... that pale illusion; that waking, futile dream which too long
served as my existence is now so easily forgot,
Yet until you woke me... I knew nothing of my dreaming:

I... That desolate wasteland in which my lonely, questing heart
wandered too long is become a glistening oasis,
Yet until you held me... I knew nothing of my despair:

I... That empty, darklit solitude which masqueraded, grimly, as
my being; is sprung to dazzling light,
Yet until you showed me... I knew nothing of my darkness:

I... That unquenchable thirst which scorched my throat soothed
now in the cool crystal fountain of companionship,
Yet until you touched me... I knew nothing of my loneliness:

I... That hollowest of vessels, in which my empty soul drifted in
the search for fulfillment is filled, suddenly, to overflowing,
Yet until you loved me... I knew nothing of my emptiness:

"Will I take thee?"

With all my heart and all my soul and all that is my being;,
For in this moment, this fleeting and precious moment,

WE are born... And I am no more!

'Dancers...'

by

Sullivanthepoet


"O gentle place; too sweet the breeze,
That languid sings and stirs each branch'ed aisle,
Of low, regretful sighs its song,
Laments your legions' unsung dreams a while.

Humming, sadly, the long forgotten lyrics of life's tragic opera to the gentle insistent rhythm of some silent orchestra,
Whilst an unseen Maestro softly marks time to the scarce remembered tempo of a multitude of long stilled hearts.

Soft! Tender shades, as zephyrs whirl,
That tempt the twirling leaves their steps confide,
To loving, touch life's cheek once more,
Forgotten dancers; soundlessly they glide.

Turning patiently their slow reverential waltz, 'neath sombre sepulchral tree tops bent deferentially in prayer,
Silently they dance into eternity, along leaf slicked avenues; wet slate grey with the burden of a million stolen tears.

Blessed tranquil plot what treasures hides,
What unfilled dreams your wood bound vaults encase?
Yet sorrow, mellowed, sips as wine,
No acid sting to taint this poignant place.

As guileless as a child's embrace, this tear washed gentle soil tends them still; close and tender as any mother's bosom,
While 'neath each moss clung marker, abandon now, the dust spat bottles of a unique vintage; too oft but half supped.

"O gentle place!" This tide of blooms,
Whose scents disguise this furtive vale of grief,
Each watered with a loved one's tears,
To dew the night spun cloak of death ... THE THIEF.

Yet love 'tis fill the grieving heart's tortured cup to overflow; that spills and wets this kind and sacred earth,
Wherein, humbled in their mortaility and pressed cheek by jowl with eternity, all men lie equal; remembered each, not for the price of their shoes... "But for how well they danced!"

A River Run

by

Sullivanthepoet

Bubbling, taunting, time's dark tide,
each eddy swirled,
in sagging flesh;
In days, in hours, speeds our slide,
our being hurled,
to tomb from creche;
No sooner fecund than denied,
disdain time's breakneck, lethal ride.

Crack boned, withered, stooped and bent,
each moment run,
folds 'pon its mate;
Life's blood, creeping, near to spent,
each rising sun,
adds yet its weight;
And thus each second 'thout relent,
In crushing, marketh man's descent.

Weak'ning, feebled, sinews strain,
to beg their frame,
once more erect;
Wanting, trying, through the pain,
to brief reclaim,
lost self respect;
How vengeful gods make years our bane,
when potent youth's spent wraiths remain.

Mirrored, frowning, lines portray,
each furrow ploughed,
without consent;
Scribing deep each steel edged day,
In veins stood proud and wrinkles lent;
Thus revelling in man's decay,
does time our swift'ning span display.

Knowledge, hard won, weights its worth,
'gainst failing mind,
that scarce recalls;
Wisdom, harboured, from man's birth,
To nought consigned,
wets where he falls;
A lake of tears, a cup of mirth,
to silent slake some acrid earth.

Hard life, hard passed, fades to grey,
Consigned to dust,
all trials borne;
Each pain endured, cold away,
each love each lust,
cut down like corn;
No mem'ries triumph o'er decay,
None worthed above another's fey.

Living's harvest, loving stored,
lays doomed to soil,
to rank decay;
Each ear, each grain, scant reward,
All life's cruel toil passed dark away;
No bellies filled with living's hoard,
Its sum from nought, to nought restored.

Conq'ring, lacking, coined the same,
No winnings pays nor debt foregoes;
Dies cast, random, call the game,
Yet not one day's,
their falling owes;
Sham spoils the cheated victors claim,
When whispers time the Reaper's name.

Comes the darkness, comes the why,
we pain to live,
for naught but this;
To bear each blow, breathe each sigh,
Our all to give,
for one cold kiss;
In death's embrace from womb we lie,
Each moment lived to naught but die!

'Tell Me!'

by

Sullivanthepoet



Tell me creature what you be,

To bear your kind in misery,

that knows their need yet pass them by,

who holds their salve; yet bids them die..? Tell me!

Tell me creature what you hear,

when your own kin cries out in fear,

what lyrics sing in final breath,

what deaf concerto heralds death..? Tell me!

Tell me creature what you feel,

when war your issues’ childhoods steal,

as ‘prenticed to the gun they join,

and blood and slaughter ‘come their coin..? Tell me!

Tell me creature what you see,

when infants live in poverty,

as cardboard boxes’ cold sojourn,

to cardboard coffins quickly turn..? Tell me!

Tell me creature what you smell,

when plague rid flesh your nostrils swell,

as child on mother’s corpse cremate,

to feed fresh rabid flames of hate..? Tell me!

Tell me creature what you taste,

when with your home cooked feast you’re faced,

what favour plague; what sweetness feign,

or savour thirst, starvation, pain..? Tell me!

Tell me creature what be I,

that sees but hurries, idly, by,

who swear that we share not our name,

so begs avoid full share of blame..?

Tell me -’Brother’ - Tell me!

'And Made They Man'

by

Sullivanthepoet

As travellers they fell by chance,
upon this fertile turquoised sphere,
when drawn, by destined circumstance,
enticed, they came and lighted here.
To share half waking, half dreamt dreams,
to salve pale limbs in crystal streams.

As gods they rode the boiling winds,
their ships ablaze primaeval skies,
‘pon chariots of flame they flew,
to light stark fear in savage eyes.
Eyes fierce, unknowing, buttress browed,
as yet not sentient thought endowed.

Yet laid before such star borne eyes,
‘mongst all Earth’s fauna free displayed,
in shambling, barb’rous primates sole,
perchance was alien meddling made.
An alien seed to reckless sowed,
from which a long boned mongrel growed.

Did thus the tribes of man supplant,
each drawn from specied apen stock,
though constant in their alien spawn,
each chanced by simian genes, amok!
And thus perhaps did ‘gods’ conspire,
their bastard issue here to sire?

What purpose urged such errant vice,
what theorem proved to ‘scuse the act,
did highest goals their deeds devise,
or dark perversion seal our pact.
Was pure one race to ‘nother cleaved,
or man in bestial lust conceived?

So if bold minds brave questions dare,
heroic answers beg consent,
were each tribe found a different ape,
must those genes mark that tribe’s descent.
Though alien marked by common seed,
each disparate by their dams decreed.

Might pale skinned simian limb evolve,
or black skinned, broad, gorilla’d face,
to thwart their common alien line,
each form its own distinctive race.
Half breed, half man, half god knows what,
by something far from ‘gods’ begot!

And thence, may each, by single turn,
of nature’s chanced, perverted, dice,
in single generation bear,
some mutant form by such device.
Evolved in but a single span,
where laid down ape, thence rose up man?

What other solve bears human kind,
when borne this Earth an eyelid’s blink,
as earth exhumes its fossilled birth,
save all but this one ‘missing’ link?
An aeon’s marvels nude displayed,
yet that formed ‘yesterday’ mislaid?

No cave, no plain, spews lonely bone,
for all as frenzied worms we bore,
from raping mine to oil slicked well,
no mote to prise our simian door.
Our labyrinthine earthly sack,
‘chieves little more than ‘cede its lack.

Frail case made further fragile still,
when pachyderm owes ancient shrew,
and every beast upon the land,
its ancient progenies eschew.
And delving, plot we, pace by pace,
each tread in evolution’s race.

And thus, in selfless sacrifice,
each pre-doomed sire its fate resigns,
when given to its issue’s wealth,
conspicuous by its absence shines.
It takes its turn and steals its day,
in such lays evolution’s way.

Which begs the question why it be,
when man plain ‘pon this earth abound,
if true he from the ape evolved,
how with the same he be surround.
call ‘brother’ not Orang Utan,
why raised one beast and t’other man?

What dogma cast beyond reproach,
that truth its cringing vassal makes,
or creed so steeped in pious lore,
its call all questing thought forsakes.
That when cold fact goes ill along,
dares none declare failed credo wrong?

Does thus the truth make cowards all,
When faith serves dwarf the questing mind,
To answers fit for fearful souls,
Must cosmic questions be designed.
Thus craven, paltry, piddling we,
Cling fast our puerile pedantry!

J'accuse!

by

Sullivanthepoet

That parasite you surely be, consuming, with impunity,
a host that scarcely knows your suit while slowly, slyly, you pollute;
That sees you always, yet be blind, by custom to its fate resigned,
as drop by glot, and hour by day, in stealth you leech its life away.
Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Vile living walls your fortress round - fall sheer, unbroken, to the ground,
made slick against outward attack, built high upon the workers’ back;
No care to how they live or die, whilst you in milk and honey lie,
within your nepot’s orb confined, you favour none but your own kind.
Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

That neither do you till, nor sow, nor hand’s turn to your commons grow,
so that which was when first you came, diminished leaves beyond reclaim;
You nothing yield, nor no thing make, save from the drudge of others take,
til that which suckles all consumes, and rank decay its husk perfumes.
Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Birthed deep within incestuous beds, your issue as a cancer spreads,
devouring vibrant flesh apace, allows your prog’ny fill the space;
Voracious and insatiable, necrotic and unspeakable,
a seething incubus within, a seeming florid, healthy skin.
Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Scant zest your ilk lends honest toil, no furnace fires nor breaking soil,
forbid this hour glass’ scalding sands, despoil such soft and work shy hands;
Scorn foundry scars burned welt on weal, seared deeper ‘fore their forebears heal,
spurn leathern knuckles weathered proud, that witness every furrow ploughed.
Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

No crippled backs, no calloused mauls, no filth sopped lungs, no broken balls,
spared you death’s knell, the pit’s black cough, with snouts dipped ear deep in the trough;
No tortured spine, no spastic gait, no bones bowed others’ greed to sate,
while bent back workers strain and crack, to feed the monkey on their back.
Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Yet for that succour guilefully stole, you lend not one jot to the whole,
not one remembrance worth the hark, to worthily your passing mark;
No passions fired, no iron wrought, no bridges built, no battles fought,
to witness being nothing save, a paper temple o’er thy grave.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

J'accuse!

by

Sullivanthepoet

That parasite you surely be, consuming, with impunity,
a host that scarcely knows your suit while slowly, slyly, you pollute;
That sees you always, yet be blind, by custom to its fate resigned,
as drop by glot, and hour by day, in stealth you leech its life away.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Vile living walls your fortress round - fall sheer, unbroken, to the ground,
made slick against outward attack, built high upon the workers’ back;
No care to how they live or die, whilst you in milk and honey lie,
within your nepot’s orb confined, you favour none but your own kind.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

That neither do you till, nor sow, nor hand’s turn to your commons grow,
so that which was when first you came, diminished leaves beyond reclaim;
You nothing yield, nor no thing make, save from the drudge of others take,
til that which suckles all consumes, and rank decay its husk perfumes.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Birthed deep within incestuous beds, your issue as a cancer spreads,
devouring vibrant flesh apace, allows your prog’ny fill the space;
Voracious and insatiable, necrotic and unspeakable,
a seething incubus within, a seeming florid, healthy skin.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Scant zest your ilk lends honest toil, no furnace fires nor breaking soil,
forbid this hour glass’ scalding sands, despoil such soft and work shy hands;
Scorn foundry scars burned welt on weal, seared deeper ‘fore their forebears heal,
spurn leathern knuckles weathered proud, that witness every furrow ploughed.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

No crippled backs, no calloused mauls, no filth sopped lungs, no broken balls,
spared you death’s knell, the pit’s black cough, with snouts dipped ear deep in the trough;
No tortured spine, no spastic gait, no bones bowed others’ greed to sate,
while bent back workers strain and crack, to feed the monkey on their back.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

Yet for that succour guilefully stole, you lend not one jot to the whole,
not one remembrance worth the hark, to worthily your passing mark;
No passions fired, no iron wrought, no bridges built, no battles fought,
to witness being nothing save, a paper temple o’er thy grave.

Cleric_ "J’accuse!"

'Obsession'

by

Sullivanthepoet

She comes unbid in troubled dreams,
To steal my mind from turbid sleep,
A scented, liquid, living breeze,
To soft, her passioned harvest reap;
To sing to me her siren song,
Each whispered note a scything blade,
Each silken shard a blissful thrust,
Each wound a cut so gladly flayed.

Lips sweet caress, torment my soul,
Yet bid me bear ecstatic pain,
Or beg those lips upon my brow,
To quench these pyres within my brain;
Imagined touches, quick, sublime,
When quick'ning pulses drum the beat,
As satin hands, imagined, glide,
To bathe my loins with blistering heat.

Soft breast, breath swells, to breathe me in,
My grateful limbs in hers entwined,
mere heartbeats yet before my greed,
transforms her image in my mind;
To black lagoons that draw me down,
And drown my reason in her charms,
As darkly, melting, bodies turn,
To boiling perfume in my arms.

What hell born fuel love's furnace fires,
what molten sins its' flames conceal,
To forge, to temper, in its' heart,
Such velvet claws of silver steel?
Quicksilver barbs to tear my flesh,
E'en in the arms of Morpheus,
To wet long nights with scarlet tears,
And drive my soul delirious.

To live one thought, A single muse,
A wave within a seething sea,
All hope, all life, subordinate,
Each breath, each beat, for none but she;
Yet drowning, waking, cold sweat slicked,
Hot daylight still cannot dispel,
The ice cold bars that wall me in,
Within this paradise of hell!

Love's paradox; when velvet sighs,
breathed soft to cool a fevered mind,
Coax flame from passion's living hearth,
To torch lust's embers there confined;
Oh perfect pain this wond'rous ache,
That marks my distance still from where,
The burning salve of heart's desire,
Still nestles sweetly in her care.

'Seasons'

by

Sullivanthepoet



A seedling awakes
Presses its back to the soil
Pale skies lift its head.

Chrysalis crackle
Silken rainbows they swim free
Living leaves they fly.

Leaves whisper softly
Fall echoes colour their song
Tired eyes feel their flight.

A snow flake dances
And falls silent on a grave
It melts and is gone.

Vine Verdi

by

Sullivanthepoet

Young fruit, half ripe, as yet unpicked, hangs turgid on the vine,
else fully grown in form, in flesh, it begs the eye to dine.
In flawless form, drawn round in bloom, within a velvet skin,
delights man’s vision yet disguise, the edge tart juice within.
Does nature bring to her design, or is it man’s decree,
that fruit thus taken ‘fore its time; should ever poisoned be?

Though swollen full in juv’nile bloom and fervid cast the vine,
convention counts its days too few and thus forbids the wine.
Until its sweetness full is found and seed full formed within,
it bars us from its tender flesh with juices sharp as sin.
‘Til nature hands her blessings down, and fertile calls
her seed,
a serpent’s tongue awaits the bold, who dare succumb their greed.

Picked from the bough before its fall can perfect form despoil,
calls still the lure of virgin fruit, untainted by the soil.
To have what man has never known, an av’riced eye may dare,
to know, possess, one perfect form, such bitter goads to bear.
For might some jot of acid sting, and thus the tongue excite,
or sickly jaded palates fire with that first acid bite?

But fertile, full, it must become, when nature calls its day,
and free to shed its tether then, shall honeyed ‘fore us lay.
Made full in form and fecund so, its ageless guiles beseech,
to taste its flesh, made sweet with youth, brought coy within our reach.
To take its bounty, at its time, its juices nectar sweet,
with nature’s blessing, as its days, to uberance fall complete.

If nature bids then, stay our hand, ‘til ripe she calls her fruit,
then nature’s beat should be our gauge, not custom guide our suit.
Not he who owns, nor tends, the vine; nor he who breaks the soil,
but mother earth’s eternal beat dictate her daughter’s spoil.
Does nature task what age the grape, or hand that tends the cup,
or when its bounty, ripe, o’erflows, the lips that from it sup?

© Sullivan The Poet

'Aria'

by

Sullivanthepoet


I sang my life's song,
Sang it astride the high places and tolled it loud for all to hear,
Sang it in the black bellies of the deepest valleys; for the joy of its applauding echo,
Sang it proud to the eternal, watchful sky with all the breath in my being,
Sang it free to my own tempo and pleased the fates their whim in its lyrics,
Sang it with all my heart and with all my soul - that just once;
For that very fleetingest of moments,

"My Song"

Might raise itself above the throng.

Bigot

by

Sullivanthepoet


Call vilest worm that creature he,
who by his words proves bigot be,
and wears the spot of racist stain,
though dares pretend as other;
Whose foetid heart sets ‘gainst his kin,
by dint of creed, of race, of skin,
that titles fellow man as beast,
yet holds his own kind ‘brother’.

When poisoned tongues too loudly lie,
or vitiate minds just cause deny,
to give their niggard’s spirit vent,
or stultify their neighbour;
No patriocy bear fair excuse,
nor loyal’s pledge shrive such abuse,
should charity in such an act,
dare for some merit labour.

‘Tis scant surprise then hearts defend,
blind justice’ blade must swift descend,
to sever from our healthy trunk,
each black and cankerous member;
That righteous ‘gainst each slur they rate,
cry Foul! The pyres of racial hate,
extinguish ‘neath a brutal heel,
each last decaying ember.

Yet though we each accordant be,
a villain’s band still labours free,
to press their ills, with our consent,
upon their brother’s shoulder;
For though we stay some bigots’ hand,
and racists mostly reprimand,
e’en casual viewer’s forced concede,
this rascal’s court grows bolder!

Accompliced by o’er zealous few,
who dare presume our cause construe,
in our name cold hard statutes lay,
in tol’rance name each painted;
But whilst on our behalf they claim,
their zealots’ pact but fuels the flame,
when bigots’ hue weighs justice’ scale,
tween innocent and tainted.

Yet whilst the racist’s crimes appal,
cede no excuse a vengeful thrall,
nor justify him serve hate’s dish,
when knows he foul the flavour;
For equal man is freely born,
no slaver’s chain in tol’rance worn,
while any in oppression kneels,
then none shall freedom savour.

Discrimination how applied,
though justly used must be denied,
aspersion’s vice shown no relief,
through pigment of the caster;
Such favour serves fair play’s deceit,
when birthright vassals man’s conceit,
and common man takes him upon,
to title one caste ‘master’.

If rightly racists be accused,
no weight abuser or abused,
by means of either creed or skin,
may ever just be given;
No moral quarter e’er forego,
nor fear or favour either owe,
lest ‘tween the liberal and his kin,
a vengeful wedge be driven.

For xenophobe whate’er his taint,
must bear his neighbour’s just complaint,
when prejudice is crime declare,
let no man stand exempted;
Lest rogue and plaintiff be confused,
or either justice be refused,
and reckless we, in right’s pursuit,
to bigots all be tempted.

copyright Sullivan The Poet

Comes The Reaper

by

Sullivanthepoet

"I turned a stone," the Reaper said, "To see if owt was... you know... Dead!
When out from 'neath it, sudden ran, a cheaply suited grey faced man."
"Oh! Spare me Sir!" He craven begged, from fear that suit now wetly legged,
"To kiss your blade too young am I, what sin be mine that I should die?"

"But there for chance I chose your stone," the Reaper spoke. "For chance alone;
I judge not sinners, nor their crime, my touch dictates them but their time."
"Then cast your shadow not on me," the grey man heaping plea on plea,
"Entreat you I my fate repeal, pray let me speak - my worth reveal."

Intrigued the Reaper stayed his hand, an instant's grace was all he planned,
In spite the plaintiff's cunning leer, he held: this rodent's 'worth' to hear.
"Then speak your piece the Reaper sighed, what cared he when this creature died?
"But one tongue's twist, the smallest lie, and know you'll beg an age to die!"

"Know fearful one my earthly trade - how many at your feet I've laid,
A pension late, a rent cheque lost; a hostel closed whate'er the cost.
With but a single ink'ed stroke; a budget cut, an orph'nage broke,
A children's ward, cry how they might, without a second's thought - shut tight!"

"How many times had you but known, I'd with my pen your harvest sown,
Behind my desk what blight I've played, to raise such stalks before your blade!
Have mercy terror, leave me be, what harm when all my toils serve thee,
What cause to take me if you know, that you do reap what I have sow?"

The Reaper turned his hooded head, "You give me cause for thought," He said,
"Tis true it falls within my power, to choose each man's allotted hour,
So far as you have careful sow, it seems but just you harvest know."
And with a wave The Reaper turned, "Go forth and reap what you have earned."

Thence quick the grey man turned away, his guile, he laughed, had won the day,

When scything swift across the ground...
The Reaper's blade made not a sound!

In A Mirror Darkly

by

Sullivanthepoet

I see my presence bothers you!
Your pious words sculpt no disguise,
is it because my twisted limbs offend your precious eyes?
I heed the whispers in your lies,
they clamour what your tongue denies,
or is it yet your prejudice you secretly despise?

I see my presence bothers you!
Your face too quickly turned aside,
is it because my clockwork gait too loudly ‘cripple’ cried?
One act, revulsion, chanced confide,
is my humanity denied,
or coy your obscene ignorance you shameful seek to hide?

I see my presence bothers you!
Your back, too casual, turns my way,
is it because my drooling maw makes sick what I convey?
Afraid my slack jawed words will say,
aloud what vulgar minds portray,
or barely chained repugnance which you fear will open lay?

I see my presence bothers you!
Your smile too warm, your touch too firm,
is it because my wilful hands, quick, mindless, make you squirm?
Pale lucent claws that spastic worm,
in fleshless laps like dying sperm,
or that you dread their moist’ning touch you fear your eyes confirm?

I see my presence bothers you!
You studiously elude my gaze,
is it that you’re afraid therein a human spirit lays?
A fellow life your heart betrays,
who ‘lone within their husk decays,
or do you fear to see reflect what censure therein preys?

I see my presence bothers you!
Too well you chrome clad limbs ignore,
is it because my cyborg world you furtively deplore?
Do my steel spinning legs abhor,
grey tubeless feet that kiss the floor,
or merely your indifference you mechanic’lly encore?

I see my presence bothers you!
Your fear laid nude for all to see,
is it because your callous core cares naught for such as me?
Or torments you that ugly we,
flaunt our afflictions blatantly,
or steeped within your perfect world your turpitude shames thee?

I see my presence bothers you!
Your sham ‘correctness’ counts for nought,
is it because in your world absolution can be bought?
What phrase can cleanse each putrid thought,
pale synonyms for suff’ring sought,
or think you that with guileful words we’d be so simply caught?

I see my presence bothers you!
Within this broken glass proclaimed,
is it because you spy reflect your sanctimony named?
Do you see your complacence blamed,
your lost humanity defamed,
or just quicksilver echoes_ In a mirror darkly framed?

Fallen Angel

by

Sullivanthepoet

What hand might mould such paradox; this vision held to torture man,
form silken tress and azure gaze to shame ripe wheat and summer skies,
what deity to clothe that form, would scorn the very softest peach?
or lips so soft, so warm, so red, the rose its petals might despise_
Yet secret ‘neath that genteel guise, what wicked spirits stir within,
what demons lurk behind those eyes, or ‘neath that pale and velvet skin?

What god from living marble carved; each fulsome breast, each limb, each cheek,
what astral sculptor turned his tools, what mystic hammer, chisel, hone,
to form a girlish belly thus, to gently shadow Eden’s gate,
or perfect alabaster hands whose touch lays cool as polished stone_
Yet who the hand or what their craft, can no angelic face disguise,
nor artist’s guile begin conceal, the jewel hard light within those eyes.

Sweet elegance, aloof, disdained; each measured step in fluid prose,
each dainty pace that strokes the ground, that joyous to its pressure sings,
the very air steps swift apart, lest with its touch it fault her path,
or turn a hair, a brow, a lash; ‘cept lift her on its perfect wings_
Yet drawn whence angels dare not tread, to press that heav’nly body’s grace,
knows not the mind of mortal man he dares his soul in her embrace.

For in that perfect breast there beats, an ice cold heart of hardest stone,
its lonely pulse a siren call to any man that dares its suit.
Oh folly! He who he who fool believes, his ardour may that stone to melt,
when legion those who came before have lost their hearts in that pursuit_
Yet still that vision draws us in; that bids us, man, our fears dismiss,
to sell our hearts, our minds, our souls, to raise the price of her sweet kiss.

But truest love, so freely give, is naught but meat and drink to her,
Her hunger burns, until the next, so willing soul invites her dine,
and once consumed, the platter bare, she swiftly from he table casts,
his mind and soul the late repast, his bleeding heart the sweetest wine_

Yet still she from that bargain takes, the poorest half, the sharpest bone,
for after every meal she sups_ This fallen angel sleeps alone!

Faces

by

Sullivanthepoet

I watch them dance their dance across the top of a Starbucks Americano,
leather elbows sticking, pulling, on the tacky wet cloth streaked faux wood top.
Each peering out at the world, fearful, alert, from behind Starbuck waxed paper rocks;
‘Faces_’ scores of tissue paper facades behind which shelter toilet paper lives.

Plain filter in a cup sips_ Her face speaks eloquently of her vinegar disposition. Her, there,
grey hair tight; scarlet lipped and rouged and powdered like a child’s drawing.
Lined and pale, musty, neglected, like old wallpaper; unloved and unloving.
How long since a smile had parted those dust hung faded curtains to the sunlight?

Her husband, a head taller, gaunt, hunches and curls himself into her shadow,
cheap shirt, pale pyjama striped, and back pages of Woman’s Weekly mail order shoes.
The unhappy skin on his yesterday’s newspaper face taut, pig brawn grey, veined,
worn old, rubbed smooth, featureless, from the salt and spray of this wife’s acid disregard.

Or her, miss modern mother, another cosmo clone, counterfeit earth maiden, yes her,
fat faced and oh so self satisfied little miss tits out; right on the end there.
See me! Breast is best! Breast is best! Little rodent eyes darting, probing.
See me! Wearing her ripe to bursting sanctimony like this year’s Primark ‘best buy’.

Her face beaming out like her public titty; round, shiny swollen, pallid, slightly wet,
she pecks, face down eyes up, at a low fat, no sugar, piss weak latte; peeking, hoping.
Clutching close her mewling, sucking, low fat, no sugar, piss weak puckered offspring,
picking at last season’s TK Maxx blouse in mock modesty; seeking offence. Daring a glance.

Not him tho’. Oh no! The face in the bad suit. Scraped skin graft thin, pink and grey,
ten thousand stinging, cold acid, five am wet shaves with too old, too used a blade.
Threaded veins, blue and purple, swimming, diving, rolling, in its blue tint shallows.
Too old, too used, too young_ A face crying out loud; of a life going, gone, nowhere!

Ms. Three sizes too big leafy suburbia sips her low fat Mocha and looks, glances,
smiles and looks away. Her childless envy bright. Evening make up on a day time face.
Sixty pee a minute sun bed smile borrowed from a department store perfume counter girl,
but not hers_ never hers. Not now. She doesn’t remember what she looked like any more.

A white goatee and three days lack of razor meets my eyes; naked; bold; no glancing.
No fear. Tanned hard by age, leather lined and fray edged _ An old wallet of a face.
Eyes bright still. Steel blue "dare you" eyes; in a face too abused, too worn, too jaded.
A used and split mot failure tyre of a face; knowing, blunt, cynical, world weary.

A skin flying buttress of a neck supports the weighty cathedral stone face behind the beard.
A smile, crooked, open, splits the stone. An ivory lintel, a gap here, a gap there, pragmatic,
when does a face get to be that old, that worn it asks? When did the boy give way to this?
The last half inch of white beard’s espresso is grainy, cold. Grimaces, spits.

The grounds stick to the back of my tongue; rough and bitter; stain the white of my beard.
Six stools at a diner counter, six lives on hold, six faces, six souls_ One mirror_

Crown o' Thieves

by

Sullivanthepoet

When bloodied conquest lusts for name,
if truly title it require,
in gore swept sword and scourging flame,
within its redly carnaged byre,
lays there abed its blood spat sire.
Where slicked in cruor its bloodlust feeds,
to sow its black and demon seeds.

No Lout invader fell abeach,
or foul rapacious horde ashore,
without conviction in them each,
a covet’s charter, nothing more,
of chauvinistic cause in war.
When greed the reaper’s harvest sows,
calf deep in trail such hell spawn grows.

Each black crusade in righteous guise,
that puts to sword in hot despoil,
to claim as right its charnalled prize,
foul tribute to its masters royal
in gore soaked, virgin, alien soil.
While ravening av'riced flares each pyre,
its bastard offspring to admire.

And thus apprenticed to its liege,
this Satan's whelp to manhood springs,
in headsman’s axe and bloody siege,
and raised each note on blood flecked wings,
its ventripotent song it sings.
Where might and right both ring the same,
let murd’rous avarice be its name.

The foulest queen, the sweetest whore,
by stealth or conquest throne perchanced,
call theft its gain and nothing more,
for took by force or wet romanced,
each naked with the devil danced.
Though coined in land, or power, or gold,
they harlots both their favours sold.

In their words justice sets our gauge,
and thus does hist’ry truth despise,
when victors sole lay pen to page,
their baseness therein to disguise,
in tightly woven, trail flecked lies.
Each raped, each slain, each slaved, each maimed,
foul heretic or heathen claimed.

Dub slaughter man too low a trade,
‘neath nobles’ grace to turn their hand,
yet butchers swift they gladly made,
where man the meat and prized in land,
‘came they a grume sod brigand’s band.
Immune by class lands sack to chance,
when commons would a gibbet dance.

Seems then reward bestowed as rank,
a scoundrel’s licence was intend,
whilst churl and pirate chanced the plank,
such titled status served defend,
that justice’ scales short weight append.
When only contrast they from thee,
their fore sires viler scoundrels be!

Do then ‘neath pomp and circumstance,
such crown set heads strive to conceal,
their vulgar pasts in feigned romance,
or nobles proud shrink to reveal,
their names rubbed red in gore burnt steel.
When truth reveals that high born head,
nods sinful ‘pon an epoch’s dead.

How dares then such ‘nobility’
to from its ivory tower scorn down,
assume by by right servility’
because it births, by chance, a crown,
or warms its bones a silken gown.
When takes thief lamb ‘tis fate to swing,
when takes he realms_ Hail that thief king!

'Ode To Easter Island'

by

Sullivanthepoet

Could those lichen clad granite lips but speak, that stone formed countenance call its features to contort,
Would you tell me faithful sentinel; On what dread Medusa did you cast those unsuspecting eyes?
Or could your kin reveal, if their watchful eyes, unblinking, cold, steady, might make an instant’s dark comfort,
What walks among us now, unknown, unseen, that dealt, to disguise its coming, this fate to you fearful guardian?

Or is it in its coming we should birth our fear? Is this disguise your choice; to garb your vigil in stone?
Do you set your eyes upon the future still ancient warrior, in waiting, and watching, and waiting and watching.
Set hard against the wind’s keening knives and its spattering sea birds, braced, tensed, hard glazed as cold as bone,
On what distant line do you set your unlidded guard, the shorefall, horizon, the cloud skim, the stars?

Oh ancient ones, you timeless soldiers tensed yet bid be still in your readiness;
Hold ever fast,
Each muscle rock and sinew steel; quivering each unseen beneath that stony skin aching, straining, for the call to battle,
Let me shelter in your lea; let me lay my face against the cold reassurance of your ageless body at last,
To shelter for a moment the guttering candle of my frail and fleeting existence in the wind shadow of your ageless sentries.

For what foe would dare such enemy, such conflict, that against such an army the first spear would throw?
Or dare your wrath my cold, heroic barbarians whose very body, cold unwavering rock, is of the unyielding earth itself.
From time, through time, for time, still you wait, scanning the endless stellar horizons for the black sails of an unknown foe,
Though yet - what invader would suffer your rage my selfless, stoic ancients, when your very gaze itself might hold tight the gates of hell?

'Timidatis Politicus'

by

Sullivanthepoet

What frail excuse may mentors cite, when precious youth scant reads nor write,
though squandered years count half a score, beware our impotence deplore,
‘cause ‘fore you dare against us rant, know independence we have grant.
Ask them, your charges dare deny_ "Not me Sir - No Sir - Never I."

Why steel behemoth loosed its track, lays charnel house with broken back,
I’ll tell you sir they private be, so venture not for fault with me,
no governmental office rate, for we have onus abdicate.
Bid them to ‘mea culpa’ cry_ "Not me Sir - No Sir - Never I."

When sickly malade begs abed, but steel boned gurney stands instead,
no ministry dare scandalise, when plainly fault with others lies,
to bear us blame be too unjust, when we have charged your care in trust.
Who bears the scape when patients die?... "Not me Sir - No Sir - Never I."

Foul excrement clothes Neptune’s ride, and rank disease pollutes the tide,
when merchants ‘ddicted to their wealth, to silver pieces squander health,
I cannot else but ‘llow your suit, not one stern word can just refute,
Yet not from me you water buy_ "Not me Sir - No Sir - Never I."

Too many first born sacrifice, when boiling deeps toss trawling’s dice,
but gamblers all they wager yet, to draw their loss - an empty net,
their heaving pastures harrowed dry, they merit all petition why?
But who to them their seas belie_ "Not me Sir - No Sir - Never I."

Dark foundries’ black as corpses crouch, and cry for hot steel’s lover’s touch,
choked furnace bellies coldly fast, weep ashen tears for glories past,
when profit stretches out its hands, to to till its iron in foreign lands.
Dub theirs the greed, the lust, the lie_ "Not me Sir - No Sir - Never I."

Pray ask of me who steered the ship, whose reef torn belly gapes arip,
who borne aloft slack vigil kept; whilst drowned in night I, captain, slept,
beg ask of me to speak their name, to point dark finger lanced in blame.
I’ll tell you free where guilt must lie_"but not with me Sir, tell no lie!"

"Not me Sir - No Sir - Never I."

'Vox Populi'

by

Sullivanthepoet

Within their wild cacophony,
each nameless drone amongst the throng;
That waits, unbid, upon its queen,
mouths each alone its silent song.
In secret chords it timid sings,
to beg its flight on crippled wings.

Each magic note, each tone, each beat,
to Bedlam’s anarchy consigned;
Each living aria in turn,
to anonymity resigned.
Lost words that in the chaos drum,
like wing beats in the pulsing thrum.

No noble voice in anger raised,
amongst the tumult e’er discerned;
No single protest ne’er so just;
that ‘bove it all fair hearing earned.
What worthy cause one throat commit,
that will not to the clash submit?

Hence countless queens, whate’er their shade,
each o’er their throbbing hives preside;
Elected tyrants born to rule,
and ‘mongst their ilk the spoils divide.
Made thus, corrupt, their wealth supports,
begirding craven, cringing courts.

Held safe while lonely suits succumb,
to wordless clamour’s crushing yoke;
And muting protest in its folds,
spreads black the babble’s billowed cloak.
Yet while din’s mantle lends disguise,
therein a sleeping dragon lies!

For dark oppression, stoic borne,
most foolish of illusions cite;
When dragons oft presumed demised,
by despots, are but sleeping tight.
Their breathing lost amidst the roar,
but rumbling still beyond their door.

One prick, one slur, a single ill,
lone slight a nation’s suffrage breaks;
One jot above their fill afflict,
and swift, that fearful worm awakes.
Borne high on black, avenging night,
A vengeful serpent takes its flight.

Each living cell submits the whole,
one voice in harmony combined;
Form angry tongues each beating wing,
hearts beat to single pulse designed.
A breath, from each, forsakes its name,
to gorge that throat with living flame!

And woken once shall know no rest,
while just rebellion fuels its flame;
It bloodied hunts with tooth and claw,
and retribution be its name.
For when as one a people toll,
their words as crashing thunder roll_

Such caution then does hist’ry scold,
when petty Caesars anxious rule;
That commons pressed beyond their mark,
will bear scant weight of ridicule.
When dark ambition comes acreep,
‘tis best allow that dragon sleep!

'In Dreams'

by

Sullivanthepoet

Oh! Soft corruption, sweet decay,
To cloying soil my bones forsake,
Bid time slow eat my flesh away,
Its' juices flown, cold stone to slake;
When form and figure all are gone... My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.

Spare me your grief, your laden tears,
Not for my soul your gods entreat,
Nor stoop backed burden of more years,
Left still to run on crippled feet:
As must soil heaps my head upon... My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.

Call loud my sins, misdeeds proclaim,
Paint black each trespass on my soul,
Each evil done attach my name,
Pile high each spot like ebon coal:
Cold, cleansing, flows my Rubicon... My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.

Taint not my corpse with men of God,
Let not stale absolution drip,
Or pious words corrupt the sod,
From bloodless, sanctimonious lip:
Men's prayers, like echoes, soon are gone... MMy heart, set free, in dreams goes on.

No maudlin hymn above me raise,
Chain not that anchor to my shade,
Dare not in my name deaf gods praise,
I worship not what man has made:
When last my bones death's shroud do don... My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.

Speak not o'er me of journey's end,
Nor rest, nor peace, nor setting sun,
Nor soft, to paradise pretend,
But loud of travels just begun:
Till wraiths we each embrace anon... My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.

Garb not my tomb with polished stone,
Pale markers non my grave adorn,
As free man, naked, and alone,
Permit me part as I was born:
For in each life it touched upon... My heart, set free, in dreams goes on.

'They Brought Them Home..'

by

Sullivanthepoet

They left them there...
Each torn and twisted friend and comrade,
every shell shattered and bullet frayed life abandon where it fell.
Left them there; gore soaked and crumpled and filthy,
Strewn and scattered; as if of cast off piles of crimson oil soaked rags,
Catholic, as spillings from hell’s own rag and bone cart
as it lurched and rattled across the blood spat fields,
each and every one holed, and scooped, and pock marked;
as if by the hooves of this hell cart’s infernal nag.
Left them torn of their lives and cast eternally on that alien soil,
abandoned and alone...

Abandoned and alone;
each orphan limb and filth caked entrail,
every shrapnel ripped son; every unknown father and lost brother.
Left them all behind - always and alone - left,
to the dogs and the crows and the night worms.
In days and in ones and twos they went;
in weeks and in hundreds they left that curs’ed foreign earth;
in months and in thousands,
gladly they left those barren unfamiliar fields.
Wet still with the blood of Britain’s manhood and...
They went home.

They went home.
Walking, stumbling, carried alitter, heads too heavy to lift.
Spastic and broken, filthy, remnants of men;
torn and numbed and debased by what they had seen;
what they had been.
Each horror sodden mind bruised and bloodied and scarred.
Minds bleeding crimson tears for what they had done,
what they had become.
Crushed and mutilated in victory and in ragged lines;
brothers in arms made strangers all.
They never looked back.

They never looked back.
Not once for the dead and dismembered and faceless comrades,
neither to cast eyes one last time on the gore that had been men;
once, so long ago, in the arms of a lover, in the eyes of their child.
Nor the hideous panoramas painted with battle’s razor edged palette,
painted thick, obscene, glutinous, and rich in its dazzling colours.
They marched only onwards, eyes front... Going home;
home to wives and mothers; to pale children as yet unmet;
to dead fathers and shell shocked brothers;
Home. To unknown funerals and unseen headstones over empty caskets.
Bearing their fallen.

Bearing their fallen.
Carrying them gently in every broken, aching heart still with the will to beat;
on each broken back in every faded and crack folded love letter. Stained still,
with the tears and the mud and the blood of a thousand readings.
Bore them home in each dog eared, bleached and cracked filth smeared photograph;
the shabby and ragged; paper threads that nightly darned their threadbare existences.
Home. In the face of a lover, a family, a wife, a child.
They marched their spirits home in every grubby enveloped unsent love letter;
every shared cigarette and gulp of luke warm stale tea in mud spat mugs.
And in each indelible memory, of each last day, and of each last parting breath,
they brought them home.

They brought them home...
Not the butchered corpses that hung still, ravaged and bloody in war’s grisly abattoirs,
or stocked the mud and gore dressed butcher’s window of every gut strewn day.
Nor the grisly remnants that flowered obscene in those forgotten pastures,
but the men they were, whole and untainted, untouched by the obscenity.
Men amongst men; men whose courage and comradeship bore up a nation;
men whose sacrifice & suffering would serve to humble an entire generation;
Ordinary men; men made warriors and heroes by extraordinary circumstance.
In every life owed their comrade’s sacrifice; and in every free born child;
in every mind and heart and in every spirit that set foot again on homeland soil...
They brought them home.

'Invisible Lives...'

by

Sullivanthepoet

Old women; shuffling and tapping, hunched and weary, heads down,
stumping stolidly their bow legged and woolly stockinged spastic gaits.
Crumpled chicken wing legs and cream puff ankles over putty coloured shoes
spur on their lame and stiff legged aluminium steeds;
Lucent tissue paper hands tremble in worn out purses,
searching amongst the bus tickets and the hair pins;
For coppers; for the remaining small change of their lives.

Bright, gimlet eyes in crumpled liver spot faces,
peering at the world through national health specs
propped on florid, bulbous strawberry pipped noses.
Bright tufts of silver couch grass on puckered sand dune chins
smile at blue rinses under rubbed and bagpussed woollen hats.

Do these women, these spent and wrinkled memories of women,
Ever speak of those bomb scattered days and pyrotechnic incendiary nights;
Of the candle lit terrors of dank and damply corrugated Anderson coffins?
Or of picking amongst the debris of their homes, their lives, their spirits,
for the bodies; The torn and bloody remains of their shattered children?
Do they give voice, ever, to the endless nights of fear and empty bellies,
the screaming, trembling, sweat damped tension of the munitions factory;
Of fulminate fuses, bright brass keys to oblivion, only ever a tremble away?
What is their story... Is it worth the telling?

Old men: stooped and crack kneed, mumbling and wheezing,
their sticks aclatter as fragile marionette wooden limbs.
Frail, in bag pocketed unkempt sports jackets and ragged sweat stained caps
watching a mistrusted world from the corner of a bloodshot and watery eye;
Finger stained flyes in cinder holed and razor creased crimplene trousers,
flapping, loose, spinnaker sails tacking their heel worn shoes into the wind;
Laces and toes diamond bright from a thousand old habit polishings.

Bony fingers with nicotine stained nails clatter in trouser pockets,
stirring the coins and clutter and sea shells of unreliable memories
Singing; Melodic and metallic; their song falling now on failing ears.
Deflated balloon necks under jutting blue chins, scraped to the bone
By thirty thousand wet razor shaves in their lives’ steam run mirror.

Do these men ever speak of long nights in the screaming, sound filled black,
cramped and freezing in the bullet spat, flak torn guts of the bombers;
As they danced their dance of death in the sizzling fire woven lace of the spotlights?
Or the panic in a stranger’s eyes as he twitched and grunted, spitting blood,
dying loud and ghastly and grisly; belly full of their unyielding bayonet?
Will they ever share the filth and the terror and the disease and the starvation,
the broken bodies of their mates that line each and every gore soaked yard;
each blood bought, soul crushing and twice cursed inch of the Burma railway?
What is their story... Is it worth the remembering?

Broke backed and year weary and spent what terrors now, what fears
does the night bring; do they fear the passing of the light or beg for the dark?
What now? What now for the invisible old and their invisible lives?
Does the reaper ride their backs, clinging, merciless, to that faded cloth?
The loose folds of faded coats two sizes too big, in long out of date fashions;
Skeletal fingers entwined, cruel, unforgiving in that threadbare tartan bridle?
Or does he walk with them, beside and close, gentle as a welcome friend?
Carrying the travel scarred bags of their being; the trinkets of bare remembered days;
Shouldering the last minute shopping of their lives to the last bus home...
This was their story... Are we worthy of its telling?

Suffer The Children

by

Sullivanthepoet

What shade, what mind, to harm a child; first turns its thoughts to such a course,
where breeds the seed that forms the sense that sexual holds an infant so;
What demons seethe within that brain to deed from fragile form divorce,
or find they welcome fertile ground that ‘llows that evil spirit grow?
How black the soul that gives its’ leave to turn so young to foul abuse,
to take a brittle blossom so and force it to such brutal use?

Ask what the psyche’s process then; that owes a babe such meagre worth,
that Father might a fist, a boot, a knee in violence contemplate;
What mother stands yet idly by to witness harmed those she gave birth,
or sets her self on such a path that her own hand dares desecrate?
How lost the spirit left to stoop, so low to break an infant bone,
no human spark, be it so dim, might ever such a wrong condone.

What beasts may harm that tender flesh and know no whit of self disgust,
call what you will these blackheart fiends, but not in my hail call them man;
Depravity in human guise might best describe their sadist’s lust,
when bend they to their evil work a cigarette, a boiling pan.
But what the sin or what the crime the blame must not there solely lay,
for guilt must weigh in equal gauge on those who blindly looked away.

Can church say of the pervert priest, who sold his god to sate his needs,
that while his choir he vilely served, no hint of ill was yet perceived;
Or dare deny revealed his crimes, no word was spoke of his misdeeds,
instead another diocese, another flock; To be deceived.
Are they less guilty of the act, who hide, protect, deny, conceal,
these cowards each whate’er their cause who fail the pervert’s wrongs reveal?

Or will the children’s home suggest, though sheltered ‘neath their cringing roof,
and cheek by jowl in company, those infants’ plight escaped their view;
A blind eye seeking to ensure that from such stains they hold aloof,
condoning felons’ crimes commit; and each in turn inflict anew.
Of reputation, coin or power, how much does stolen childhood buy?
A single child, one second’s fear, whate’er the prize - its price too high.

Each paedophile to ply his trade, must needful on those close rely,
the sadist too, to tend his needs, depends that they be wilful blind;
Though knowing each yet each deny, and in their silence each comply,
not in the act but in the lack; Accompliced all we felons find.
While child abusers, perverts all, must every one be called to pay,
stand guilty too those cowards all; who simply choose to turn away!

Bring Me Your Tired...

by

Sullivanthepoet


I lit a single flame to guide them in the blackness, and stood open my doors,
crying out into the night_ "Bring me your tired_
Bring them to me; Your worn and your spent and your weary;
Give them to me and I will give them rest."
And they came,
in their thousands and in their tens of thousands they came.
And with them;
They brought their idle and their indolent, their work shy and their feckless,
lie-abeds and layabouts of every hue and race.
To hang, sink stone, about the throat of my people,
deadweight, limp and languorous; Drawing their spirit down.
Thus have you punished me for my charity.

Yet still I oiled that flame and forced it bright, a beacon, and threw open its lantern,
Calling into the darkness_ "Bring me your poor_
Bring them to me; Your ragged and your hungry and your pitiful;
Give them to me and I will grant them succour."
And they came,
a rolling human tide, surging and heaving and eddying, they came.
And with them:
They brought their mendicant and their sponging, their grasping and their greedy,
scroungers and freeloaders of every creed and colour.
To cling, parasitic, infesting the skin of this noble and generous land,
leeching, sucking and gorging; Bleeding it of its tender will.
Thus have you punished me for my benevolence.

But higher still I turned that wick and flared the flame, casting open its sheltering window,
Loud, out, into the gloom I cried_ "Bring me your stateless_
Bring them to me; your scarred and your oppressed and your dissident;
Give them to me and I will give them freedom of speech."
And they came,
Limping and broken, legion and hopeless and debased, they came.
And with them;
They brought their criminal and their fugitive, their murderous and their sociopathic,
Gangsters and warmongers of every state and nation.
To prey, insatiable, a cancer consuming the very heart of my people,
whoring, child mongering and dope dealing; Sapping them of their strength.
Thus have you punished me for my humanity.

Still brighter yet I strained that flame, fanning it ever higher with my best intentions,
strident into the murk I pleaded_ "Bring me your persecuted_
Bring them to me; your faithful and your defiled and your denied;
Give them to me and I will give them freedom of faith."
And they came,
debased and defamed, clinging to their holy books and their broken gods, they came.
And with them;
They brought their fundamentalists and their zealots, their fanatics and their pedants,
bigots and blasphemers of every faith and fashion.
To terrorise, ostracise, debase and threaten the very soul of my people,
bombing, murdering and mutilating; Sickening them in their fragile faith.
Thus have you punished me for my tolerance.

Tomorrow and tomorrow that single flame will burn no more in my open window,
and no voice will cry then out into the darkness_
The doors hang loose on their hinges now: But no one passes through;
For I have nothing left to give.
And they come no more,
not the tired or the poor, the stateless or the persecuted; no one comes.
For when they came;
Like tics on cattle they brought their fanatics and their miscreants and their dogmas,
journeying with them, on scar crazed backs, those very things they had sought to flee.
Brought them to tire, impoverish, oppress and persecute this gentle and humane host,
to bleed it of its charity, its benevolence, its humanity and its tolerance...
Thus will we be punished all. For our cowardice_

'Stonehenge..'

by

Sullivanthepoet

Grey granite priests; Megaliths born of time,
cold shoulders massive, stern and resolute;
Turned ever and always to the eternal solstice
borne whims of a thoughtless and reluctant god
Cold as charity; Unrelenting and hard as iron,
the body of the pitiless earth made in man’s image;
And in its turn, strike stone to the flint;
The spirit of Adam made unforgiving stone.
Bitter, cruel; Unrelenting in his savagery.
Yet sounding board each to the beat, beat, beat,
the thundering pulse of the living earth;
Each stone shaman, one by one and in the round,
erect, aloof; Unwilling, and resentful.

Drawn there by the will of man and,
against their very soul, soaked deep of him.
Pores running deep, dirty, foul with his sweat,
with grubby filth stained fingers;
Wet by Barbarian tears
and stained rank of ill shed heathen blood.
A Pagan bible of their symbiosis rich with its
lichen illuminated, moss lettered stone pages;
A living testament in voiceless granite,
eloquent in its timeless silence.
Adam’s footprint in the sands of eternity;
Ageless and immortal_

'The Black Dog..'

by

Sullivanthepoet

Oh faithless cur! Black curse’d hound,
that soundless in my shadow walks;
Who dogs my heel by but a bound,
and in each footfall cunning stalks;
Then dare I lay to beg my rest,
pants dark and brooding ‘pon my chest.

And there in siege each wakeful hour,
assails my wits this mongrel spawn;
About my mind’s ill fortressed tower,
until the limp, exhausted dawn;
Yet still the beast no sojourn takes,
and with my faintest stir - Awakes.

While still its foetid breath pervades,
the farthest of my spirit’s deeps;
To spread again its visc’ral shade,
all sly from ‘top my chest it creeps;
To crouch upon my chamber’s floor,
twixt me and madness’ open door.

To seek the air in anxious flight,
I wrench my windows open wide;
But yet the dawning’s purging light,
braves not upon the fiend inside;
And tighter still my chest constrains,
to gulp what taintless air remains.

‘Til stifled thus I flee my room,
to soothe my throbbing heart a while;
And freed I of that morbid womb,
hap purge my breast its vapours vile;
But bright the sun and sharp the air,
serves nought to lighten my despair.

How bright the rays that blessed star,
serve but to black my shadow more;
All better questing eyes to bar,
the loathsome creature at its core;
Which sensing reason strain and crack,
climbs foul and heavy ‘pon my back.

‘Til bold it dares my shoulders rise,
where all on razor claws it hangs;
To snuff and huff and hid my eyes,
unsheathe its’ wetly glist’ning fangs;
In savour of the feast to come,
when reason must, o’erwhelmed, succumb.

And burdened thus about my days,
one foot within dementia’s hall;
My morbid melancholy plays,
the hell hound’s loyal, crushing thrall;
Until fresh tortures it devise,
and dreadful, frightless, panics rise.

Its breath all sulph’rous on my neck,
like fire begins my skin to burn;
All sense no longer at my beck,
as wretched knees to jelly turn;
While fearful lungs denied their fill,
ask thund’ring heart pound harder still.

Oh! would that heart seek leave to burst,
in those black moments if it plead;
To bear not one more hour thus cursed,
to cheat the beast I’d gladly cede;
But fierce as in my chest it leaps,
It labours on and silent keeps.

Until the dawn that gentle steals,
upon the day in tender lights;
That brave my chamber floor reveals,
to sweep away the terrored nights;
No curse’d hound acrouch the floor,
and there, shut tight, stands madness’ door.

My heart, once more, its frenzy stilled,
thuds softly in my grateful chest;
And greedy lungs once more swell filled,
while tortured nerves seek to their rest;
‘Til humour, freed, untethered lifts,
to look anew on being’s gifts.

To feel each blade ‘gainst naked feet,
I brave the nettles’ acid stings;
So clear the air, its perfume sweet,
conveys each note the skylark sings;
Cry Carpe Diem! - "Seize the day!"
While hell’s dark hound seeks other prey!

Then do I praise my stoic heart,
which gravely tried no mercy asked;
My will, all twist and tore apart,
that stood its ground though sorely tasked;
Their gift to me another dawn,
another breath so grateful drawn.

Though still a cautious shadow lurks,
the brightest day can not dispel;
For in my psyche’s darkest murks,
stands stiff ajar the road to hell;
Where in the pit its hunger burns,
until the beast, to feed, returns!

'The Black Dog..'

by

Sullivanthepoet

Oh faithless cur! Black curse’d hound,
that soundless in my shadow walks;
Who dogs my heel by but a bound,
and in each footfall cunning stalks;
Then dare I lay to beg my rest,
pants dark and brooding ‘pon my chest.

And there in siege each wakeful hour,
assails my wits this mongrel spawn;
About my mind’s ill fortressed tower,
until the limp, exhausted dawn;
Yet still the beast no sojourn takes,
and with my faintest stir - Awakes.

While still its foetid breath pervades,
the farthest of my spirit’s deeps;
To spread again its visc’ral shade,
all sly from ‘top my chest it creeps;
To crouch upon my chamber’s floor,
twixt me and madness’ open door.

To seek the air in anxious flight,
I wrench my windows open wide;
But yet the dawning’s purging light,
braves not upon the fiend inside;
And tighter still my chest constrains,
to gulp what taintless air remains.

‘Til stifled thus I flee my room,
to soothe my throbbing heart a while;
And freed I of that morbid womb,
hap purge my breast its vapours vile;
But bright the sun and sharp the air,
serves nought to lighten my despair.

How bright the rays that blessed star,
serve but to black my shadow more;
All better questing eyes to bar,
the loathsome creature at its core;
Which sensing reason strain and crack,
climbs foul and heavy ‘pon my back.

‘Til bold it dares my shoulders rise,
where all on razor claws it hangs;
To snuff and huff and hid my eyes,
unsheathe its’ wetly glist’ning fangs;
In savour of the feast to come,
when reason must, o’erwhelmed, succumb.

And burdened thus about my days,
one foot within dementia’s hall;
My morbid melancholy plays,
the hell hound’s loyal, crushing thrall;
Until fresh tortures it devise,
and dreadful, frightless, panics rise.

Its breath all sulph’rous on my neck,
like fire begins my skin to burn;
All sense no longer at my beck,
as wretched knees to jelly turn;
While fearful lungs denied their fill,
ask thund’ring heart pound harder still.

Oh! would that heart seek leave to burst,
in those black moments if it plead;
To bear not one more hour thus cursed,
to cheat the beast I’d gladly cede;
But fierce as in my chest it leaps,
It labours on and silent keeps.

Until the dawn that gentle steals,
upon the day in tender lights;
That brave my chamber floor reveals,
to sweep away the terrored nights;
No curse’d hound acrouch the floor,
and there, shut tight, stands madness’ door.

My heart, once more, its frenzy stilled,
thuds softly in my grateful chest;
And greedy lungs once more swell filled,
while tortured nerves seek to their rest;
‘Til humour, freed, untethered lifts,
to look anew on being’s gifts.

To feel each blade ‘gainst naked feet,
I brave the nettles’ acid stings;
So clear the air, its perfume sweet,
conveys each note the skylark sings;
Cry Carpe Diem! - "Seize the day!"
While hell’s dark hound seeks other prey!

Then do I praise my stoic heart,
which gravely tried no mercy asked;
My will, all twist and tore apart,
that stood its ground though sorely tasked;
Their gift to me another dawn,
another breath so grateful drawn.

Though still a cautious shadow lurks,
the brightest day can not dispel;
For in my psyche’s darkest murks,
stands stiff ajar the road to hell;
Where in the pit its hunger burns,
until the beast, to feed, returns!

'Bill..'

by

Sullivanthepoet


An empty pipe,
cold now:
Lays nicotine stained and black coke bearded
where old, knuckle proud smoke yellowed and
tissue skinned fingers last reached it down - and left it lay.
Its last hot and fragrant breaths all expired and
its molasses thick gurgling pipes mocking
echoes of the sick old lungs and wizened cheeks
that drew it still, and with such joy;
All until their very last and laboured breath.
Silenced and empty it sleeps;
Stilled and ashen now.

Its glowing heart too, dimmed and
dark’ning as its last charred embers wink out.
Left now to moulder and to pine,
faithful and abandoned,
for all time at the loss of its master.

An unoccupied chair,
abandon too;
All spark spotted and rubbed wet fag brown
at the elbows and wrists of its finger
and ‘baccy’ stained arms. Worn thin and ochre;
Shabby now in the dim, drawn, curtained intimacy.
Soiled close in its cosy familiarity
where nicotined and threadbare cuffs
held their late companion’s hands;
And each slopping and faded tartan slipper
wrote its secret, ciphered diaries.
In a worn and grubby carpeted script at its feet.

It waits now; Patient and inconsolable
for the comforting weight it knows will come no more.
While discoloured and fidget rubbed footprints
whisper softly their goodbyes...
An old chair’s eulogy to a lost friend.

A model train,
untouched.
An arms reach aside and ash grey with dust;
Sits silent and unloved among its kin.
Heritage someone dot com locos in their tiny splendour;
Miniature caskets to hold the precious stones of distant
and poignant memories; Of steam and coal
and thundering smoke belching iron behemoths.
The memories of a small boy who dreamed;
A boy who dared to dream his dreams
of being a train driver; And the man who
came after; To stand full grown in their reality.

No one to fondle them now,
nor wrap them in tendrils of perfumed pipe smoke
and smile at them; And love their perfect forms.
No mind’s eye to hear the hiss of steel on steel and smell
the sulphur sting of hot wet coals on an autumn morn.

A satchel,
forgotten and forlorn.
Leathern and worn and webbed and covered in dust;
Fray strapped shut on bent and rust specked buckles.
Jealous guardian of the rare treasures within;
Lignum vitae orbs polished and patinated
by old fingers and new grass and sweat softened cloths
as they kissed and whispered to
baize perfect greens under cloudless summer skies.
No more now to call back their knuckle crack clicks
to expectant and eager ears under that crisp and
oh so, so perfectly white cloth cap.

The greens will mourn him and his familiar steps;
grieve for the pad of soft soled feet on its verdant
three day designer stubble; Feet that will not set their
print among the bright fairy pearls of Devon dew again.
Gentle sod that knows each reverent fall as were it a face.

Through the window,
a waiting garden,
strangely hushed and subdued today; Waits in vain.
No more will those rope veined and walnut forearms
bring their pressing and turning and sowing.
No more will shining beads of sweat cast from
a weather lined and tobacco brown brow
spit and dance, hissing their disapproval,
in the embers of a weathered and soil stained briar
gripped ever and immutable in its ivory vice; Puffing lazily.
The bean sticks will rot where they stand
and the lock on the old shed will rust shut.

This garden and its spirit will be the less for it;
The cricket ball slap of pipe on palm;
Wet dabs of sour and tarry dottle among the roses.
An aromatic scent of pungent Virginia flake,
drifting and seductive, on the cool evening air.

A curtain moves,
soft and silent
in a breath of air as soft as an angel’s wing.
Dust motes dance and turn in slivers of invited sunshine
and settle, gentle and respectful,
on the faded mementoes of four score and nine years.
Keepsakes that speak, tender and wistful, of a wife;
Of children and grandchildren and great grandchildren.
Pictures and trinkets and tokens of a life lived and loved
and long and of the lives it loving shared.
While age pale and dog eared postcards jostle with cheap
bazaar souvenirs to tell tales of holidays long forgotten.

All cast offs now; Jumble; Boot sale bric a brac;
Spent husks of a million long treasured memories.
Their essences made safe now and vaulted for all time;
Locked incorruptible and apart and imperishable each
in the hearts and the minds and the tears of those left behind...

'Rest In Peace Harry Patch..'

by

Sullivanthepoet

‘Rest In Peace Harry Patch..’

"And did those feet in ancient times;"

Walk ankle deep each in gore and fatherless limbs
and the spent essence of zealous and imperfect youth;
As strove each and every ill natured and misguided
nation to build, in their own fractured and distorted
images, their new and utopian Jerusalems?
To build their fragile empires, and their emerald cities,
on the bones and the bodies and the everlasting
graves of the faceless and forgotten fallen of a
thousand nameless and tear sod generations.
Ten thousand obedient and expendable armies
under proudly godward thrust colours and marching
all arrogant and manly and pious in their shadows...
Until time and bleak accommodation cast each to the
inevitable funeral pyres of greed and ambition;
And to the wet mouthed blasphemies and bloodlusts
of a legion of cruel and vindictive gods...

"Or close the wall up with our English dead!"

As in staunch and dam and defiant bloody bulwark
piled we all, in our outrage and in our best intent,
heap on putrefying heap the bodies of our dead and near
dead; On which to climb the blood slicked ramparts of our
own self righteous and sanctimonious martial indignation.
With God and gods our cause assured to turn back, repel
and smite, with the wrath of those same deaf and blind
gods each foul invader from our shores and our pages;
Those same deaf gods laud loud in each opposing heart.
And, as all and in all each war; Each war to end all wars;
All spoke so easy and found so hard in the eye of man.
Laid now cheek by jowl with its gore spat and exhausted
and futile fellows; Silent and unheard in the must and
amnesiac graveyard of victory’s imagined history.
Its lessons lost and unlearned and soon forgotten from
the minds and hearts of hostile man until again...

"I believe it is peace for our time."

Until again that cracked and hollow bell tolls loud,
the morbid and discordant death’s knell of yet another
sorrowed and hollow eyed graveside generation;
Solemn requiem bell to the grieving heart broke and lost
child weeping mothers and bereft and sonless fathers
that elegy millennia on bloodied and rag hearted millennia.
The styx of all human existence swole again and raging in
war spate with the stolen tears of the lost and scattered;
Endless and sinless the sons and daughters of all the years.
Torn each whole and bleeding in sorrow and in pain from
the reckless loins of a lamenting and godforsaken Adam.
And yet, in feral and stone heart abandon, do still the
wet lipped politicos and their fearful and fretful generals;
Their anxious, dribbling and wild eyed Caesars;
Lessoned not one caution from wounded aeons of futility,
toss cheaply their unfulfilled seed encore into the inferno.

"And at the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
we will remember them.."

And in remembering never has one broken heart borne
shameful man’s wretched inhumanity to his brother so long;
Nor one soul laboured on so oppressed by man’s deeds and
its dreadful doings and carried unspoken the weight of all
its sins and its untold miseries with so little complaint.
No one pair of gentle eyes ever obliged to bear, tear filled and
untarnished, witness to the reckless horrors of three centuries;
The terrible steel and fire and sulphur forged scythes of Lucifer’s
dreadful Autumns; Thunder wracked and lightning dawned in the
gathering in of his gore soaked harvest again... And again.
Nor yet one tender mind forced endure the livid scars so long
of his own forced and unnatural barbarity in foreign fields;
Has ever a single soul embodied all that is of the best and of the
worst in man in the light of their one frail and flickering candle;
And in that light; So captured the hearts and minds of a nation...

"Rest in peace Harry Patch: Rest in peace..."