To Her

An Australian in London ~ a poem ~

I delved into that great cesspool like Doyle said
Where a queue is my forever amongst the boxes red
Where the bleating honk of horns was the music to their beat

And every cobbled pathway walked by a thousand foreign feet.

No one here is sacred to my soul and space

No one will remember this millionth fleeting face -

That is like the sand of time upon this British shore

That the waves of years will wash away forevermore.

Boxed in by iron rails and deep in clipped mistrust
This whirlpool of accents oils down my coloniser's rust
Until proudly, in grandiose tones I can say -
"I navigated the underground by myself today."

Piled upon each other, people have no outward fear
That the other's deepest secrets they could always hear
But British moral forbids them to every really mention
Anything beyond a polite acquiescence to attention.

Soft green are the fields of this blessed land I rome
But still my heart yearns for the parching dust of home -
I will water my wilderness until is flows as a sunlit spring,
And then of my land, this choir boys will finally sing.

Two Kingdoms ~ a poem

Source

A ode to the few true match sellers I have been privileged to know

I once lived on Kingdom Street and used to walk its path

As I made my daily journey into the worldly wise

And on either side, speaking brimstone and oncoming wrath

Where the match sellers trying to offer their little fires.

Their lights were bright, their voices were crying aloud

And one by one, they struck and lit the matches before me

They were but a performance to the disinterested crowd

For their desire to sell made them absurd to see.

They danced before me every single raining day –

Telling me of how this little light could change my soul

They lit and flung the drowning matches into my fixed way

While they spoke to me of fires, and lamps and coal.

They lit bright fireworks to blaze upon our dark sky

They wrote songs like the tavern lyrics we sang each night

And yet while they sang to me of a life both bright and dry –

Their houses behind them were devoid of warmth and light.

The windows had once seen some golden sunrise but forgot

The doors were muddy from their own damp tavern shoes

For the light was not there in deed, but only thought

The only warmth these people gave was to wooden pews.

To strike the matches to their own lamps never crossed a mind

For what real part ever had this day with their night?

In their choices, they were the blind leading on the blind

Their kingdom had no place for this intrusive light.

What if it shone upon the places best kept deep and dark?

What if it urged them toward a greater, martyred goal? 

What if their lives became a bonfire to this immortal spark?

And what if they were called upon to pay the final toll?

No, it was far better to sell this brightness quickly on

Then ever engage its pure practice upon themselves

They disapproved of our beautifully perverse Babylon

But they wanted to live in our world, not us by ourselves.

There were other match sellers on that fateful street

And they were mocked by all who passed them by

For they did not shout and dance, only quietly entreat

That they might show us the reasons why to buy.

Their backs bore the mark of another’s heavy lash

Their hands were those of a soldier’s, fighting long at war –

They did not stand together in a pile of smoking ash

But held alone one glowing torch before an open door.

The stained glass glowed stranger than any rocket’s glare

And the candles lit the rooms for all inside to see

There was indeed human weakness and old evil there

But it was painted on the walls, a portrait of who they used to be.

I watched, as painfully, they lit another lamp to consume

The dark, and heard the mocking jeers of the sentimentalist,

“Light not the side issues, our only purpose is their impending doom –

If you care that much, then here! The mark of the fundamentalist!”

For many years I watched them both as I walked their way

And saw a heritage rising strong before my eyes

For many children stood in the doorways of the day

And yet pattering feet soon left the homes of harsh cries

To seek out warmth and light, they ran to Our Woman’s arms –

Babylon the Great welcomed them with a luster never known

For unlike their parents, she could read their palms

She saw that their hunger, she could feed to make Her own.

And in the doorways of the light, silhouettes there stood

That few were changed through many passing years

The souls that left departed as they would

But few they were, and forever mourned with bitter tears.

For to the third and fourth generations of those who loved Him

To those who truly burnt for the torch could not help but light

Those little ones following on behind them

To also burn themselves alive in pure, flaming fight.

One day I could not help but stop, and ask one bent old man –

“What is the reason for this light? This light your grandson is holding there?

Sell to me, I wish to know if, indeed, there is a greater plan –

You are the reason that I have stopped, by the mark you bear.”

The old man’s brand shone with pride another world must give

While his scars dimly mirrored greater ones above

He drew me close, and lit my match, “My son, you live!

We here, we burn and struggle in true testament of love.”

“For if this world keeps turning, we must turn along with it

And seek out souls to guide them to the Way

These matches in our hearts must be forever lit

By the actions that we make, and the words we must say.

And if we do not light our lamps with the words we sell

Then how can we ever halt this sun in its flaming sky?

Unless we struggle to a great goal, never shall they tell

That we change the course of nations by the dark we all defy.”

I am a Black Cloud

Posting this here as I highly doubt that this would be ever publishable in a poetry magazine due to the worldview that writing can often betray/faithfully portray.

I AM A BLACK CLOUD

I am a black cloud in the rainbow storm

I am the cool rain in the deathly warm

I am the falling gently down your back

And not the cusp of gold you lack.

I am the floating true above you

Brought by how the wind blew

I am blowing the sky to shreds –

We are the wind the rainbow dreads.

I am the storm the violet fears

I am the water of sweet salty tears

That washes the earth from far away

And cleanses the sins of yesterday.

The rainbow needs me to shine

Or what would they take of mine?

The rainbow needs the Sun to glow –

But He brings the winds to blow.

I am a black cloud to weep for you

I am fleeting, I am through –

But I am of the storm everlasting –

We will water the earth from fasting.

Tightrope

Feet treading mute on thin will

I fell, and hit the net below –

To dance that dance, my ledger nill

For my pain – no gain to show.

They told me the ropes constrained me

They said it was Lucifer who fell

Called blind so as not see –

Fear as running blood within their shell.

Weighty their yoke upon my head

To tread that tightrope of time

Equal parts both joy and dead –

A marionette of the strings of mime.

Let your feet still limp on single strands

I will traverse the sky on a net of stars

My feet will tread through promised lands

My freedom bound in a rope burn’s scars.

Lucifer fell because he was proud

Too proud to tread the firmament below

And you – too cowed, you follow the crowd

Too proud – their threads your status quo.

I fell so that the noose slipped away

Tightropes – they turn us to prey

But heaven forbid I speak words true –
Lucifer is holding the strings that bind you.

SK Downes 

~ An Ode to my Generation ~

Some scribblings recently found in the back of an old notebook. Not Byron or even remotely good, but it make me laugh to read it again.

Oh young woman, on the corner's street,

Why does your laugh sound so fake?

Your eyes be long with blackened paint

Your hair be straight, of unnatural make

You squark and strut like that rooster's mate

With ruffled feathers and an injected hide- 

You are like the chickens stuffed with paste

That at my grocery store are daily fried

And consumed, as part of Sunday lunches

Devoured by culture with many munches

Meat broken off and bones thrown away-

My dear, is that not you today?

The Returning of a Child

Source

The Returning of a Child

The old man sat alone by hearth, hunched toward the ground,

While his voice softly rumbled and his forehead deep and frowned

"Where are all the children? Why don't they come and see?

I've been all alone for years- what has become of me?"

"For I know I am a simple man, but still I would have thought

That an old man is a father, and a father's love is wrought

Through years and tears of guidance, and is not turned away

By an easily made decision - 'Oh, we'll go another day.' "

"I know I love this country and they have moved far on

The city, it has called them, and now I am forlorn

They've traded in their bushman's blood and it has served them well

But still I wish they'd ride these tracks and help me trees to fell."

But on the fire crackled, and no one did reply

Only the old sheepdog raised its head and gave a sigh

And the wind, it howled harshly and rattled through the pane

While the old man kept on sitting and the clouds began to rain.

The hours ticked by slowly, and hope began to fade

So the old man rose up slowly and on the pillow his head laid

"Lord, if you be listening, please send one home tonight

I've never asked you much - I beg, look upon my plight."

It wasn't till the morning when the cock began to crow

That hoof prints quickly thudded and packed the falling snow

And through the morning glow, a horse came into sight

Carrying a man, crouched in the morning light.

Bleary-eyed and weary, the man now struggled down

Dressed in garb and grime of a man about the town,

And as he thudded on the door, hope showed on his face

And when the father opened it, the son began his piece.

"Father, please don't spurn me, I know I don't deserve

You to help me out, I know I've got a nerve,

But you see, I've lost the business and I've nowhere else to go

You are my last hope; help me though my woe.

I don't wish for charity, I know you've none to give,

But I ask to live with you, the way we used to live

I know it's been a long time since I've worked this land,

But heart to heart I'm like you - I bear the bushman's brand.

But the old man did not listen, to the speech so carefully planned,

He pulled the boy toward him in his strong and gnarled hands, 

And as his son stood hesitant, unsure to stay or fly,

His father pulled him closer, and then began to cry.

"My boy, how long I've waited to hear you say those words!

Wishing, praying, hoping as I rode among my herds.

'I do not ask for charity'! I am your father, son!

You know I'll always care for you, no matter what you've done.

Your mother is not here but this is your childhood home,

And always will remain so, though the city you did rome.

It was my greatest dream, that we be reconciled

I have always wished to see the returning of a child."

And so they stood together, locked in an embrace

As tears of joy and happiness washed the toil from each face

Two bushmen reunited, a father and a son,

A child returned home, and a new beginning won.

Sarah Downes

5/10/16