Pausing briefly, gathering further instruction
The evil Eye of Baar reflects
Upon a memory, near complete conception.
With all hearing soul and forming sensors
The evil Eye of Baar absorbs
Only pertinent waves from its passive donors.
Passing shadows, focusing hard detail
The evil Eye of Baar perceives
Enough truth to know how not to fail.
Come the distant death and lengthening span
The evil Eye of Baar flaunts
Just future birth to compliment an evil plan.
Plans shaped, Spontaneity becoming colder
The evil Eye of Baar warms
To eventual visions and power growing bolder.
Sold on tyrannical tactics and plotted course
The evil Eye of Baar dims
To possible defeat and attack to its source.
Intuition dying, reflex receded by design
The evil Eye of Baar succumbs
Unlike mortals, helpless in death, forced to resign.

Where is the answer ?
When will you be told ?
By yourselves you will never solve the problem
You will only increase the problem.
Left to your own devices
Your problem will destroy you.
And after your destruction may come your answer.
Take heed you cynics,
From one, already destroyed by the problem, who had seen,
With blind eyes,
The gravity of the situation.
Individually release your weapons
And collectively you will be shown
That mankind’s greed cannot be conquered
By mankind alone.

I once had dreams, they wanted answers,

I once asked questions, I wanted answers,

For a logical mind I had to know why,

Answers were everything, I had to try.

　

Travel a paper trail in a digital world,

Some invisible trail in a fantasy world,

I saw people, all in a line,

I saw people, they all looked fine.




I was down so quick, I was down so far,

I was down too long, I was down too far.

There was almost exanquination,

There was little explanation.



Those long distance voices, voices of past,

Proved their worth, forever they last,

Ride to redemption,

Bittersweet race for one dog boss.



Thirty two days and most were a blur

Tube in my throat, dream people, soft edges,

Ran downhill, past lots of people, Benson wouldn’t let me back in,

They were real – in my dream.


I find it harder to swallow, easier to chew,

If Benson were here she’d know what to do.

I find it harder to choose, easier to see,

If Benson were here she’d know you from me.


I find it harder to write, easier to cry,

If Benson were here she’d know why,

Ride to redemption,

Bittersweet race for my lost soul.

The children are lost
And sadly to their cost
Are very quickly tossed
On life’s mountainous scrap heap.

What chances have they
To ever say
I don’t want to stay
On life’s mountainous scrap heap.

Without a voice
Or even a choice
They can never rejoice
On life’s mountainous scrap heap.

Very soon they’ll see
There is no key
To set them free
Of life’s mountainous scrap-heap

A short life they’ve had
And how very sad
To think they will add
To deaths mountainous scrap heap.

By the slightest margin we cheat death
But if we fall beneath
What shall we find ?
People of our kind ?
Answer no, souls in forms we haven’t seen
Coming from places where we haven’t been
Doing things we haven’t done
Having things we call fun.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die
I prefer to live, even if it is a lie
But when the time comes I’ll be prepared
To stand and see how I’ve faired
Whilst living, to assess my place
For eternity, wrapped in immortal grace.

Everything I saw amazed me,

I had become the reluctant crusader,

sifting through mud and mail.

　

Gone, without the grimace,

sore eyes saw

real money from a dying hand.

　

The Cheng ** had sailed to Malaku Island;

amidst stacked stone columns,

questions linger with dinosaurs gone.

　

All that is left for you

will be artillery & rhetoric,

my thrill to the world.

　

Take my Princess down,

she won't wait while comfort wanes,

and dormant creatures rise.

　

The priceless adventure of youth begins

where the legacy of leadership ends,

and stars trust her with their fantasies.



© christhamF  2010

Everything I heard amazed me,

The treasure fleet's sixty two ships,

commanded by a powerful ******.

　

Gone, he was captured,

he was castrated,

three jewels, from a dying Prince.

　

The Cheng ** had sailed from Malaku Island;

sight of flags, sound of bells,

guided them to Calicut.

　

Deny the social scientist,

cultural baggage prevails,

abstract freedom, kindling of change.

　

Moaning monsoon winds linger,

the allure of sparkling moons wax,

and dormant black seas swell.

　

The noble adventure of death begins,

where the legacy of leadership ends,

and stars trust him with their thoughts.



© christhamF   2011

Highway Heart
Mobile Replacement Specialists,
Exchange and Mart
‘Phone for personal quote.

Highway Heart
Can offer you Life,
By renewing That Part
With a razor sharp Knife.

Highway Heart
Buy and Sell,
For the sake of Art
Sometimes never tell.

Highway Heart
When you begin to Fade,
We’ll give you a new Start
Never mind who paid.

You're not in my computer,

But you are on my screen,

So if I type that I love you

You know what I mean.


You're not in my house,

But you are in my room,

So if I type that I hold you,

It's to brighten my gloom.


You're not in my garden,

But you are in my flowers,

So if I type that I watch you,

It's for hours and hours.


You're not in my radio,

But you are in my song,

So if I type that I need you,

It's because we belong.


You're not in my body,

But you are in my whole,

So if I type that I want you,

You are holding my soul.

Why can’t I
Enjoy myself
With time for leisure
Why can’t I
Be bothered
With those mundane tasks
Why can’t I
Be satisfied
Surrounded by material things
Why can’t I
Return love
To One so precious
Why can’t I
Be sure
Of finding the missing piece
Why can’t I ?

Hard river you never smile at me,
but I don't cry,
two thousand hearts held back a tear,
but I don't try.
You always play my game,
never hear the loud voices
of ritual and ridicule.
never even bothered to look for him,
Given up hope of seeing
the soothing hell fires.
It was a cold, dull morning,
But there must have been a warning.
Wrong time on the clock,
That's the trouble
when they tick but never tock.
They can use their hands
for other work,
Grab at the throat
with spasmodic ****.
The last of a kind,
scarred by being trapped
Life-rock for some, Alarming ignorance,
Obsession will come, Sweet sensation.



©  christhamF Jul. '11

You came home
At ten past midnight
Drunk again.
You were rude and abusive
And violently sick,
Again.
You have embarrassed me quite enough
Now
Is the time for me to teach you a few lessons
To show you how
Lucky you are to have a nice home
Filled with comfortable furniture,
Lucky you are to have a devoted family,
Lucky to have a well paid job,
Lucky to have ……..
……..Anything
Yes, that’s what I’ll tell him,
If he’ll listen.

Blue grass, Red trees,
Black sun shines with ease,
Everything is changing size
What’s wrong with my eyes ?

Silent earth, still space,
Loud sun shines with grace,
Everything is noiseless fears
What’s wrong with my ears ?

Dry water, rough air,
Smooth sun shines with care,
Everything is shifting sands
What’s wrong with my hands ?

Senses right, no mistaking,
New sun shines without faking,
Nothing’s wrong, feel no pain,
Shine on perfect sun.

Something is happening to the human race,
Some epidemic is to blame.
Something no-one wants to face
Unless they’re making money or fame.
Although reams have been written
No words will help the smitten

Grown out of stress or strife
Social Disease, better known as madness,
Can strike anyone, anytime in their life.
Twisting their “normality” into maniacal sadness.
Or obsessions for ***, Drugs, Power or War
They’re obsessed from outside deep to the core.

Like a malignant cancer madness covers
Not only those held by an institutional chain,
But people who are susceptible, and others
Who, not believing, think they’re perfectly sane.
Therefore spawning maniacs out of all conception.

We should focus that blind eye
And remove that cancer by cutting it out.
Releasing the obsessed and exposing the lie.
We owe ourselves that much beyond all doubt.
Because we know sufferers
We also know sufferers victims.

I cannot copy the finest strokes of your artists loving hand,
I may not see the minute detail of what maybe his best portrayal,
I may not even understand that the pastel colours matched his moods.
And
Even without fine strokes, minute detail and pastel colours,
His expression remains vivid, captured on a canvas long since yellowing.
But I saw your face in the crowd,
High above the rest.
I saw your loneliness chased away,
By conversation.
I saw your smile, just as the artist painted it,
And I glimpsed your face in the crowd.
I heard you steal a walk through the valley
Of fine strokes, minute detail and pastel colours.
I heard you steal a walk through the valley,
Away from the crowd, away from my eyes.
I cannot follow you lest you fade forever,
I cannot steal a walk through the valley.
But I did see your face in the crowd.

Imagine an empty tower block,
High on hill, taking stock.
Watching us meandering by
Through each and every uncaring glass eye.
It knows that its usefulness has past
And a higher tower will be cast.
All that's left is fate worse than death
But wait, could this be new living breath ?
No, just a stay of execution
That alone is no solution.
After this and every fight
They daub their messages clear and bright.
When the demolition proper does begin
There is one hope to which we cling,
When we have reached our three score years and ten
There’ll be no one to degrade us then !

Word by Word
Verse by Verse
The lyrics of life
Are softly penned.

Note by Note
Bar by Bar
The tunes of battle
Are gently hummed.

Sentence by Sentence
Chapter by Chapter
The book of mistakes
Is quietly read.

I wonder Who wrote the lyrics
Or hummed the tunes
I know I’ll find out
When I’ve read the book

Within a mere winds wisp
from the henge,
It stands, majestic.
Built by calloused hands,
Of stone pillar, carved
By centuries of raging Usk,
to rise above Isca Silurum.
The cambion desires and dreams,
Realised by this last enchantment.

Within a mere winds wisp
from the henge,
It falls, forlorn.
Razed by calloused hands,
To jealous rocks, wasted
By centuries of cooling Usk,
to lay beside Isca Silurum.
Staring at catherderal skies
over nights of firefly summer.

Two jacks, used.
I forgive my Camelot.