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Sunday, December 14th, 2008 | Author: stuart

Don’t Follow

out of bed and across the floor
to the door
don’t follow
around the town in bare feet
through the sleet
don’t follow
going up in a lift to the top
and then drop
don’t follow
down the road though the mist
to cut my wrist
don’t follow
lying down for a nap in the snow
never go
don’t follow
there are mistakes i have made
things unsayed
don’t follow
things i have done
words i have said
ideas i have thought
loves left unfinished
don’t follow


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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

on the bed pale and grey
whispering her life away.
sheets pulled high
keeping the cool breeze at bay.
they told me once that in her youth
beauty beyond compare, and that it
was that beauty which purchased the
house with the garden in which she now reclines.
there is nothing left now of that beauty as
on the bed, pale and grey
she whispers her life away.
the light turns and fades, setting with
a lack of fanfare that seems to suit
the withering body basking in its dying rays.
slipping into slumbering dusk she
mimics the day and the whispering stops.
none can tell of what she has become
as you stand by the garden wall.
sometimes you think that
the whispering comes anew, but in the garden
of the house that her beauty bought
she is to be seen no more
curtains drawn in eternal dusk.
whispering to the shadows, whispering in shades
of grey and somber melancholy,
whispering the day away

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

Acidic remains of long dead sailors
Drift freely on the placid green seas,
Waiting for the pyre to be built
That will send embers to oblivion.

Deep within the copse a body lies,
Late in its stages of rapid decomposition,
The maggots crawl into hues of flies,
And the body writhes with geriatric rot.

Stigmas attached to disembodied soldiers,
Piled into unanimous, ambiguous pits.
The dirts recede like an aging hairline,
Ready to be exhumed when the time is ripe.

A watery crypt encases the coffin
Of the unfortunate unspecified airman.
His mission held by bureaucratic secrecy,
Natural revenge, so fitting, the bottom of a trench.

All have one in common thought,
Not wives, children or lovers lost,
Not ones who hate and shall not lament.
The augury for them all, deep, dark and eternal sleep.

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

Why do we carry on
In a world that does nothing but grieve
Like a jilted lover, seeks revenge
On the one that moved along

Why not just give up hope
On a world that does nothing but mourn
Like a weeping widow, gives up life
And surrenders to the grave

Why do we keep going back
To a world that skulks along
Like a teenage tantrum, mopes along
Inflicting it’s misery everywhere

Why do we give the second chance
To a world that does naught but whine
Like the cussed cur, snaps back
At the hand that seeks to help

Drink to get drunk
And rejoice
For the end is near
And in it is no fear.

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

Born Vulnerable, twisted easily by elements now to be resisted.
Died venerable, shaping the future of my surrounds.

I have survived the tests of time, the fires and the floods, the winds and the rains.
And now, after living though the torments of it all, only one enemy remains.

You have the power to destroy
That I cannot resist.
How can I be expected to face your knife and your blade,
Without the twinge of regret?
I have witnessed your grandfather being born,
Shaded the traitorous infant from the blaring sun.
Without me you would not survive.
But still you deny the role I play,
You drown me in your giant dreams,
And burn me in your salted wastes.
You drain me of my blood and
Poison me with your words.
You killed me there in Vietnam,
Just to kill a man.
The fruitless budding of power dreams.
You wipe me out in Europe with your
Precious industry. But money is more important,
Any fool can see, any fool that is, any fool but me.

You see I cannot speak, in language for you to hear,
But look around, my love, it is there for you to see.
Open your eyes to me, my love,
Before the time is lost.

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

I talk to god and he sits and laughs at me,
My impotence, my futility. Oh generous and forgiving god
Lend to me your ear so that I may plead my case for only you to hear.
Don’t turn your back as if my countenance disgusts
I carry no disease that could infect a gracious and mighty god like you.
A god of peace and a god of love beams down at me,
And smites me with and evil plague. The all knowing god
The just god refuses to listen as he stands
Aloof and alone in the corner of the room. As the plague rages
and the plague torments the god still refuses. At last
‘all knowing, all seeing’ he says ‘does not enable me. You are masters of your own destiny.
Bother me not until the time has come to judge and then
You will find the plague I sent upon you but the bite of a flea;
The agony I will inflict upon those without compassion goes
Beyond you to understand.
But know this; life is but the trial. The sentence is forever?’

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

Obvious differences suffering our bias,
Frailty, race and physical deformity,
Gaudy dress by our own design.
Fluorescent grotesques stare at our feet,
Bilinguals pass by unnoticed.
Knee high leather boots rapt with availability
Saunter on their way to oblivion.
Gangly strides and corrupted posture,
The only reminder of long dead catastrophes.
Killers in uniform, legal lunacy
Corrupt the letter of the law,
Taint it with abject morality.
Bystanders pass judgment on some,
Those who by choice
Choose to be different.
Discounted bargains in the meat market.
Bid and strive to attract purchase.
Subjected to the jeers and the ridicule.
On display.
Public property.

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

My loyal wife sits by my side
Our unborn child drips slowly to the floor
An aborted attempt to justify
The pain that we’ve been through
The withered dreams
The barren hope
All they represent
To wipe away all they gave
To cover it in the dust
Of memories of hope and joy
That reborn would be salvation

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

I’m heading back to where I belong,
To the home, long ago deserted,
To the place abandoned
In a search for something more.
Whimsical dalliances stay me now
And then and then I carry on,
Wandering the path never forgotten.
I need no map I have my heart
To guide and direct which way to turn,
When to tarry and when to rush.
I am going home.
I’m heading back to where I belong,
Where hill and mount are not raised high,
Where valley not sunk deep,
Plains not flat and rivers, never wide.
My trip be fast, I’m heading ever on.
My trip be slow, I’m heading ever on.
There is no back, no return,
It vanishes as I pass.
Emptiness is all that’s left of a land that never was.
And as I pass the memories fade,
It has never even been.
And at last, I found I’ve never left
The home I’m returning to.

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Sunday, November 16th, 2008 | Author: stuart

I’m recycling boredom day to day
Yesterday’s routines suffice for today
And will survive countless tomorrows.
Why suffer the pains of originality
New hopes and new failures when the failures I know so well
Are easily at hand.
Boredom and dullness are their own reward
The trappings of a day well spent
No challenges, no triumphs, no strains and no stress,
No efforts expended and no risks exposed.
I’m recycling boredom day by day.

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