Still Gold

Once he loved her
like the day loves the sun,
their story shone
with lustful
and zested life.
They revelled in
their vital lives:
duality served,
in singular love
and caress,
upon a word
or look.

Yet now,
his stare denies
her pallid heart and
remaindered smile.
Love lives now only
in long laments
for the golden flower,
here in its final hour,
as the weld dissolves,
and the constant
becomes dissonant
once more.
He can’t recall her face.
Nor touch, nor kiss,
no moments in joy,
no days of holding,
nor needing her.
No name comes to
his lost lips,
no smile for her,
save fleeting greet,
and again retreat
to an unfilled mind.

She knows that once,
the man was hers to hold,
their flower was gold
when love filled their hearts
and minds.
With hopes forlorn that,
perhaps somewhere
in the painful voids
of her lover’s old
and crumpled mind,
a petal lies,
still gold.

Drudge Dread

Early hours of a new day born
Like falling rain on sun parched lawn
Waiting with gusto for the sun’s rich light
Gambling heaven for the end of night.
As throw of dice or the river’s turn
No hint of what until we learn
Be it the glory of beauteous lustre
Or cloud grey pall and bilious bluster.
Soon, sun comes clothed in cloudless sky
Like Kingly gown with crown on high.
Stretched out day lies new ahead
Incognisant men lie still home abed,
Until day becomes as a toddler child
Then rush began as cherub smiled.
Swarming masses wending ways
In line, instilled with lank delays
Office swiftly fills and factory swells
Sweltered to thirst which nothing quells.
Boxed and broiled beneath baking sun
Until blessed end, when work is done.
Now rush and push and shove to home
Make blood to boil and mouth to foam.
Then to garden with food to fire
Burger burned and bloody chicken dire.
Sausage scorched with undone middle
Gamble to feast or frequent hospital.
Cold beer, chilled wine, quaffed to quench
Raging thirst, in need of drench.
Soon day descends to nether night
Diminished to dark from livid light.
Till, bade to bed by blunted vigour
The morrow resigned to repeat the rigour.

The Profit Song

Like a soiled and sullied uncrowned king
The God of profit taints everything.
As a wasted Eden descends to ire
And man’s great promise is cast to fire.

Like the famine child with extant stare,
The feeble gaze of man’s despair,
As progress blooms with perfidious ease
Trailing its wake, the progress disease.

Where are we heading if we leave behind
The remnant tail of all mankind?
And how will we mark the day we arrive
With the wealthy living while the rest survive?

A highway adorned with lanes of gold,
The dystopian journey of the privileged fold.
To the gated Utopia that readies itself
For progress people with pillaged wealth.

No heaven resembles this hellish design,
No Gods within this vulgar shrine,
But contrived division of the common race.
Accept your lot, and know your place.

Grenfell Tower

time ran amok as
hurried by heaven’s rent,
over, even as hell had begun,
were they able, some
staggered to salvation,
while others, days were done.
they threw their young
into despairing night
to escape the livid flame,
screamed their pleas
to the impotent throng,
yet ignorant of their name.
their tombstone now stands
black as the night
in a tortured bright blue sky
we will mourn the lost
in the slash of fire
while we demand to answer, why?

Another Path

Social change is in our sails
This paradigm shall burn
Making today our pivot point
Our point of no return

We have tired of inequality
It is time to light the fire
We’re lining up to tear it down
Like birds upon a wire

Time is shifting ‘neath our feet
Tomorrow toward today
A world designed for everyman
Egalitarian in every way

Clockwork Inequality

The election on 8th June has the chance of making this poem obsolete.  If we return a Labour government, equality will have a new home.

Steve Pearson Poetry

Follow society’s lines they say
Step in time to step their way
Keeping your social stratum at bay
Behind the line is where you’ll stay

It’s all about the status quo
Always this and always so
Eons come and eons go
And still society’s shadows grow

This life is your bag right here
A little, little-man career
Living life in a lower gear
Shackled to your fags and beer

The race is a fait-accompli son
The prizes are already won
No need to fire a starting gun
The equality race has already run

Source: Clockwork Inequality

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Election 2017

Steve Pearson Poetry

Are we all so naive
As to meekly succumb
To the colourless new-ribbon wrapped lies?
Are we really so stupid
That we are taken in
By the Tories benevolent election disguise?
Feigning the sunshine
When they just want rain
They’ll strip us down to an outstretched palm.
While we’ve still got juice
They’ll squeeze us again
Without so much as a bastard-born qualm.
We know what to do
We know what we need
We need to put the beast back in to its cage.
Vote to reject May
Vote for an equitable UK
End her vile chapter, and start a new page.

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