Headstones toppled and smashed.
Even in death unable to escape
The irrational genocidal hatred,
Even laying in our graves
You can’t just let us be.
Communities threatened across the land,
Threats and nothing more, save anger and fear.
Is this a game? Or a rehearsal?
Nero fiddles as adviser Antiochus
Readies the swine to sacrifice
Atop the Temple Mount,
And fires up the furnaces
To burn more than just Rome.
Empty words echo from
The Capitoline hill,
Does the Reaper need to appear
Before Caesar and the Senate act?
Or would even that move them
If it were merely the life of a Jew?
Rachel is inconsolable
Eyes puffy and red,
Cheeks wet and raw,
Cut by the tracks of her tears
Cried for those who are no more.
From dawn to dusk she cries out
Yet there is no answer.
From sunset to sunrise she weeps
Blanketed by the black of the night,
Her only question: Why?
White patches of snow
An icy chill in the air
Spring is on the way
Doors open and close
Can be entrance or exit
Keep things out or in
Neither friend or enemy
A passage from here to there
This poem is my response to Colleen’s Weekly #Tanka #Poetry Challenge # 22 – “Door & Friend”
Her one dead eye
Looks off center at nothing.
Crevasses cut deep worry lines
In a once smooth forehead,
Freckled and aged,
Furrowed even further
By the pain now inflicted.
Her eye denies the tears
That his return has called forth.
Avoiding her gaze
He says nothing.
A steel statue,
Unchanged by time,
Whose silence speaks volumes.
– 6 July 1998 / 2 February 2017
Inspired by a dream almost 20 years ago. Recently brushed off and revised.
Give Britannia her name.
From the dark Formorians flee,
From Éirinn to Albainn fly,
Immortal Alba’s consort,
Prydein’s uncle and king,
Seven sons; Seven kingdoms
Ruled from the mother’s line.
Six brothers and a sister,
Continental Pictones flee
From unwanted advances in Gaul
To the open arms of Eire.
One brother died before they left,
Sister died on the way,
Only brother Gub and his son
Made it to the end.
Shipped off to Alba with Irish in-laws.
Never conquered by Rome.
Angles, Saxons and Jutes
Kept on their side of Hadrian’s wall
Until “Nobles” sold them out
For titles, land and some gold.
Together with worthy neighbors:
Gaels of Dál Riata, Britons of Strathclyde,
And others, under Cináed mac Ailpín,
Scottish forever more.
Qritani = Kri-ta-nee
Pritani = Pri-ta-nee
Cruithne = Crew-ith-nee
Britani = Bri-ta-nee
Éirinn = Air-in
Prydein = Pri-dane
Pictones = pict-o-nees (I think)
Eire = Aire-eh
Cináed mac Ailpín = Sin-aide mic ale-pin
Note: The illustration was found on WikiMedia Commons. Description: “Pict (or Caledonian), who lived in northeastern Scotland in Late Iron Age / Early Mediaeval times. As represented in a 19th century book.” Source: William Howitt, John Cassell, John Cassell’s Illustrated History of England: From the earliest period to the reign of Edward the Fourth., Editor: John Frederick Smith, Publisher W. Kent and Co., 1857. Page 6
I now have a video of myself reading Once Upon a Time available on my YouTube Channel.
This is the first of what I hope to be many videos I will be posting of myself reading poems and singing songs that I’ve written. For my first video I have chosen to read Thoughts, Dreams and Reflections (For Allen Ginsberg).
The fog sits so thick
Visibility is nil
Never despair; things will change
Strong winds blow the fog away
This poem is my response to Colleen’s Weekly #Tanka #Poetry Challenge #21 – “Fog & Change”
This poem is an addition to Níu Heimar and will appear as part of that poem if and when it is published in a book .
When the Nine Worlds have fallen to dust,
All is dead; destroyed.
The surviors, rightious and good,
Shall dwell in the golden hall of Gimlé
On the south side of Ásgarðr.
Moved for safety, some say,
Southward and upward
End long through the second and
Ever upward to the wind wide blue third Heaven,
Far from fire and death,
Where, ’tis said, only the Ljósálfar still dwell.
Ljósálfar = l-juice-al-far
Ásgarðr = As-garth
ð = th in “father”
Níu Heimar, Nine homes,
Nine Worlds the Universe is made.
Through the center Yggdrasil,
The cosmic backbone grows.
At the start there was only
And the gap in between
Muspelheim, home of world wrecker
Surtr and his Eldjötnar,
Fire giants living in volcanic furnaces
Waiting to break Bifröst to bits.
Icy Niflheim, mist-home,
World of dim darkness and fog
Bountiful bubbling spring
—filled by dew drops from the rack
of EikÞyrnir, Valhallan stag—
Where lives Níðhǫggr malice-striker;
From where Elivágar flows,
Feeding the rivers of the worlds.