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The rain strikes the sharp jagged window panes
As she huddles in a corner of the darkening room hurting full of shame,
The probing fingers of early evening frost play a game of chess
And invade the unprotected battlements of her frail body with success.

Outside,
The lightning bares its hideous teeth with savage intent
And the wind sings a song without hope.


The storm gathers its troop for the carnage of fright
That it has lustfully planned for this nightmarish night,
People can be heard running outside on the wet pavements,
Humans hunting for shelters beneath gravestones.

Inside,
The decaying boards of the room reek
With insidious desires.


She can sense the lower depths of pollution
That surround her but nobody will ever execute a solution,
This child of mankind will be shrouded in a grim reality
Which is preached as a sincere morality.

*Within,
Even though her soul is sore,
She will never be vanquished by these feeble man made forces.
What have I done, my master, that angers you so?

I crept into this world on an icy cold dark night,
But once you showed me warmth and light,
My father I did not see,
Father you did for a time become to me,
I still treasure those spring days happily,
It was an age when the fresh earth laughed madly
(And you men smiled with it).

Once days of light darkened
Murky red and it was my blood I saw hardened
On your hands, my father,
My master, my friend, are
You mine enemy?

In your greatest hour I did stand by you,
Mine fatal hour was at hand and I cried out for the truth,
In my beggar’s voice I pleaded to you
To guard, today, my children and their generations too
As I once did yours.

I never sold or bargained my love
But you traded yours for scrap paper doves,
My eyes always glistened,
These days I weep salt tears and ask you to listen,
My idiot smile always seemed foolish but now I wear
Pagliacci’s lipstick.

While you desecrate my humble gravestone
I never once did the same in spite, hate or even while digging for a bone,
I shall always play the fool
Who is used as a tool
And nothing more by you.

Where are you now? Were not you and I fashioned out from blood
Of the same mud,
By the one God?
I never changed my tune which was composed by a bard
But I hear you dance to a different hymn,
They say Satan was Keeper of the Music Inn
Before he was sent down
To a place where he found a sound
That forever changed his jig.

I did have two eyes,
You used your blind eyes for lies,
My nose I gave up for your nightly protection
While you always smelt for election,
You have two deaf ears,
Mine always heard the sound of fears,
You once did have a heart, mine bled,
I hang my head and go to my earthen bed,
Compassion is a word that spells dread
For Humankind.

The rags that you men worship daily
Drove you to haunt me gaily,
If careful you are not
Those same rags will one day sink their needle teeth into your soft rot,
The needle that put me to into Death’s sleep
Will bury into you deep indeed
And bite softly it will, like lice,
Will you howl like I did *(out of pain, not cowardice),

Or are you going to offer the other cheek?

I was crucified for your guilt
Which upon my shoulders you day by day built,
Mine life was extinguished under the burning weight,
Even in rigid death you hound me mate
And thousands like me are detained,
But loyal we will remain,
In the fiery jaws of hellish Death
I never spat out my love but I bet
You never wept,
My master who once did return my love.

*What have I done, my master, that angers you so?
The tabloid press in Great Britain orchestrated a rabid campaign to outlaw the American Bulldog breed after a handful of reports filtered in about how some of these dogs had attacked people. The sensationalist reports were so sustained, on a systematic daily basis, that the government eventually capitulated and passed a law which not only forbade people from importing the breed but also for all American Bulldogs to be detained and destroyed. Instead of reprimanding irresponsible owners who may have abused and conditioned their dogs to be aggressive, the government issued a blanket ban on the entire breed. Thus, within weeks, an entire breed of dog was wiped clean from the shores of Great Britain. Police raided homes and snatched away family pets and exterminated them with lethal injection. For the crimes of a few the entire breed paid the penalty with their lives.
This poem was inspired by a photograph taken by Kevin Carter. The photo can be viewed at the following link:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3533/3889588190e6c52b9358o.jpg


A Prayer for the Forgotten

I weep O Lord, I weep,
I weep for those who have no more tears to weep,
In this world overflowing with wealth
a child should not be left for the birds of carrion,

Look to it now before the hour grows cold,*

Remember well the flapping of the Reaper’s wings,
For on the tolling of the day,
One day now, one day soon,
You too will be snatched away before the break of day.
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.

- Somme Harvest -

In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.

On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.

Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.

Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.

In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.

Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god *****’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.

Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.

A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.

As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,

The phoenix has nested.
In the room there is a heart beating fast and fresh,
A child newly dressed from heaven’s kingdom blessed,

Touch and feel the softness of unpainted beauty,
No pressure yet, no career, no worries, nor any duties,

Breathe in and taste the fragrance of sweet paradise,
This perfume is innocence; it can never be bought or priced,

What lovely eyes, full of vitality and life’s bright energy,
The world has not yet cast its shadows on this miracle of biology,

Mother and child glow in a world drunk on darkness,
This gift to mankind, this birth makes Death hopeless.
This poem is for Sal on the birth of her nephew.
NOTE*  -  *The largest animal in Great Britain, a red stag named Emperor who stood over 9ft tall, was last night shot dead by a trophy hunter. The antlers of the majestic deer are highly prized, and after pictures of the stag appeared in the national press last week, the animal was tracked and killed in Exmoor, Devon.



These mist covered mountains of the highlands,
‘twas here that I once freely wandered upon nature’s pasture grounds,
Now I lie shrouded in the mournful fog of the lowlands,
‘twas here that I was met by a pack of bone breaking hounds.

The fresh dew upon the harvest of autumn’s final flowering,
‘twas here that I chewed the grass of sweet nature’s offering,
Now I grow cold upon the ground where I was stalked by dark doom,
‘twas here that I left life’s rocky way under a hunter’s moon.

The air of the early morn moor with the sky above my dome,
‘twas here that I ran and with joy loved and royally roamed,
Now my legs will nevermore click or clack over my domain fenced with tree gates,
‘twas here that I wooed and won my shy majestic mate.

She, my queen of the green woodlands, she was my wife and my empire,
‘twas here that we romanced in the fading summer’s fire,
Our charming child, my princess of these grassy hills now cloaked in shade,
‘twas here that she saw her father the monarch in death finally fade.

In the chorus of the dancing dawn awakening upon the horizon’s golden rhyme,
‘twas here that I sang the tune that will drum till the end of nature’s time,
They will come with stakes and wood and cross and bow me to the beams,
‘twas here where they hacked and tore off my enchanted crown of weeping dreams.

The scent of the freshly mown grass mingles with the green pine,
‘twas here that I drank the perfume and nectar of the divine,
My eyes glaze, my breathing falters, my clay chills, my soul no more sings,
‘twas here that I finally returned to the hands of my Beloved, the eternal King.

"...I shall now graze upon the sacred acres of my Creator,
I shall frolic and run free in the tender fields of endless splendour..."




©Rangzeb Hussain
Be Not Bitter in Thine Writings,
for They Be Most Wondrous Things;
Catacombious Monstrocities,
Though You May'st Conceive Them.
Words Stray'd and Pluck'd into Near-Woven Dressings,
Gone Fade with Thine Temperament—
These Things that You Shrug and Forget!—
Shall ****** Adventures unto the Intrepid,
Kind Caretakers as yet Unknown to These Days.
© 2011  J.J.W. Coyle
Perhaps the zombie,
in all his uncanniness,
is truly the definition
of asymmetrical anthropomorphism.

Perhaps the zombie,
with his slow shuffling gait,
is really the word
when it comes to unbridled determination.

And perhaps the zombie,
his hunger bottomless,
is indeed the very picture
of a man who can have it all.
© 2011  J.J.W. Coyle
Translations frequently differ;
sometimes it means
you feel good tonight.
I think of August:
strawberry sundae cups
and squash blossoms.
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