Whistle Me Away

when apes discover genocide

I wonder how long I will linger

on the verdant green and blue

insulated by my own sickness

that brackish bile

of human contempt

apes will sing not our mythology

but one of burnt forests

and dried out lakes

human carcasses so vile

carrion crows refuse

to dine without the thought

of consequence

and I will lie down

human leaf litter

becoming fertiliser of the new

season a generation

or era where the truth of nature

will win

Chris Lawrence

Birago Diop – Diptych

The Sun hung by a thread
In the depths of the Calabash dyed indigo
Boils the great Pot of Day.
Fearful of the approach of the Daughters of fire
The Shadow squats at the feet of the faithful.
The savannah is bright and harsh
All is sharp, forms and colours.
But in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds, neither hollow nor shrill,
Rises a ponderous Mystery,
A Mystery muffled and formless
Which surrounds and terrifies us.
The dark Loincloth pierced with nails of fire
Spread out on the Earth covers the bed of Night.
Fearful at the approach of the Daughters of Shadow
The dog howls, the horse neighs,
The Man crouches deep in his house.
The savannah is dark,
All is black, forms and colours
And in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds infinite or hollow or sharp
The tangled Paths of the Mystery
Slowly reveal themselves
For those who set out
And for those who return.

What began in 79

when your home is not
a protective shelter to dignity and heart,
where government scythes away
public voices in favour of a few,
nervous rattle of doors
closing on opportunities
for those we should cherish,
disabled now disenfranchised
workless sanctioned and berated
for just existing,
statistics and targets
media fodder,
minimum wage hunter gatherers
chasing food bank trails
as rent arrears accumulate,
things are getting brighter
economy booming,
so some say
a cautious tale of cynicism
is needed to chew on this pill
of crushed realisations,
we have awoken
but not awake

written in response to the Conservatives taking victory in the elections and Cameron claiming power again

natural ass bird

accelerate harder
trees tremor passed,
what is against the heart
and rain streaked glass,
prophecy and a government system
insulted by the freaks of lottery
money was not to be
the blanket of insidious content,
radio breaks it down
speed accompanies the heart,
the bitch most malicious
than spilled gasoline
with a well lie lubricated tongue
speaks of equality
pace of society,
why feel betrayed
as if she where sat alongside you
taunting as if fertile
yet as barren as a thousand year
old desert,
tires bite into blacktop
staining and smearing
with billows of smoke,
there can be only one ultimatum,
terror inflates the throat
choking on that swelling promise
of nothing,
beyond sharp curve of road
open air
and sweet mist valley
and the feeling of
wanting to fly

open link night #145

home

mersey moonlight and shine
across the hills
to river dee,
wind whispers
in the trees and grass,
of park
and shipyard sinew,
bricks of sweat and toil,
urban sprawl,
where smugglers coins
fell to sand,
lighthouse flickers
seen by little eye,
sandstone tremors
and gentle veil of mist,
i feel home
cradled by the lake
and shivering masts
of a yachting few

Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Mersey Ferry          Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Looking at Wales through...  Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Liverpool Waterfront           Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Sailing on Marine Lake a...

Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Men of Crosby           Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Fort Perch Lighthouse...

all photographs copyrighted to Karen Lawrence / SpikeyMouse Photography and all images and others can be bought at

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/karen-lawrence.html?tab=artwork

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when foxes come

swallowing moonlight
with half naked humility,
aftertaste of unpleasant cloud
the day would sacrifice me,
me a host to the yellow sun
wrapped in a fleece
of further understanding,
a measure to the international indifference
patron to the act of ignorance,
this is a race, our race
spend life in an aggrieved chokehold
as time seeps the stupid sore
picked at by eager interference,
of state
in desperate need of rescue

ticking

ticking

only asses and chickens
claw at the dirt
spreading a mess
soiled by their own entrapment
it would be unforgiving
when the foxes come

sunday whirl

je suis charlie

in those glancing shadows
of inky truth and pattern
there would be no ennui,

condemn not capitulate

to the bugle call of atrocity,
it is only anarchy
not religion,
that has to be illustrated

by pencil sharp sword

render and portray
a prophets wisdom abused
to generate and perpetuate
a list of abhorrent terror
activated by those
with misguided sense of being

steady hand describes

that no single act
will be unaccounted

a channel for truth

that should not be
a satirists end

#je suis charlie
#je suis ahmed

sunday whirl

other than inward

alone on a dreams forgotten shore
that stray thundering sea
reached towards the sky

wind creased and folded grass,
elemental human hearts
away from pale insignificance
chime together

the fire has not vanished
silent dune blue air,
these memories will scar

and no holy intervention
can claim a dedicated tear

sigh and embrace
an eloquent arrival of intimacy
ripe silent love

ingest the once plain indifference
short breath saliva glisten

someone else can trace you
by indentation in the sand
and what sea birds say
in discordant voice

sunday whirl

Internalise

Threads of thought
snagged on my tongue,
unable to utter
even with a mumble
that I was admitting
a failure to remember,
days became clogged arteries
harder the restriction
the more I struggled,
had our love
been so nondescript
or was it so great
I blotted it out

gradual decline

defined and documented
blue binding no longer black
posey vest and wrist restraints,
in this bed unable to move
she was selfless in her care
and he so sure of fear,
shifting his backside slightly
legs splinted with sticks,
they had not spoken since
was it love
his mind versed it against
that boiling sensation in his gut
acidic rot sure it would calm,
she believed in the
discernment of spirits
and that sweet ignatian way,
will , desire whatever,
time had no identity any more,
clocks calendar all abandoned burned
ashes to choke his chest
and close his eyes,
she would face the flames one day
of his wrath or something more,
for now his lot
was on this mattress ,
wounded with pride and body
he could not polarize his thoughts
to agree with hers,
all joy had left him
swept away in blood pain and tears,
waiting for the next moment of torture

180

 

 

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