It seemed as though my verse had gone;
I hadn’t rhymed in far too long
He took my words and killed them, see;
And then, there was no poetry.
No stanzas came, no stories nor;
All victim to my saboteur
My words no longer coursed through blood;
For what is poetry, sans love?
Of pen and ink: my paper broke;
Of diction: nary a word was spoke.
CM
I cannot feel the pain he’s given me
Parental blood be spilled, I hide my thoughts
And as I cannot speak the things I feel
Instead I find I’m saying what I ought.
My birthdate came; he wrote the rules of us:
A contract in accordance with a bond
No more, nor less, no reason for distrust;
He cannot split a kingdom once he’s gone.
Descending into madness left him blind
With horror mainly happening offstage
But had he spoken sanity, been kind,
No need for institution, law, or cage.
A father deaf to youngest daughter’s way
Will never hear the things she ought to say.
I would not have you fall in love with me
For what would you do then once you are loved?
You’d wrap yourself in everything you see—
For sentiment misleads when hearts be drugged.
You’d tell me how I spin your heart and head
And speak of all the things I have you feel;
You’d fall under my skin and into bed
Where lies the whole percentage of appeal.
But soon I’d be a tiresome little wretch
Who’d fade away, too easy to ignore;
Whose old and rhyming soul falls from the edge;
Too passionate a person to endure.
Unless you are in love with poetry
I pray you do not fall in love with me.
LMN
A poet’s shattered soul reacts to crumpled men with words intact
Recalling lies as glory folds, one verse – yet many stories told:
Our Wilfred said they’d cursed through sludge, towards their distant rest they’d trudged
And Wilfred’s men had lost their boots but limped on, blind, deaf to the hoots
There, Wilfred saw a hanging face – as death came to his writing-place
So we could read -at every jolt- of gargled blood to our revolt
If Wilfred knew – if he could see -dead men survived by poetry
What would he say – and would he be surprised his words adored by me?
Adored by age, revered by youth, for hitherto-unspoken truth.
If he were now – if he were here, would Wilfred to the world endear?
Or is it likelier he’d see: the sale of arms, cash weaponry?
And then the fight to stop it all, this great divide as countries fall?
Perhaps for now, hypocrisy – humanity’s mobocracy:
And as he rhymes of this or that, he’d write: Manus Manum Lavat.
Liberate Tutemet 