The Voices In The Walls

My front door is always opened 
My windows are as the same too 

To the breeze 
To the breeze 
To the breeze 

My floor is with daylight shades 
My floor is brownish in lay 

To the breeze 
To the breeze 
To the breeze 

My sofa is with delight 
My sofa is reddish and old Victorian fade 

To the breeze 
To the breeze 
To the breeze 

There is a story not being told here  
There is a story that sits in the walls 

To the breeze 
To the breeze 
To the breeze 

These walls have ears and they hear 
These walls have voices and they whisper 

To the breeze 
To the breeze 
To the breeze 

Philosophy On A Sunday Sermon

Stranger than fiction is seasons of the world past

Present and as at, as at before with strings

Secrets of the past made subject interlude 

Of our enquiry to indulge, "hanging apples"

History by historians writes "history boys"

Always has that hint dot of fiction attached

For no story is complete without the cacophony 

Of special effects based on dramatisation of views 

Hence the grape vine and the Chinese whispers

The missing chapters and the thorn out pages

Enquiry always leaves room rich for imagination 

The unknown breeds fertile in rapid thoughts 

Speculation, to trust the mind to go 

On a wild hunt of suspense "who done it"

Between all the spiritual books and all

The Egyptian scrolls of present past  

The unequivocal stands made 

Is to have truth as a chapter subject to

Once preferred associated stands

If Hitler was to write the history books

For the bible knows and tells me so

So as to analyse what I read rather

Than take it as raw like sushi on face-value  

A chapter has subjected angles of thoughts  

Nature "God", has never spoon fed

Man to start now with the history boys

What with a big brain given and 

The will to explore with intriguing notions   

He went to war

I can not hold this thought in me, no more 
It will sink the vessel that stands 
Under this strain in half at Bermuda  


I can not tell the mother that wave  
Your son will serve at the front line 
Of wars at Normandy where the enemy stands 


And I promise to bring him back in one piece 
For Christmas, I swear I would, indeed I would 
Without any scare on hearts, oh sure I would 


But batten down the hatches tonight 
Just in-case, the earth should crack at Omaha beach 
And I am only to have, his dog tag in toe 


When I knock on your door this late 
Oh, but he was a hero, made of brawn  
Who fought for this land he called his own 


I will make sure he gets a bronze statue with rose 
Stood firmly in Trafalgar square with poppy 
For he went to war with the bravest of heart 


And fought in the fields, to free love in hostage 
He found a spear, right through his heart 
That left him bleeding, emotions gust 


I can not hold, this thought in me  
It weighs too heavy, on my weakened chest 
While I wait outside, your door to announce 


What words, am I to start of with   
It weighs too heavy on my weakened chest  
I can not hold t' thought in me 

Illusion of thought

I see a thousand lies titillating
A thousand more hanging  
Told in history books to accept 


And science presents me   
With factual, factual lies  
More of the same in stories told   

I see a thousand lies 
My eyes, at it, conspiring to tell 
In pictures view in optical illusion  


And religion holds the holly grail  
Of all that is said, in chinese whispers 
Two thousand years, of some whispers 


I see a thousand lights 
Different colours of creed  in view 
To be against, differences we share 


Yet with fingers stretched  to the point 
Held between the pictures view  
Both top and bottom, becomes the same 


I see a thousand lies
My eyes plays illusions on view 
And others go fanatic on beliefs 


But most I see 
Most of all, close on view 
Is a shape of truth, though be it abstract 

Looking close enough 
It sits in clear view 
Hidden by optical illusion 

The Queen's Speech

In times to come, woes in sight
In shadows past no vision of light
When darkness swallows and belches pity


The nitty gritty of pretty merry, I admire 
Shall become more of a fairy prayer
The sounding of war drums, follow rushing of waves


Inter-fusion of whaling voices, butchered at sea in piece(s) 
Bewilderment of supplications gone awry
An obligation of mercy to show and behold, made void 


To stem oozing pain from sighs at moonlight, made void 
And moanings from sides torn from buffets
Left to starve on the door step of war drums 


Meet me at the place where fear thrives
Where tears cry and whales moan of shallow waters 
Where uncertainty is surety, death is a luxury


At the place where happiness has no face
And destitute, grips like a fever pitch 
Then talk to me about misfortune, you lucky bustard

I am at War

If man had all and wanted none
Would the world know peace 
Or "yawn" on bordom 

Is war, peace and perfect 
All not made of the same concept 
Of falseness in it pure form, as absolute 

Can their meaning in deed ever exist 
Or will "dull "(ness) be the end result
Watching paint dry

For in war alliance are formed 
And in peace compromises are reached 
On strategy or desire, interchanging

Which always tips the balance of scale
To one party's favour over the other in equilibrum
As nature sees fit, like t' mount of grain on breeze 

Is our infinite "race " thirst  for satisfaction
Then not the only aspect of our lives
That can be considered perfect 

In infinite state of hunger and need
That it remains perpetual in perfect form 
Forming our greatest strength 

Is our greatest strength, of raw indulgence   
Not married to our greatest weakness 
The very definition of  being human 

Yet life is not as simple as that 
As we are, again gifted with  mystery 
And beyond what rational can justify 

Our selfishness made to crave companion 
Of recognition which in it self 
Staying in perfect perpetual form of need 

To belong , love, hate, religion, jealousy 
Feeding back into satisfaction 
Like in run race around circles nonstop

I did not set out to make sense of the world
I am too simple for that but only to prove its chaos 
Each feeding into the other, in constant  

In a perpetual need of continuation 
To help define us as human
Perfect in human form of continues need 

Being at war in peace 
Being at peace in war 
If man had all and wanted known 

Tear Drop

When good men go to war 
And the blue sky of paradise  
Turns grey with looming fright  


When politics ask good men to pick up arms
And they say it is for good reason, honest
This is a fight for our way of life


Our freedom, this is for justice 
For our right our honour 
Our democracy, right to bare arms 


When mothers hug their sons 
And send them off to the battle fields
Fearing the dreaded uniformed knock


We lost one, to the rose cottage 
Less one from deploring parade 
One less on the journey home, empty seats 


When good men go to war 
And death becomes of innocence 
Expect not the same man, to come back home

This Town

Lost opportunity 

This town is becoming like a ghost town
A ghost town
Austerity measures dem a fi call it


30 years on, still the same old story,
We wear props and costumes
To play a part in life's drama, you get me

Like a Shakespearian play, you get me, you get me
But this is reality staged
On ticking time, the hour glass

This town is becoming like a ghost town, a ghost town

The jobs of the promise lands

Turns into mirage of tranquillity in deserts

All the good clubs are closing down

No where left  for us to let our heads down

Steam engines about to explode, you get me, you get

Caution, raised and sent to the powers that be

The Unions are ready to march the streets

The Youth are without employment

Educational certificates are spat on by the employers

We are loosing our religion, you get me

Faith in the politics of the day, you get me

This town is becoming like a ghost town, 
A ghost town

Streets that echo's ghost of the boom time, you get me

Were we not told there will never be a burst again

This is the summer of discontent, you get me

Austerity is only known to the poor

The powers that be are delusional, you get me

Thinking we cry the same cry

Saying they feel our pain

This town is becoming like a ghost town,
A ghost town, you get me

A Case To Be Made

A Case to be made..
A course to fight ..
A reason to live, ..
A sweat for convictions..


In ready-ment ..
For deployment..
Redeployments in walk..


On shoes that walk on path ways..
Of Mandelas, Gandhis,
King Luthers n...
Ernesto Che Guevaras...

A rebel in the making..
A stand against establishments..
An Anarchist..


A hippie ..
A hero..
In revolution, devolution,  to evolutions..

An empowerment..
Of a dream..
A light to follow...


A legend in names..
Immortality of a legacy...
A sculpture of embodiment.. 


Was I born to lead...
Leading on a course, 
In belief..

To be fought for, or to follow..
Following in  the shadows of another..
Who am I to be..