The Deep State of Fear
First it was the Devil and his minions beseiging us,
And then it was the Cath’lics and the Pope –
After them the Masons with their fingers in the pies,
And then the Jews would steal away all hope –
And don’t forget the Communists, the baby-eating Communists,
To polish up the ever-slipp’ry slope –
Today’s we blame the media, tomorrow blame the nanobots,
But do we ever blame ourselves ? Hell, nope !
From Eden to Creation
Knowledge has always a dangerous gleam,
And there in the Garden, that treacherous Snake
Would tempt and corrupt with so cunning a scheme –
To lead the naive from this Heaven to harm,
For fog to be lifted and dawning to break,
To shatter these shackles of innocent calm.
But Eve bit the apple for humankind’s sake,
For what the Lord fears is what humans can take –
Just give us an inkling, just chance us an arm,
The glimpse of a theory, the trace of a wake,
The hint of a sequence, the ghost of a theme,
The scent of a notion, the birth of a dream,
We’ll bend it and twist it and pick at its seam,
And build it and test it and lay bare its charm,
Till genome and quantum are held in our palm.
Aerialatrix
Skyla McLeod, her parents named her,
Hoped to shoot her to the top –
Alas, the ev’ryday has claimed her,
Clipped her wings and let her drop.
She’s just a loser in the sky,
Although she knows it’s all a mock –
For now she only reaches high
By living in a tower block.
Skyla McLeod in her fairy-tower,
Watching the tiny people go,
Pretending that she has the power
To interrupt their to-and-fro.
But still, her life is not so grim,
When comes her prince, at the end of his shift –
Then she’ll let down her hair for him,
And he’ll ascend (though in the lift).
The Land of Nod
Faith is like sleeping.
What dreams we conceive there
We always believe there,
Where no doubt may creep in.
But be not mistaken
By heavenly seemings
And wishful sweet-dreamings;
It’s time to awaken.
As Genesis 4:16 informs us, Nod is located on the East of Eden.
The Testament of Vacuum
But there is no loving god, my friends,
There is no final judge to make amends.
My friends, there is no loving god.
There never is, there never will be, never was –
For all there ever is, is us –
But who then cares ? Well, no-one does,
We are all the love that there can ever be.
We are both the saviour and the deity –
Formed in our own image and desire,
Because, before he ever was, we are.
Gods’ Breath
Cry out your name to the wind,
As it gathers and flies,
Let it carry your name on its wing
To the edge of the skies.
Cry out your name to the wind,
And the wind replies –
“I am Aneurin, I am Belinda,
The unseen and wise.
Now I am Cormac, blowing, blowing,
Davina rising, Ezra free –
Soon to be Fortune, waiting, growing –
Filling the sails at mill and sea.
I am the storm and the maelstrom twinned,
The harbinger-bringer, the hurricane eyes !”
So cry out your name to the wind,
And your name shall rise.
The Memory of Woods
Ashes to ashes
And ashes to beeches,
Ashes wherever
The passing breeze reaches,
To scatter and nourish
The bluebells and oaks,
Whose branches are neighbours
And flowers are folks.
Ashes have grown
And ashes have fallen,
But not before raising
Their saplings from pollen –
We sleep with the ivy
And grow with the lime,
Whose roots are in mem’ry,
And crowns are in time.
A Litter of Angels
And if I ask, she might commence
To stroll with me upon the croft,
And though I know she’s happy hence
To never cross our friendship’s fence,
I pray she’ll learn how much I wish I’d doffed
My shy concern, and share those eyes so soft –
And with this burn, I call on Providence
That we may chance discern
to glimpse that fabled herd aloft.
For surely must her ’mazement form
As pigs come gliding from the west,
And may she gape in wonder warm
As grunting gammons flock and swarm.
Atop the trees, the sows are in the nest.
Upon the breeze, the shoats are cherubs blest –
Such hogs she sees ! These razorbacks in storm
Shall rend her heart’s decrees
and forge sublime within her breast.
And ev’ry time their trotters pound
For ham-thrust launch, so ardour springs.
And ev’ry volant-piglet’s sound
Of flapping brings such sighs profound.
These airborne swine, these porkers shot from slings,
These boars divine, these swooping, free-range kings,
Such hope they mine when soaring heaven-bound –
These aeronauts porcine
shall speed her love on bacon wings.
Corona Borealis
“Come and let me love you, let me gaze upon your face,
Stranded on this lonely isle makes folly of such grace –
You shall wear my coronet, to sparkle in their eyes.
Naxos is no place for you, but up there in the skies.”
So promised Dionysus unto Ariadne fair
As she took his hand in marriage and his crown upon her hair.
After all these years marooned, this prison with no bars,
A wine-god comes to save her and to place her in the Stars.
Alas, first came Orion with his hounds and bovine foe,
Then Perseus and Hercules with entourage in tow,
And Booties and the Argo with their own supporting acts
Left precious little room up there for third-rate myths and hacks.
So only Ari’s crown could then be squeezed between those hunks.
The moral: never trust upon the promises of drunks.
Pride & Vanity
If Gluttony is diff’rent enough from Avarice
To warrant a sin of its own,
Then how is Vanity denied ?
Is Gluttony not simply greed
Of a specialist and ravenous kind ?
And yet it claims to need a sep’rate plus-size Deadly bride.
So a fascination with one’s looks – why, surely this
Is sin enough to stand alone ?,
Wanton in its slow and catwalk stride.
Is Vanity not a diff’rent breed
Than mastery of the hand and mind ?
She needs to fight for a Sin of herself, an Eighth on par with Pride.
Some would add-in treachery and cowardice –
And lo, our list has grown
With these bonus sins we haven’t tried –
For ev’ry virtuous life we lead,
There’s even more to leave behind,
And takes us ever further from our short and handy guide.
Perhaps, when staring into the grim Abyss,
It’s not the time to tut and moan
At just which name should be applied.
But if there really is a need
To see these twins be redefined –
“I Am” belongs to Vanity, “I Can” belongs to Pride.
Of course – each deadly and elicit bliss
To which our mortals souls are prone
Is coupled with a better side –
A saving, which has been decreed
To counteract such moral grind –
Is Scruffiness a virtue, then ? That seems undignified.
But honestly, the whole thing seems amiss –
If anything, this thought has shown
How Vanity is quite cock-eyed.
Yet still she struggles to succeed
To stand alone, not left behind,
As proudly Vain – and thus of course she’s still consumed by Pride.
Rhyming Couplets 