Children in the fields of green
Play by morning light,
A depiction of pure innocence
Cannot, more, be right.

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Arachnidal in it's way
It preaches it's mantra
To the massed disciples
Gathered adoringly,
In the bright, bright
Political bunting.
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When old men sip their whiskey
In dark corners by the fire
Red memories float softly by
On wings of old desire.

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Menace in it's rhetoric
Invoke a tarantula's reaction....
For this is what
The adoring came to hear.
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By swinging lamp a rising gale
Cause tortured leaves to swirl
In courtyards paved and soulless
To a distant bagpipe's skirl.

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Sleek in it's element
Of gathered confidence,
Stillness in it's menaced allure,
Eight hairy black legs,
Eight black beaded eyes,
Enbalm the enraptured masses
In it's web of words....
In it's tale of twisted torment.
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Sleeping hounds in alcoves
Rouse amidst bad dreams
For the Gods of causal legacy
Diverge from what now seems.

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The Assassin strikes
The tarantula rears back
In massive defence....
Fangs bared,
Talons raised in fury.
Angry invective of outrage,
Screeching arachnidal fury.
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The crowd applaudes,
Despite the fear,
The crowd applauds
Cheering on
The fighting outrage
Of it's idol
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A panic in the battlements
Humanity in flight,
Chaos as the shots are fired
Red blood now in sight.

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Wounded it retreats
To the sanctury
Of a tangle
Of Secret Service arms and legs
And the refuge
Of an armoured limosine.
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Harsh questions quash reality
Considerations die,
Those discords to disharmony
Now shred a burning sky.

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Writhing in tarantular outrage
But safe
And wearing the bloodied cheek
Like a flag.....
In front of live television
Broadcaste,
Immediately worldwide ???
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AND BY GOD......
WHAT AN ELECTORAL COUPE
TODAY HAS BEEN....
IN PENNSYLVANIA!!!
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Tomorrows order, lost to ruin
As cursed as the plague,
Discarded ****** vanquishment
Intangible and vague.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

The flute
evokes the rites
The pipes the pain
Long standings
in a winters rain
so ends
his reign

Some people
are buried
some are flamed
Some we raise
our glass unto
and drink to fame

We sink
our hopes
and shed our tears
and like little children
we face our fears

auld lang syne

When it’s my turn to be reaped
- as I know it someday will be
- let my final, earthly verse be poetry.
Let the vast heavens weep,
may my wake not be cheap,
and peace be upon my coterie.

He stands, mocking, full of his worth
and crowned by stinging opinion
He’s won. By one.
‘Not even one whole point’ I want to say
to everyone - ‘by a rounding error.’

We rejoice in wooden dialogue
snaps are fired, content is captured
I feel ridiculous and awkward

As the great pageant ends,
he leans in, in a hugging action
but I will not grow dainty with this - prince
- and I step out of his hands
"Seriously?” I mumble, shivering.