The Fates

The Fates - A Decima

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos,
they spin, they weave and thus create
Ancient Grecian Laws of Fate,
the mythos of all gain and loss.

Their Mum, Ananke, Dad, Chronos,
sired these adolescent spinners
crafting for the good (and sinners)
lies of self determination,
camouflaged predestination.
They fete nor losers nor winners.

Haiku Challenge: Weed and Dust

Haiku - Weed and Dust

   The symbol was clear:
a perfect ellipse where I
   had weed in the dust.



However tall your ships were, how long
they took to reach your chosen shores,
could they contain intact your beating hearts,
swollen with leaving, aching with imminent 
arrival; the slow salt haul on following seas?

Were prayers said daily, attempting to appease
those Catholic gods, their shapes reminiscent
of wet lands you left in colder parts
particularising rain? Did you pack your laws,
clutch them closely, like an Irish song?

How do we gauge the sorrow leaving brings
but by a return in our imaginings.

The Rock and Basalt Lava Party

The Rock and Basalt Lava Party

Here's the politics of it -

An election every million years,
manifestos erupting in white heat,
volcanic debate, a honeymoon period
the birth of a small star.

The electorate canvassed
among bleached stones;
polling on cadaver care,
how crematoria perform,
were targets met for erotica 
in Pompeii and was
Krakatoa merely PR.

And when ash,
like a broken promise,
settles on still, silent lands,
who will ask for a recount
to trouble democracy's sleep?



The garden is sodden now,
  these days of rain creating
pools our boots splash in.
  I see you watching the falling   
rain from our bedroom window.
  The electric blanket's on.
Perhaps we'll winter here.


Bliss - A Decima

These days I'm wont to reminisce
on hours achieving happiness,
swerving consequent crappiness.
It certainly would be remiss
to diss the side effects of bliss,
the coming down from such a height
whilst grasping at it's fading light.
All highs have their own aftermaths,
some are benign but some, bloodbaths,
two hundred degrees Fahrenheit!

Breakfasting on Worms

Breakfasting on Worms

If you rise before the sun -

(when dawn is still a dream you had,
unclaspable, where reason ends,
before the rote of compliance begins,
before the language of constraint unstops,
acting out the all too rational;
a wage to earn, a meal to cook,
children's needs to tend,
the diction of No, after you
and various similitudes
designed to coalesce
around the sociological)

- you feel the pre-dawn less than dark
fizzing somewhere interplanetary.
And through this percolation
the Earth's curve courses,
hieroglyphics of expunged soil
cast like prayers upon the plains.
Too soon, tangents of light
precurse the onset of a sober day,

our dark worms sleeping off the sun.

haiku challenge: drip and drop

The constant drip, drip,
drip of misinformation
makes me scream...DROP DEAD!

What It’s Not and What It Is

What It's Not and What It Is

It's not the sun that rises.
It's not the moon that sets.
It's not the stars all tipping
On towards the West.

It's not the blackbird singing.
It's not the howling dog.
It's not the fox attempting
Cartwheels in the fog.

It is the darkness looming.
It is the passing sense.
It is the abolition
Of the present tense.

Haiku and Decima Challenge: Captain Swing

Captain Swing

A Haiku
    Shelter with me here
where the fires cannot reach us,
      scorching now the earth.

A Decima

The history of Captain Swing
is told in tales of burning ricks,
machine destruction, polemics
of resistance imagining
a better world and songs that sing
of full employment, profits shared
with labourers, all those who cared
to question if the status quo
was fit to see a nation grow,
those who rebelled, when few had dared.