I couldn’t be more sure
Of all the nostalgia I’d endure,
If I were to explore
A calf love crisis
That was so hard to cure,
How your mummy, she knew mine,
They’d been friends
For a little time,
And the time that you explained,
......
Snooze of peace reigned on a collage
of sacred impulse for serenity of shelter —
bower-girthed and soul-inundated —
but along the line, a stampede, peccant
and harlotic,
framed the sun.
Calm.
Grinding gently the ingredients of patience.
The somnolent waves mourn.
There are no tunnels under the seas,
But vistas cut open through
Creeping lights foreshadowed by the
Debris of epochal wrecks.
Calm.
......
Death speaks one language, profane
And doomed to a lasting fate of increasing
Hate. It hides beneath trackless jungles,
Puking blood in volumes. Staining foliage
Of sacrilege, it renders a jungle homeless,
Preening itself of incestuous ability to kill.
Death resides permanently in Golgotha —
That arena for killing — you well remember it:
......
Tumultuous clouds above keep vigil
On a cold, grey night, mourning the
Killing of visible stars...
Soot-darkness veils the brows of the
Skies in one orgy of perfidy, transmuting
The agelessness of heaven into a
Yolk of newness, fragile and tendril-tender.
Arrogant terns weave mock baskets for
......
Between the altar
and the belfry of the village cathedral,
an ancestral differenceꓽ age-long toll of the bell
and
historic quiet —
all to measure the heartbeat of man
and ascertain the valour in him.
It's wartime, we are sadly reminded!
The sounds of bombs come with both
Heart-cracking noise and necropolis-silence.
......
There’s this phrenology we were taught when the
World still had her intestines intactꓽ when the skull mounds
Up on the forehead —the sinciput of grace —
It is a head of crisis.
Like the new moon, a New Crisis has risen above us.
Darkness mumbles loud words, of a swarm of
Ridiculous locusts, which has pillaged our fields,
Harming every single blade,
Runcinated and monstrous to the eyes
......
Calm.
Grinding gently the ingredients of patience.
The somnolent waves mourn.
There are no tunnels under the seas,
But vistas cut open through
Creeping lights foreshadowed by the
Debris of epochal wrecks.
Calm.
......
Snooze of peace reigned on a collage
of sacred impulse for serenity of shelter —
bower-girthed and soul-inundated —
but along the line, a stampede, peccant
and harlotic,
framed the sun.
Yesterday reclines on the tenuous
breath of ancestral drums,
and summons protocols for the crowning
of tomorrow.
A martinet, yonder, celebrates the sepia
aura in the spine of the vista of the last days;
atavism unfetters the imprecation of hastening
Dawns.
And angels lengthen azure apparels,
......