last tango in the lot of abandoned truth. Part 2

In the ruins, let ghost rhetorically glide

and daub word warnings with child’s artistry,

vivid faces look back to present and guild

the thoughts, the feelings of their ancestry.

In the scent of the shadow of the south eastern wall,

Boy form traces tomorrows words that tyrants scream,

chuckling at the unifying sorrow of great meanings fall.

The death of arts dawn faces the silent unseen

as the suns sky crests the wave of the midnight stars,

the morning-tide tugs on the throws of the night.

Raping some meaning from the dead lips of babes.

Else who from the void of east’s shade, cry for sight?

Un-reckoned, un-heard, half remembered un-rest

the prince on hill at mornings wars contest.

Fables garden ghazal

When Sumer stood by fables beacon,

infectious wisdom seeped from Babylon.

Beside the gardens in stifled solitude

lovers took grass for beds of consummation.

before Plato and Thebes, before Virgil sang

when the sun first looked on the face of Solomon

lay a land and hung a garden our cradle of civilisation

In Hesbon by Bath-Rabbim I watched a worlds ruin

Towards Damaskus, mandrakes eyes cry redemption

But on deaths ears and politicians lies fall words silently.

Whilst idols false are pinned on the cedars of lebbanon.

Upon every high tower and every fenced wall

the profits of conflict scrawl their justification.

As Neptunes Troy scarred the land, Basaras burning

In the cradle still, barbarity suckles the teat of destruction.

last tango in the lot of abandoned truth. Crown: 1

On these Shores the bones of thought rest,

grinding meanings under canons heal to sand.

Catches in the breeze, fragments the Greeks forgot

or burnt with heretics for insights to grand.

I wander these shores to find somewhere to pray

a space apart, inspired but un-shadowed by fate

a way to the words that dry on my lips like salt spray

and dance away, white chalk foam, across sea grey slate.

It’s only here that the bones become revived.

In my howl to the ocean, the night and the wind.

New flesh wraps old remains, remembering lives lived,

to stalk from the sand to search out dead kin.

Away from the water its whispered poesy has died

In the ruins, let ghosts rhetorically glide.

Andy


Rubber duck deserts and tubs of blue sky
Discarded clay soldiers lie side by side.
As the electric Cadillac’s appear at last
she laughs at their injuries as they howl to the past.

Why does it snow father?




Far from the warmth of the sun, in a frigid realm of the solar system
a billion kilometres beyond earth, lies a ball of ice called Enceladus.
A snowball’s Antarctica is pumping plumes of water reaching hundreds
of kilometres into space. Ice particles fall like fine snow, Cold
Faithful, painting Enceladus pure white. Long cracks, geologians
Tiger stripes, potential oceans, meters bellow, hidden life.
Where is the engine hidden? “there are no goblins or demons”
says McKinnon, but what does he know? No one knows why
for millions of years on Enceladus it has snowed.

Lascaux

Great Hall of the Bulls,

rehear our land speak

eminent spirits of night sky cave.

Awake, waken, awaken now

to cast through the Chambers Engraved.

Hear, horn lord of a hundred warriors arms

and pause and flavour the Painted Gallery

live, steaming under natural star maps

last great pride of the old ways.

O’ god flesh tribe tribute I humbly summoned

For the wakening of old ones heart strings

Banish the dark and walk among

Us, O’ rise now under world sleepers,

Leave that dry rest to set scales aright .

Last pride of the old ways

Sleep no more, hear my cry.