The money and the power
fit like hand in glove,
manipulating our lives
with hands soaked in blood.
Like pawns on a chessboard
we follow their commands,
cleverly manipulated
by cold corporate minds.
They reap a tainted harvest
bought with sleeping souls,
their purses bulging
as they play out their roles.
Prancing about in their
huge stately homes,
costumes adorned
with skulls and bones.
Masonic handshakes
get you into their halls,
where horrors unfold
amidst terrified calls.
And way down here
on the creaking boards,
another pawn is lost
to the bloodthirsty hoard.
Their veils are returned
as they cover the loss.
Another family bereft,
must recover the cost.
*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd march 2015.
Revised 2nd October 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
A word on a line
joined with many and more,
a story to tell
from behind a closed door.
A line on a page
and a paragraph to make,
from a thoughtful sage
to the ones who forsake.
A page in a book
telling tales short and tall,
just have a quick look,
hear the whispering call.
A book on a shelf,
many dusty old tomes,
a wealth of words
from across quiet rooms.
A history in words,
telling sad tales of pain;
of battles and bloodshed
and tears shed in vain.
Tyrants and demons
live within the short lines,
telling tales of tomorrow
and the end of our times.
Words of science;
of nature and light;
of suns, stars
and comets so bright.
Pages of magic;
of mystery and prose;
of light and laughter
and faces aglow.
A library of life
in unending rhymes,
of joyous love
and wonderful times.
A letter, a word,
a line or a page,
thoughts laid down
across eons of age.
*
Written by Darren Scanlon, April 2014.
Revised 24th September 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Somewhere in between
the waking and the dream,
I can feel you close to me.
Just before times hands
reshape the desert sands,
I can feel you reach for me.
In the blink of tear stained eyes,
watching weary to the skies,
I can see you cry for me.
In the breaking of the dawn,
in the dew upon the lawn,
I can see you smile for me.
In the bright rays of the sun,
in the new day just begun,
I can feel you warming me.
In the beating of my heart,
that once was torn apart,
I can feel you healing me.
In the shadow of the past,
from the dawn unto the last,
I can hear you call for me.
As I take my last deep breath,
as I fear the grip of death,
will you please just wait for me?
Written by Darren Scanlon, April 2013.
This revised version written 15th March 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Gaze into the mirror
at the face behind the mask
and wonder if it's really you,
or don’t you dare to ask?
Who can know what lies beyond
the mirrors fragile face,
reflections of another life;
another time or place?
Touch the chill upon the glass
and see a tiny ripple,
was it real or in your mind,
did it really feel so supple?
Gaze into empty eyes
and fall into the depths
of a soul once so full of life,
so youthful and adept.
Look to see what lies beneath,
to feel the piercing pain
of a cold, tired and tortured mind,
so old and now so stained.
Seek the truth, as only one
who dares, could ever see,
touch the glass with hard resolve,
do you want to set it free?
As tears return to trace the tracks
they've travelled so many days.,
to feel a cold and empty heart
as it fades into the haze.
Wrap yourself in a lovers embrace
as it slowly disappears,
until finally you understand
where you've been for all these years
.
A cry escapes from silent lips
as knowledge flows like sand,
your former self now fades from view,
beseeching, held out hands.
As you gaze into the trembling glass,
your thoughts so far away,
who is really watching who
and who can really say.
Written by Darren Scanlon, 12th May 2014.
Revised 17th September 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
In the deep dark woods
lived a great brown bear,
he was seven feet tall
but the townsfolk didn’t care
for although the bear was huge
and had fangs and long sharp claws,
all the people would make fun of him
and point out his big flaw.
Have you ever met a bear
who had nothing much to say,
who couldn’t even growl
when he came outside to play?
Well, Bob was his name
and no matter how he tried,
when he opened his big mouth
all he managed was a sigh.
Now in a nearby village
lived a little girl called Sal,
she liked the big old bear
and they’d grown to be good pals.
She was never afraid of Bob
for she loved him well and true,
she was sure he’d never hurt her,
he was gentle through and through.
“I going to stop them laughing”,
decided Sal one sunny day,
“They're no longer making fun
of my dear friend that way!”
So she came up with a plan
that was certain to succeed
and when the crowd arrived,
she sneaked up into a tree.
When poor old Bob stood up tall
and he raised his great big paws,
showing to all the people
he had long and dangerous claws,
little Sal gave the loudest roar
from the top of her tiny lungs
as he opened his enormous mouth
showing them fierce looking fangs.
The people jumped and screamed
and then ran for their dear lives,
falling over wooden fences
and some buzzing bee hives.
The bees came out and cried,
“What a terrible thing to do!”
and they chased them even further
with the threat of a sting or two.
Bob and Sal just laughed and laughed
as she dropped down from the tree
landing right upon his back,
how they giggled with such glee.
“I bet they'll all be hiding now
and wondering with a scowl,
where on earth did that silly bear
get his loud and fearsome growl?”
Sal gave Bob a last big hug
and bade her friend goodnight.
“Didn't we both give them
such a terrible old fright?
Lets do it again tomorrow
and watch them scream and run
from a poor old sighing bear,
who is really such good fun”.
Written by Darren Scanlon, 27th May 2014.
Revised 1st September 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
My friend Terrence
was a little happy sole,
he didn't need a kennel,
nor a house or a hole.
His home was a shell
that he carried on his back,
so that all he had to do
was drop down on the track.
Then he'd pull his head inside,
followed by his legs and feet
and he’d look inside the fridge
for something tasty to eat.
If it started raining
or got too chilly cold,
his friends would run for shelter
beneath trees or in their holes.
But not our little friend,
because he'd climb inside his shell
and have a cup of tea
until the sun chased off the chill.
Wherever he did travel,
he would walk so nice and slow,
well there's no need to rush,
you might trip or stub your toe!
“And all the good things
come to those that wait”,
or so his mother told him
as he headed through the gate.
“If you’re rushing all the time
and your feet don’t want to stop
then you’ll end up getting dizzy
like a whizzing spinning top”.
His mother, how she loved him
and he loved her lots, right back
with her funny little sayings
she would help him stay on track.
So there my tale has ended,
for all you girls and boys,
and now you've met my little friend,
Terence the Tortoise.
*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 25th February 2014.
Revised, 30th August 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Have you ever heard the tale
about the hedgehog with no spikes,
such a sweet little boy
who all the other’s didn’t like?
A case of alopecia,
there was nothing they could do,
such a sad little hedgehog
who cried and cried, “Boo-Hoo”.
But soon the lad grew older,
he wanted to look more lush
so onto his back he tied himself
a little scrubbing brush.
His friends, well they just laughed at him
and bullied him all the more,
until one day, he'd had enough
and walked out through the door.
For years not much was heard of him,
his mother, she did fret
for she’d heard about the busy roads
and trouble, in which, he could get.
But life had turned out fine for him
and soon he’d found a place
where he could earn a little living
and put smiles on many a face.
Within the railway station
with his brush upon his back,
a jumping and a jiggling till
the queue would start to clap.
People travelled from miles around
just to come and watch the show,
their trips no longer boring
they would leave with faces aglow.
But what’s the hedgehog doing
to make the people come to see?
What makes them laugh and cheer
and fills their hearts with so much glee?
You've never seen a shoe shine stall
with such a special knack,
for the owner was a dancing hedgehog
with a brush upon his back!
*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 3rd January 2014
Revised 26th August 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
And the troops go marching proudly by
as she wipes a tear from her weary eyes,
the one that she seeks, she will never again hold
for he died at his post; he was thirty years old.
The colours fly high on a cool autumn breeze
as man and boy march with well practiced ease,
so glad to be home after being so brave,
with flags overhead and not covering their graves.
She can bare it no longer as tears start to flow
down pale damp cheeks as she sways to and fro,
too much of their blood spilled on foreign fields
at the whim of the tyrants and their deadly deals.
Friends hold her up with compassion and love
and so many look down from the heavens above,
surrounded by many who share in her grief
but the feelings yield little by way of relief.
§
And the troops go marching with heads held high,
ribbons on tunics for brave deeds gone by
but each feels the loss of their friends and their kin,
and trauma buried deep beneath a mask, now so thin.
They’ve experienced things that just shouldn’t be done,
in the name of freedom, down the barrel of a gun.
The memories will haunt them for the rest of their lives
as they try to return to their children and wives.
But in truth and reality, how can any return
to their previous lives after all they have learned,
no love and compassion; no laughter and smiles
can replace what was lost across many long miles.
They’ve all left behind their innocent souls,
dead and buried in deep desert holes,
leaving them drained and with aching hearts
for a love and a life that has been torn apart.
§
And the troops go marching so silently by
on streets lined with people; cheering and cries
but she turns her back on this painful parade,
wishing time could roll back and her son would be safe.
And there’s rage in her heart for the tyrants who sent
so many to their deaths; so much blood spilled and spent
as they cover their coffers; their spoils of war,
like ghouls in the shadows keeping count of their score.
Rubbing their hands and patting their backs
lying and cheating and covering their tracks.
Another quick round in their wretched games,
the dice from the dealer dishing out death and pain.
The survivors will never sleep soundly again
for the loss and the scars will always remain
The ghosts of their past, ever present and near,
taunting as they sink in depression and fear.
§
And the troops go marching so slowly by
some holding back, some with tears in their eyes
for the nightmare lives on in the world far and wide
where so many remain and so many have died.
*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 24th August 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the persistence of oppression
is precluding my life’s zest.
The dark before sunrise
of a dawn that just won't break,
suppressed by a thirst for my soul
that only sorrow can now slake.
The wisps that you are weaving
are clouding my damp eyes,
a cold and cloying shroud
that’s covering all that I desire.
A void, with sides so steeply etched
and burning with cold dread,
I’m trembling now with fragile fear
and wondering if I dare tread.
Your shadow wraps me in its arms
to hold me once again,
a old familiar friend
that’s feeding fast upon my pain.
A symbiotic succor
and reluctant shield of sighs
from the turmoil of a life
that turned to tears before my eyes.
And the sleep within my veins
now washes over silent souls,
a mind numbing response
to a desperate, lonely call.
I’m crying out from within the prison
of this decaying fragile frame
and I hide my face behind a smile
from relentless passionate pain.
Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the darkness you are dealing
leaves my soul with little rest.
Now your fog has engulfed me
to the edges of my world,
I hope and pray that one day soon,
my wings will be unfurled.
Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd June 2014.
Revised 20th August 2015.
©2014 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
How can a lie
make the whole world cry,
yet they claim there is nothing to see,
where nefarious knaves
and the covetous crave
beneath covers so stealthily, free?
No thought for the plebs
as they weave dangerous webs
in a world already complex,
where the sins of the saints
have done nothing but taint,
confuse, deceive and perplex.
To forgive and forget,
is to aid and abet
the demons, content in their ways,
as they deftly defile
and sneeringly smile
at the lies from our earliest days.
To be taught as a child,
there is one who beguiles;
a one that is two and then three,
is a criminal act
and insidious pact
to enslave the ones who were free.
Our children were taught
not to give a clear thought
as to how it was all s’posed to work,
so they trustingly took
from the ones who forsook
and replied with barely a smirk.
They were used and abused,
bewildered, confused,
then cast aside on their quest,
told to get on with life
under threat of the knife,
for the Robed Ones always knew best.
And the tears and the cries
from damp bloodshot eyes,
can be seen again and again
as the torment goes on,
from The Father to Son,
leaving streaks of soul numbing pain.
So when will it end;
when can children depend
on the adults they were once taught to trust?
When will all the lies,
causing deep hidden cries,
be brought to the men who are just?
Let them rattle the cage
with a long concealed rage
and ask those monsters to tell,
how an innocent child
can be fiercely defiled
and yet kneel ‘neath the chime of their bell?
Then once and for all
watch them stumble and fall
as down to the cells they are led,
with long restless nights,
shallow sleep and no rights;
watch them cowering deep in their beds.
Let the bells peal out loud
as we look ‘neath the shrouds
and tally the terrible toll,
of the heart-wrenching cries
of so many sad eyes,
as The Lie is revealed to us all.
Written by Darren Scanlon, 18th June 2014.
Revised 16th June 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC