On {strike}

strike it once,

strike it twice,

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

talk at table

of striking miners

and Fidel Castro

 

strike it once

strike it twice

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

politick of youth

so very long ago

no work on Maggie’s farm

 

strike it once

strike it twice

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

perspective and reflection

two powerful God given tools

left and right, nada

 

strike it once

strike it twice

what’s so wrong in striking rock

 

clarity attained

it’s God’s will in His way

No only ever could

 

strike it once

overstate with twice

stretch your neck out on the block

 

Moses what were you thinking

Disobedience at the end

Sad but painfully true.

 

 

Freya

She peered over her glasses at the people around her. They should be quiet, she couldn’t hear herself think. Why were people so noisy these days. It wasn’t like this in my youth. We weren’t youth in my youth, or teenagers – we were just quiet. I still am, quiet she thought.

She quietly seethed as the community she had lived in all her life moved from rows of back to backs into towers in the sky. It no longer existed – that camaraderie over the washing lines. People got hard, they got selfish, they barricaded themselves into self-contained, self-proclaimed prison cells in the sky.

She quietly despaired as one by one, the children grew into hulking thugs – maybe the air was better in the sky as they shot up and out, ready to topple anyone that got in their way.

But that was a long time ago, now she quietly sat on the edge of the bench in what used to be a park. But the developers wanted to build and the palms of the councillors were greased and the bench now looked onto a wall. Quietly she thought at all the changes in her life, the noise, it was the deafening noise of people, traffic, building sites, sirens, dogs, children and these bloody youths.

“Oh,” she said out loud to herself, she had never sworn, not even in her head. It was different. She smiled, a wry slight smile that no one would notice because no one was looking at the old dear on the bench. Freya, no one called her that anymore, got up and began the rest of her journey home – to her little rooms in the sky, alone.

Sky Path

Who worked the path

That I traverse

To make it easier – for me

 

I love to look up

Into the inky black sky

A rainbow collar around the moon

White shiny dots

Outline the plough

And the guy for archery

 

Sometimes even planets

Are seen but I know nothing of these

I see only pinhole camera dots

 

Filled with wonder

Full of awe

At the hands that threw those lights into space

And who made my heart His home

Someone told me about the deathstars

Bright shining lights signalling death

 

One night two years ago

I saw a shooting star

Drop from the sky

 

Billy sang it was a satellite

And he wished you cared

But I saw it shoot

And I did not wish anything

As it fell down straight.

To you though, my love, my friend

 

I look forward to spending time with you

Your mission field was a small patch of land

Seeds planted in each new child

 

I wonder do the others

Bear their seeds on their path

Maybe if I looked horizontal and not up

I would see across the meadow

Or see pairs of oxen too

Evenly yoked through history

 

The people came before and are yet to come

The ones who surround me now

The crowd of witnesses from the field

 

Bringing us all

Closer to Thee O Lord

Closer to Thee.

{lonely} boy

No messages, you have no messages

the sanitised voice revealed.

No messages, no friends, no life

Thomas concluded in his head

 

He imagined pressing the button

the proclaimed the number of friends

no friends, you have no friends

Thomas moved through his house

 

Once more he imagined the button

the shrill metallic female

Shouted, don’t you get it – loser boy

no message, no friend, no life

 

Thomas had been here before

in the aloneness of loneliness

he stood by the window

and cried.