Concocted

Concocted
Dear Ray,

I am a meaning-making machine,
I concoct my own reality.
Conjunctivitis rules,
this teabag doesn’t work.
I am my body,
raspberries for all.
God bless the tea.
I am at home,
it leaks sometimes,
I have fallen asleep here.
Do I mean too much for my own good?
Without Rosetta Stone we wouldn’t be where we are.
And the fire in my brain
has burnt an imagination
to cinders.
It is the morning of the day,
this is my way.

There is now an interlude…

Battle Cry

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Battle Cry

I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m waving all the time
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
It’s time a star-bearing woman
Wore her stripes and gave a damn
Before the sun settles down
Before my face starts to frown.
Because, I’m living in a magic world
Because, I’m walking in a dreamscape
Because, the truth is flying free
Because, the news repeats my plea
Because the truth is flying free,
I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
It’s time for Stars and Stripes
Memories of Stars and Stripes
Stripes and stars forever
Stars and stripes forever.
Ah let’s arise to the side of children in the cages
Fire, fire, flag-bearing waving woman
And we’ll rise from the dust with settlers’ wagons on the trail
Fire, fire, flag-bearing waving human
Ah, we’ll tear down that dark wall, we’ll welcome children in
Pull back the curtain, show the promised land
Memories of Stars and Stripes, we’ll welcome freedom in.
Flag-waving women extend a helping hand
It’s time for Stars and Stripes
Memories of Stars and Stripes
Stripes and stars forever
Stars and stripes forever.
I’m a flag-bearing woman
I’m waving all the time
I’m a flag-waving human
You better stay on the line.
__________________________
Note:
There’s an audio version here – it includes some of my thoughts about the piece.
[Image Source]

Insidious

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Insidious

I was walking along a couple of roads,
one turned to the sea, the wave, the water, the tide …
one sloped to the mountain, the scree, the rock, the peak …
I followed a breath like a hunter.

There were distractions,
high like eagles,
busy like bees,
imaginations
like sugar,
addictions,
paradise,
a sweet-shop shining
scent of fish
nectar,
pollen,
ice.

I was walking along a couple of roads
when the earth gave birth to twins,
and twins to twins
I followed a breath like a hunted fox.

Who first ate an egg?

Her name isn’t known.

Wild jungle fowl were domesticated as early as 3200 BC. [East Indian history]

Fowl were eaten more often than eggs.
Eggs were saved to hatch to supply fowl.

Fowl were laying eggs for man in 1400 BC. [Egyptian & Chinese records]

(All this information was found on the internet.)

 

This is not a poem

It’s a heatwave. What was it like to get drenched, to be showered on, to come home damp & dank?

The longest day is past.  Gone for a year. It was a tipping-point, nevertheless snow is unimaginable.

Lazing round listening to languid language – utterances from friends, acquaintances, companions, strangers: research time.

There is a time for everything.  Now is the hour for breathing through your nose.

Who knows what’s coming?

Music maybe.

 

Children

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[Image- painting – by Robbin T Milne – with permission]

Children

No matter how tall the leaves of grass grow,
the snow will fall again on the field.
The rabbits are running now,
nettles feasting on sunshine,
and the bees are minding their own business,
somewhere else.

No matter my friend has lost his friend,
there will be friends again.
There is a cancer in the fields,
long shadows over hedgerows,
birds I cannot name sing without melody,
and life growing underfoot.

How are the children now? Who are the authorities?
Are there any youngsters without tears flowing,
without tears repressed, stifled?
There are shards on the road, and dust,
buttercups and dock leaves,
foxgloves, and infants on the roads.

An iron gate opens,
an iron gate shuts,
a horse looking for attention,
a gray standing still,
maybe there are fresh eggs.
Why were the children born?

There is horseshit everywhere I look
Clean it up, someone – I’ve said enough.
God bless America,
The horses have bolted,
who’s in charge here?
The leaves of grass are growing,

whether we like it or not.