Gods Of The Field

We’ve been here before: a pregnant state
Heavy with the fug of tribal weight
The midst of attack amid sanguine cry
Carried on wind with lust to die

Marched to battle like castrati soldiers
Carrying the team on castrati shoulders
Wet from the clash, with booze and juice
We cry and scream diffuse abuse

Screaming the team to the other’s box
Baying for players to pull up their socks
Till, when battle ends we decamp to homes
Defeat or glory in our warrior bones

Thus annals writ once in feuding fields
With bloodied swords and beaten shields
Now scribed for men and footed ball
In bloodless war and endless thrall.


End of Days

Agin the whispered worried haze
amid the anguished hurried days
in the eye of a promulgated storm
sits a man of determined norm

The story starts like the scribbled line
of sudden words with hurried rhyme
and as all stories must turn a final page
lights must dim as we leave the stage

Days descend to unbidden sorrow
yesterdays give way to tomorrow
painful days are given their whiles
sudden tears become sudden smiles

Fast Forward

Am I being
When I say
Childhood should not be
A rehearsal of adult life
Dressed like a football wife
Or a boy gangsta
I ask you
Shouldn’t a child look
Upon the world
And see wonder there
Not their favourite singer
In their underwear
Twerk aware
Practising their own
Twerking to their mobile phone
Childhood outgrown
A pop star clone


Diary Of The Close-minded

Thought-police like to see
The world upon a stick
They do discern
That you need to learn
To be more thought-police(ish) centric

Heaven help the independent
Contra-viewing “fools”
Who don’t conform
To the “accepted norm”
Of the thought-police(ish) rules

Come the outrage revolution
Independent thought be done
Dissent be damned
You’ll be programmed
At the barrel of a righteous gun


The Test of Men

Man against man, willow on ball,
One by one by one they fall,
Or blade ascends to take the day
And stays the end till end of stay.
Willow swoops to despatch leather,
As blade and bowled ball come together.
To boundary races the swatted cherries,
As fielding men chase runs it carries.
Then ball takes turn to rule the clash
In clattered stumps and willow thrash
Or nicked to glove or legs before
Or ball to hand or myriad more.
Malevolent threat of fast bowled swing
Which rises to throat as if on wing
Or black art spin betwixt magic and style
Which turns and leaps, lost men to beguile.
Like gladiatorial pair in battle’s thrall
With shield of blade and weapon of ball
The smite, the strike, the dodged full flow,
The smile to rile the game long foe.
Still yet the hostilities erupt and flare
In intense contest and stony stare
Around the ground the baying throng
Incite to greatness in partisan song.
This, when days have numbered five
Man to man an end they strive
And win they must should legend stand
Of bat to ball and ball to hand.


Soldier Boy

Beautiful baby boy, borne of love aside their tree
Dreamed of, now beheld, now as loved as loved can be
Primitive the bond upon the fresh made family formed
To each the other affirm the life new baby has adorned.

Then baby becomes soon the boy just about to stride
First to fall, caught by mother, with father by her side.
Soon to walk, soon to talk, soon to run and play
Soon to sit by parents side, hours to while away.

Dreams begin upon the boy’s adventurous designs
He marches to imagined tunes towards imagined lines
Mummy calls her little soldier to table filled with fare
He tells his tales of heroic deeds played out upon the air

Daddy fills the son with pride in days of play together
In many ways, in games, in fun, in every kind of weather
His father’s son, he grows upon every wise and loving word
So, nurtured to his confidence, made proud by what he heard

Now grown and strong all too soon the boy becomes the man
Yet mother sees her little soldier as the baby that began,
And breaks her heart to see him take a uniform and gun.
Brave and bold, the soldier man, still his parent’s son.

To distant war he sojourns for a life the boy did yearn
Despite her prayers, the mother’s son never will return.
Mummy’s little soldier lies, on foreign fields with pain and fear,
Dreaming of the home he left, a million miles from here.

To bury the child the father steels himself against his sorrow
Lest his loss and painful ire defeats him in the morrow
While mother sits in silence, her little soldier boy to mourn
Still she sees in her mind’s eye, the boy, as he was born.


Repainting Liberty

Maybe we just, misunderstood
That the gun was cocked and loaded
Missed the signs we were losing blood
As our humanity was being eroded
An enraptured growth of poisonous self
Trampled justice and social inclusion
As a nation’s need for commonwealth
Disappeared beneath the bigot’s illusion
Rhetoric ascends to its throne of thorns
Truth bleeds on the horns of despair
Bigotry rejoices while humanity mourns
The victory parades of a vile billionaire