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Some Rhymes No Reasons

Updated on April 18, 2015

My Kids


CASSANDRA

THERE IS A GLOW TO CASSANDRA

AN ETHEREAL LIGHT

FROM DEEP WITHIN HER SOUL

I SEE HER IN HER CLASSROOM

AMONGST THE OTHER CHILDREN

SHE IS THE ONLY ONE IN COLOUR

THE OTHERS ARE DRAB, GRAYISH

THEY MERGE WITH THE WALLS

WHISPERING AND SHUFFLING AROUND THE ROOM

CASSANDRA NEVER SHUFFLES NOR WHISPERS

SHE RICOCHETS AROUND THE SPACE

A PINBALL HEADER FOR THE HIGHEST SCORE EVER

THE TIMBRE OF HER VOICE CARRIES

THE HEAVENLY SWEETNESS

OF TIBETAN PRAYER BELLS

SHE BRINGS HER TRUE SELF

TO INHABIT THIS MUNDANE PLANE

THE SCENT OF PARADISE DRIFTS IN HER WAKE

CASSANDRA IS MUSIC AND POETRY

PRETTY WORDS AND PRETTY SOUNDS

BEAUTY MADE MANIFEST

SHE IS THE GREATES GIFT THIS WORLD HAS GIVEN ME

AND THE GREATEST GIFT

I HAVE GIVEN THIS WEARY WORLD

THANK YOU UNIVERSE

FOR INTRODUCING ME

TO CASSANDRA






FIFTEEN

I am remembering being fifteen

I am remembering because

Fifteen years ago my first child was born

My black and white world became technicolour

I did not much appreciate the world then

It seemed a gray and dismal place

Populated by menacing phantoms

A weary world without a trace of grace

It hadn't always been that way

But I had somehow forgotten

Forgotten the early promise and the beauty

That the world held when I was fifteen

Forgotten the flash of pleasure

when the warmth of the sun

Caresses a naked brown back

As the dock rocks gently

The rush of blood to the face

When the prettiest girl at the beach

Smiles warmly at you while her

Vanilla girl scent fills the air

Forgotten the exhiliration

In hitting a baseball as hard as you can

Then laughing all the way around the bases

Chased by the cheers of the crowd

Forgotten because you cannot remain fifteen

You've got to grow an adult self

Stow those joys on a shelf

And join the workday world

But we live in a honeycomb world

The edges are not as firm as we think

The boundaries are more fluid

Than we like to admit they are

We fashion ourselves from gossamer

And expect it to perform like steel

It won't and you know it won't

So you wear your anger like a shield

You construct a career

Shoulder your way into executive suites

Acqurie a house complete with mortgage

Bury fifteen deeper and deeper

Twenty years of earth piled on

That sweet and joyous self

Got high as Everest

And hard as Georgian Bay granite

And yet, in a single instant

The mountain turned to dust and blew away

Rhiannon was born

And the world was new again

My identity, so carefully crafted

Disappeared with the first cry

I was every bit as new as she was

We became babies together

In that instant it all became fresh

The world, my life, my holy career

All bathed in a brand new light

Now that this baby was

The rage that props up the gossamer self

Is toxic to a brand new sould

If you want to be a proper dad

You've got to let it go

It is your ego you know

That shrouds itself in gossamer

So that ego has got to go

To raise a happy child

I wrestled mine to the ground

Entered her multicoloured world

I lost nothing of value and found

A serene and peaceful faith

I knew I had a place, a purpose

I occupied this universe for a reason

So does everyone else

Whether they know it yet or not

Soon we were toddling

Then we learned to speak

Began to explore our world

It was all new again to me

When she was five and needed

Someone to swordfight with at the mall

I was five too and slashed and jumped

And leapt over all the benches

When she was ten and loving superheroes

I went and bought the same comics I had before

And we pored over them together

While lying on the living room floor

Now she is fifteen and I get to be too

When she shares her day or lets me see

How exciting high school is to her

Or how much she loves Green Day

I am very very grateful to her

For giving me fresh eyes

For banishing the gossamer

For helping me become


metaphysics


TAU TAU TAU

I want to know hao

To find the Tao

Life's a long and winding road

Signposts could ease the load

of navigating life's potholes

Long ago Lao Tzu sat and wrote

The wisdom of the ages

Still today we freely quote

From those ancient pages

When we seek some solace

If we took old Lao Tzu

Dropped him in modern China

Within a month, maybe two

He'd be King of Asia minor

But he'd refuse to rule

He still knows the way

The universe works

He'd be unlikely to be serene

Amongst us jerks

He'd go back to the mountains

He would sit and listen to

The cosmic heart abeating

He would be more than do

Cause the material is fleeting

But the spirit is forever

81 verses of poetic perfection

A complete and cosmic code

81 points of mystic connection

To help to shoulder the load

Of living on Planet Earth

Tao shows the way it lights the road

Tao aids the way it lightens the load

Tao paves the way its the original code

Tao is the way its the only ode

Tao Tao Tao

.








SOME QUESTIONS

Where is the comfort in a world

Where God is dying

or may be dead?

The solace in a universe

Circumscribed by

the boundaries of

one's own head?

What happens to faith and hope

when charity is rotted by self interest

When God is a decaying image of man

without the power to inspire

anything more than a vague anxiety

in the hearts of zombified children

A god reflecting only man

reflects arrogance

A narrow view

easily narrows further

to include only me

and exclude all you

Where is the comfort in a climate

where existencee is all?

What values can be found

when materialism triumphs

and all we are becomes ashes

to be strewn upon the ground?

What happens to the spirit

when reality is centred

in the human brain?

What of the mind?

Can it truly be free

when the body is so damn easy to chain?

A god corrupted by man

from omnipotence to impotence

is helpless under the onslaught

of the demons of despair,

demons created, as was that god

in the skull, mere thought.

Where is the comfort in a sphere

where the anguished cries of the wounded

are broadcast twenty-four hours?

What consolation exists in a blank-faced world

where those supposed to lead need to

barricade themselves in sterile ivory towers?

What happens to beauty

in a mass-produced world?

How does one achieve self-esteem

as a replaceable cog in a social machine

whose well-oiled pistons pump without purpose

because no one dares to dream.








To My Love

Who was Jesus? Why does he still plague us?

Jesus was a carpenter but his apprentices

Have laid waste to the forests of the mind

A shaper of wood whose disciples

Have made ash of the tree of knowledge

A shatterer of convention

Transformed into an institution

As his words, those beautiful words

Fell from purity to prostitution

Who was Jesus? Why must he come back?

To ransom his bride, the holy church?

A bride turned whore by vile old men

who don't know how to masturbate?

Who find spirituality in pain

Whose sould ulcerate

Spilling poison over His wisdom

Blistering the meaning from His anguish

And corroding the walls of his kingdom

Who was Jesus? What would he think now?

Is genocide to his taste? Misogyny?

They are now stars in the religious firmament

The blood of life cannot touch the sacred altar

But runs in rivers over religious battlegrounds

Prejudice and exclusion have cachet

When entrance to heaven can be bought from men

Who was Jesus? And why do I only feel his presence

When I am in you, my love.


WAR

The streets run red when nations collide

Blood fills the gutter where children have died

What is the left? Where is the right?

Why the fuck must we fight

Did peace fail? Was it ever tried?

WAR

Cruelty rises, violence reigns

Serpents crawling through our brains

Biting stinging twisting turning

People dying cities burning

WAR

Ideologies clash

Everybody burn and crash

I am right you are wrong

You had to know it all along

War

Marxism, Capitalism Fascism

Hold the line fanaticism

Suspended over unholy chasm

Bodies twitch in final spasm

WAR

Ronald Reagan what a dunce

Wants to kill us all at once

Chernenko whinin and a fussin

To the end he is a Russian

WAR

Ice cold fear crawls up my spine

Push the button it will be fine

We must kill those we hate

Now now now or its too late

WAR

It drops

Life stops

Wasted landscape

No escape

WAR WAR WAR



VOICES


Voices Voices

Mens voices womens voices

same voice different voice

voices mean choices

silence is not golden

Which voice? one voice

I have many

filling my skull

like church bells

fill a Sunday morning


Their harmony

or dissonance

is what I am

my central fact

my creative act


making a melody

of their many tones

is my most personal struggle

it is my life

the song of ME


And I can't, I won't

use your orchestra

no matter how pure

the tones

of your instruments



RITUALS


The tribe gathers

Gloriously garbed

In the finest skins

Faces brightly painted

To hide imperfections

In anticipation of

Random warrior mating


Eyes shadowed carefully

with aquamarine clay]

Lips stained strawberry

The masks allow

Release of body

To the rythyms of the night


A quivering surrender

Of anonymous flesh

As lust is unleashed

In the sweaty darkness

Hips thrust wildly

Pelvises pivot

Chests are flexed and pounded

Guttural screams emerge

From throats turned raw

By magic potions

Potions brewed to release

Tribal passions


The beat changes

Bodies writhe snakelike

Through the clearing

Bowing before bronze idols

With glowing golden haloes

Shrieking and leaping

As the rythyms fill their loins

With unquenchable fire

Then, the band takes a break

And the tribe goes to the bar

To grab another beer.







Some Older


HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO MARRAKESH?

Watching a little old man in Kensington

Brown wrinkled face seamed with life

Skeletal frame draped in shapeless polyester

Nose twitching at air thickened

With the odours of fresh fish and fresher vegetables

I wonder, as I wander in his wake

What kind of pleasures does this man take?

Does he dandle grandkids on his knee

Temper his aged resignation with their naivete?

Does he linger over Turkish coffee

Slurping java and snorting non-commitally

As his cronies dissect the days events

Is he a withered Romeo of long ago

Who consumated grand passions in desert tents?

A little man, shabby, he wanders among the stalls

All shades of humanity in easy reach

Their uniqueness felt in the lilt of a voice, the colour of a sari

A pungent aroma that drifts past before

Disappearing down a drafty high rise canyon

Little man little man who are you

Where is your home? What do you do?

A threadbare hat with a rakish tilt

Were you a Bogie fan?

And did I hear a melodious tone

In that soft "Please a half pound of Columbian"

What has your life been my little man?

Have you ever been to Marrakesh? Danced in Gay Paree?

I envy you your life little man. Won't you share with me?

We can find a dusty little coffee house

With Portuguese waitresses and formica tables

You can tell me tall tales of little things

The old country, the farm, the house with the gables

The sights and the sounds of the life you led

Little man Little man what can you share

Of the past and what you did there?

Have you ever been to Marrakesh?

What was it like when you were there?

Do you rue your aged flesh?

Long for when you were young and fair?

Or are you happy old and grey

With most of life now passed away

Are you just waitiong for judgement day?

I wonder as I watch you walk

What could your life teach me

If we could sit and talk

Could I learn to be more free

To sit and share a stranger's flask?

These questions dance behind my urban mask

How sad I haven't the courage to ask

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