"evangelistic" poems
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right
A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay
He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown
Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound
A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives
He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes
He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw
He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
Hidden deep in the galley at sea far from the front
Washing pans and floors and sometimes onions
Never a shot fired at nor its distanced boom heard
Now proudly badged, poor, unemployed, a veteran
Strutting in the town square openly carrying
Seeing fear and respect in mocking eyes
And gratitude in sneering smiles and sarcastic lips
But utter despair and pity to those that truly loved
Now old, lonely, far from those who once cared
Sharing truths on the net when away from Facebook jail
And calling out fake news with evangelistic fervour
But touch Trump, and even jihadists cow before his ferocity
Oct 13, 2021
Oct 13, 2021 at 7:14 AM UTC
Beside and beyond
the tabernacle
(evangelistic not catholic)
was one of the biggest
bombsites to explore
more ruins to climb
more places
to hide and seek
and you showed Helen
around the place
finding a way through
the wooden hoardings
put up to keep kids out
and she stood
gaping around
and said
gosh isn’t it big
and to think
that people lived here
and maybe died here
and she clutched
her doll Battered Betty
in her arm protectingly
and you with your catapult
in the back pocket
of your jeans
showed her
into what was left
of a house
climbing the wooden stairs
one wall missing
blown away
the sky visible
through the hole
in the roof
and she in her flowered
washed out dress
climbed gingerly
behind you
talking about what
her mother might say
if she knew
saying how her mother
would wag her finger
at her and say
don’t go in those bombsites
they are dangerous
in one room
was a lopsided picture
still hanging
and there
in the wooden floor
a gaping hole
showing the cellar
two storeys below
she gripped your hand
with hers her other hand
clutching Betty
pressed tight
to her chest
and she said
what would
your mother say
if she knew
you were here?
she won’t
you said
what she don’t know
will do her good
less to worry about
and from the top room
of the house
you could see
the tabernacle
in the early morning sun
feel the sunlight
seeping through
on your face
and Helen said
she was scared
and could you go down
and so you went
back down the stairs
she gripping you tight
Betty hanging
by one hand to Helen
the smell of dust
and old tramp’s ***
and damp wood
and bricks
and London still there
despite old Hitler’s tricks
with bombs and fire
for you to wander
and explore
and taking Helen
carefully
went out the door.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
The look, true care
The definitive act
Lies not in mere gaze,
But in deep-seated passion,
Fostering emitted forgiveness.
Evangelistic and empathic.
A mind in love counts no pebbles.
It connects its concern
Sensitive and deliberate
It drags still a cord
Of compassion along.
The wavelength of patience
Uninterrupted by hasty conjecture.
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 6:20 AM UTC