- Books, Literature, and Writing
Poems From The Vault
Hidden in the hedgerow
Heedless of this hearty heave
The hawkers head to heaven
The hoi polloi believe.
They hoist their holy, homely host
And hush away the hand
Held hostage by hysteria and
The harshest hymn haunts debate.
Haughtily the hellions herd
Hesitant to house the honest word.
Hungry for the human holocaust.
Hopeful that the hordes harbour
FW - 2003
Blessed Are The Meek
Disturbing though it be
I'm relentless in my misery.
I cannot teach therefore I am
A holy lake of me.
Professed are those within their grid
Encased in sacrilege.
Their never ending matrimony to the pledge is
In full swing again.
Their bloody reprise is of late and
Welcomes a good show of faith
To their not so bloody kings.
And so the rings
Begin again to spin.
Into the deep and out
Precious in their doubt
They circle me.
What they want of me, I'm sure
Will not go easily with them.
It bends no further for them.
It abhors them.
Unceremoniously chasing them
Into the underworld.
Blessed are the meek
Keepers of the ancient streak
In my world.
They break through still and quell
The undaunted riot beneath us.
FW - 2002
Like a salve on the predatory notion of forgiveness
This oceanic sickness
Draws the venom from our civilized state.
Division berates the free.
Inducing the reactive melancholy.
Reducing the folly of 'we'.
The slews in the drive of enterprise
Shepherd the weakest form and extracting from the norm
The very normal cries.
The very process 'we' despise is fuelled by the self we gratify.
To never know why is the blind spot.
To never fly is not
FW - 2004
Chance - Part One
By and by the breaking rush
The seconds still the danger's hush
The dotage comes and calms
My harried inner lush.
Now curbed intent makes amends leisurely with me.
Softens what I hate to know is ailing me...
A love of perpetual agony.
The silly, unanswerable, aching plea
That takes no note of me
Yet marches through avenging what you
Have instilled in me.
You are all who have wronged me.
All who have whipped the strong into me.
The rotting stench I build upon.
The pretty pain that takes so long to pass.
The toil I cannot labour and at last
Can place aside.
By virtue of my own I let it slide.
And wake again beside another chance.
FW - 2004
Chance - Part Two
Lighted by the markers
'Tween the waves of perseverance
Oft I see the end before its time.
These choppy waters sharpen dreams chastened by the beat.
Remain above the tide and these chalky silouhettes of days of old will navigate.
But will the moors recede?
My bogged down enemies are where they choose to be.
Only and forever at my mercy.
And I will keep them there beneath me.
Furthermore, I myself, set the pace.
Once more I, peerless, promenade
Upon the iron stage I've made
And regardless of my talentless facade
I, my God, preside.
FW - 2004