MEANING

Everytime.  Somebody Writes a poem

Other people get hold.  Of it

And hold it upside, down

look at it in a mirror and pull it,

To Pieces and Rearrange it,

And peering over the tops of their matchboxes,

Try to decide what he is Writing about.

When i’ve finished this Poem,

I Don’t want you to go

Pulling it to pieces

And dissecting its HEART out,

trying to decide.  What I am writing about

So I will tell you.

I am protesting about world poverty.

Beneath this smiling face

Lie many sad stories.

Sorry for Apologising, but…

I apologise for being me;

Although, I know it’s not really my fault

Because I am the product of my heredity and my environment.

But one of the things that this has made me

Is apologetic –

So I apologise for being me.

Sorry…

VISIONS OF THE APOCALYPSE

I have it on good authority

That the sun will rise

At least one more time;

But not necessarily tomorrow…

There is in Eden by a Tree,

A frog who sits and sings to thee:

Minky, Minky, Monkey Moo –

How doth my cretin steam!

Sing to me of the Bugaboo –

The Bugaboo, and the Dream!

Beneath the window, catching flies,

The Lord of All Creation lies…

If all the world were perfect,

And all the seas were pink,

Yet all my fleas had foul disease –

What would the neighbours think?

Behind the fountain, eating dirt

A man sits in a goat’s hair shirt.

Mary, Mary, Maid of God

Love me one more time;

Before my life evaporates

And all my dreams sublime...

Pussycat.

GREY GODDESS

This morning’s reading

Is taken from the Book of the Dead.

Lord Save Us.

If I should seem unkind to you,

Or if my ways should seem a little odd,

Remember only what you want to see

And do not think, and do not dare to think

Beyond the flowers of the day.

I have been where you will not go

And reported what you will not speak of:

Llafar coch and llafar gwyn –

Lord of Darkness Enter In.

My lady she taunts me from her high tower

But she cannot see it’s base;

Base bastards in the bastions

Tell Me What is True.

They come to me and ask me –

“Tell me what is true.”

What can I say and who can I say it to?

Lord of the Lost Ones, lighten our darkness;

Lead me to learning, or lead me astray…

Tell me a story, Bobby…

”Jesse James the Outlaw

Always on the run,

With a blue wisp of smoke

Hanging down from his gun.

Hanging down…”

On this grey morning

The flickering lantern barely illumines itself,

Casting no radiance.

I do not say I wish I had never learned what I have learned,

But neither will I tell you the secret name of the Goddess

For I do not know.

Watch her watch the watchers watching –

She won’t laugh at you.

"La poesía no es propiedad de quienes la escriben, sino de quienes la necesitan."

Pablo Neruda en El Cartero