Sort it out
make it happen
level the mess, your social field flatten
abandon senseless traditions
depise with the wise the ancient fictions
by men without a love in their lives
save violence and money and their neighbour’s prize
Your history is mystery cause you’ve stolen the blocks
used them to re-build then blown them to rocks.
I address you, fool leaders, arms dealers and killers
will you look past your bloody time-fillers?
A future awaits
for those who will make,
a future awaits
for those who will take, a chance with peace
to give, to increase
neighbours near and far.
to open heart and mind
to drop the one viewpoint, to leave religion behind
only one thing is true, we’re all energy divine, sublime, energy,
yet you, tribal leaders, waste yours on your enemy
cause you need to rule
dont you see, silly men, history laughs at you,
devious, demon-thing creeping beneath
the walls of wisdom, past the sentries of caution
dodging the death-blow it performs contortions
‘ware giving it help
by company carelessly chosen the whelp
swerves and weaves and whispers in your ear, about-
fears and tears and pains yet to come
then serves up fresh suffering for its own food and fun.
Nourished on nonchalance
woken by weakness, this, weakness maker
shatters stalwart intention
ever the willbreaker, is-
known to many by its darkly dominant position,
the persecuting poison, practically tradition
known to me and many, as awful addiction.
Hungry are the hearts of men.
The archytype of hunger, architect of greed
champion of the fortune feast, when many have the least
to give, to credit driven, to financial servitude bidden
behind that empty laughter’s hidden
world’s of suffering, eons of grief
for which this consumer-god offers no relief.
See the idol of winter greed
see his straining belt
see his belly bulge with all the cheap lies dealt
see his coat of arterial hue concealing greed-grown bulk
see every skint bloke’s enemy, every poor child’s sulk.
a homeless man’s warm bed
show me real kindness, with some real risk instead
pass on something treasured
something valued, something made
with love and lots of effort, not something for which you paid
give goodness out this year, aspire to something grander
than feeding the consumer-god, known otherwise as Santa.
isn’t in the trees, nor the death blind beast
not the wildest wind
nor the tamest dog
has meaning beyond themselves.
Meaning is not purpose, courage or fate
nor is it life itself, nor death,
the why’s and how’s of living
provide it not, nor gain it by being, you cannot find it by listening, touching, or seeing.
To seek it is to see it, to want it is to find
see it now? many still blind, seek
meaning they try to wrap and bind, in words
in numbers, charts and dials ticking by, measuring their measures
little meanings man-made, hoarded up like treasures.
You won’t find the deer, nor the rabbit searching, for meaning to its life
with activities for thriving theirs lives are rife
learn from their example, then, regarding meaning true
the only meanings that should matter, are the ones thought up by you.
Followers, you fulfill this blog,
it is your attention gives reason to slog
on with writing, word after word
typing line after line-
in the light or the dark
at uni, in my room, occasionally in the park, yet
best is the text
‘x, y and z followed your blog’ Yes!
just to know that my message is heard
by a few scattered ears is more than I deserve
so, clear of couplets, rhyme or pentameter, I say to each of you, thanks again.
your friend and fellow human,
Ollie (the Whisperer)
Full credit to Robert Jordan for some of the inspiration to this short poem.
It’s odd, is it not, concepts follow us around
ideas fears and feelings resound, echoing through life
wheels and patterns, Robert Jordan was right
fate seems to fit his fictional device.
wheeling wheels whirl
if you catch a glimpse your conscious is hurled
into spaces dimmed to safe, ignorant dark
Men aren’t prepared.
or even pretend
to know the Path ahead.
I make words appear on a page
I try to write, stage by stage worsening
burdening the soul with failures burgeoning.
Inverse to sense writing appears to be
perversely immense, too intense to please
compound curses assail self from self ceaselessly,
does every error further decrease me? No, Say I!
The Heart is strong! The Duende alive,
the muse sings her song
the Angel guides,
and the Universe wills
that my doubtful fears onto pages spill.