Beneath horse hair flax a wretched creature stirs,
off the well marched blood stained tracks
beyond the ***** ale soaked house,
The Scarer wakes with field mouse.

The dust of bones that fell in France
was scattered here to bring advance
to farmers field and heavy plough,
The Dead are churned to feed us now.

A soldiers ******* boy who no Mother ever mourns
another blasted Cannon, another Empire Dawn,
his clapper claps to scare the birds
Each clattered beat drowns out his words.

Across these patchwork Jaded Hills
an echo gently whispers still,
of all the voices never heard
Drowned out by time to scare a bird.

These shores kissed now by poison lips
that speak of only love,
her mountains green ne’er trod by feet
sent here by God above.

Vexatious tongues rebuild her walls
and drown all those opposed,
that so each silenced thought destroyed
be as a coffin closed.

While men still talk of Nations
and plot with word and deed,
they anoint their aspirations
with blood of those who bleed.

Like outposts of Empire
with synchronised obedience,
instincts are embedded
every command unseen, unheard, but done.

People flee toward and from them
in blind eyed hope,
but they are mere reflections
of remote entangled entities,

engaged and yet repellant.

Giant men shake hands
tectonic plates shift, foundations shake.
Little people reach for each other
and fractures knit together.

Like Kubrick’s femur tossed by apes
our existence evolves and spins,
In time will it fall to dust from where it came?
to lie extinct between two poles.

While Starlings sketch the sky
you my love are gone
they fall and swoop to cloud my eye
and you my love are gone

The pier is thrashed by wave on wave
no pulsing swell will bring you home
unchained from hope yet still a slave
and slave to it alone

A thousand lovers pass me by
unnoticed in the throng
not one of them would e’re know why
I’m lost where I belong

As a younger man he had taken the cloth
had sold his humanity to God
had blessed babies and crossed the dying
had given assurances of eternity
and peace to those for trying

He had been a good father
a passable husband
he had wandered to and from his flock
but mostly he had held fast
and built his house upon the rock

He sat in a pool of his own ****
and was manhandled by ungentle hands
forgetting how to pray he cursed those he had led
in communion he forgave them
as they broke his bones for bread

O father my father your father
forgive us what we do
and I will pray to unknown gods
and beg
that they remember you

https://wolfgarwords.com/2018/07/23/vicar-with-dementia-in-a-pool-of-his-own-****/

And I noticed the folds of the silken wings
had blended with the Oaken bark,
as one they formed natures pillow
both dead, yet comforting to my fractured mind.

Slumbering my memories carried me above the sheltering canopy,
they shook me in my dreaming yet still the lumber held me firm,
it’s rotten boughs forgave my fall
and Angels wings embraced me there.

In the forest of my darker days I lost my soul,
when all that could revive me was the pulsing heart of earth.
I was a knotted life lost in a womb,
yet from that depth of darkness to here I came.

https://wolfgarwords.com/2018/07/22/beyond-the-dark-wood/

Take these eyes that I may not see
the harm that went before,
and take this tongue which silently
withholds the words of war,

yet screams within a fractured mind
where only I can hear,
the terrors that were left behind
so far away but ever near.

Take my hands and wash them clean
of flesh tainted by blood,
that in the night they might un-claw
and grip some peace instead of war,

and please take my heart and fill it full
with all the things I lost,
that somehow might replace in me
all I spent to pay this cost.

From brisance condensed in hatred
ignition came,
like the dormant dust of ages,
from careless words and truth-less history,
it came.

Some unknown, immolated, evaporated, disappeared.
Others reconstituted, pulling limbs and minds together.
Whilst the lost fragmented to darker corners,
into the splintered flash of a moment, screaming for eternity.

Thunder roars silent in their dead ears.

The grey carpet laid randomly where it fell,
its fabric now woven into mine.

I wait for the second wave
to wash me clear,
away from the expanding storm,
to an untouched atoll.

In beautiful decrepitude
the structure stands bereft and crude

through windows cobwebbed and curtain’s torn
it gazes down where dust was lawn

the slated roof now patched with fern
its chimney stacks that once did burn

are housing rats that left the ship
but never quite abandoned it

and often when the Sun breaks through
it warms the rooms where love was true

and in that light see grandeur rise
where once the ruin beguiled eyes

How proud the branches stood in spring
pink and bare with youth,
Un-leafed till then yet billowing
with natures un-spoke truth

that time will pass and weigh them down
with summer ripened jewels,
while all of earth might spin around
though never shed its fools.

Mary had a little lamb
it was a Caesarean delivery,
its conception was even stranger
in a barn under stars up against a manger.

On pudding lane with a pocket full of Posies
little Jack Horner
was last seen on a corner,
he slipped into whispers
and pulled out a plum,
Rumplestiltskin did cartwheels
as he strangled Tom Thumb.

Little Red Riding
when lulled by the wolf
lowered her hood and twinkled her eye,
her ginger bread biscuit crumbled to dust
and all the Kings men could ne’er reason why.

So fairy tale this and fairy tale that
trick all the rabbits you pull from your hat
for all of the things that remain unexplained
make up a story
and give it a name.

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Dogs on cobbled hobs
warmed by early Sun,
their owners folded into news
of things in flux and things to come.

In sleepy hope the town awakes
its people’s heart beats anew,
though leaving slow my own does break
to be just passing through.

They throw in Drummer Lee-Rigby,
To bleed.
Un-defended, just as culled.

His landmark a rain washed gutter,
Which flushes the detritus of human living into a divisive Thames. 
The cities true testament to multiculturalism.

Young Lee-Rigby never knew fresh from his red rose home,
That the pride of his life would out live that day, and be left to his boyhood alone.

And why up-rose to nightly unrest,
White boys with hate unleashed in their breast.

Yet portion of that well-trod street
Will Lee-Rigby forever be,
From blooded tarmac to fiery melee.
From hate filled night,
To grief filled day.

The death of a forgotten land,
And a scarlet line drawn in their sand.

Happily departed
decomposing gently,
from head to toe its started
the rot comes compartmentally.

The soul is in the ether
released from earthly bounds,
no gravity to keep her
the laws of physics she confounds.

What release, what haven
in this state of absolution?
for those who lived so craven
by religions codes unproven.

Let not the stone be rolled away,
let Lazarus sleep long,
for flesh and soul are wrenched today
to realms where they belong.

© Wolfgar 3/2018