cast our image she's not a land to plough and

8/14/2019 Cast Our Image She's Not a Land to Plough And

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Cast Our Image

She's not a land to plough and reapOur minds are never wrong to beg for yields

I'm thinking of the foundryI want to cast our image

But, first, I must sign on to opennessTo pour our gold, silver or copper.

Copyright 2009 Paul Ade Silva

BLAIRS TORY

A kingpin has ferried shuffling middle cloutsInto the lower regions of BritainThree times, they were dealt the wrong deck and the packNeeded constant reshuffling to make the fudge lastSuper co-ordinates and entente royals, Charlie-showedThe economy to make dark wealth and braggartsThey sit on a footstool, precariously leaning into theReminiscence of Jester yearsThe ailing century when Britain did not workAnd Capitalism became Colonialism.


Doubtful Sixpence

Dark continent,a different ballgame.Diptych fora tamed spider

mixed mediaon a canvas.Crypt of theblack MadonnaMooreland benedictionthe doubtful sixpence.The woodcutter and 'Father Jose Maria'married the artist's wife atpotato harvesthad chips in a bed-sitwith inmates.



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Drummers of Revolutions

Drummers of revolutionsDusty means and ends

Collaborator-glazersGreen brick and scenarios

Outlines of conceptsTinges of colours

Sanity undermines imagination.Mystery of forgotten dreams

Spiked blood

Thinks red with rage

You played along beside meKnowing I was a gameA pale brown soil!


The Earth

Brandishing grief, a seabed had pub-crawledAn orchard through a blind alley

We priced the earth and had weptTurbulence full to bathe a storm!

We'd been on a boat smelling sweet with such trippingIn the dark and had tried out our last gossip

We'd stampeded our feet as a nuisance and hadHeld our smile to the fragrance of a smudged world

The Earth, our own, has kept us aliveEternal Almighty RegeneratorTriumphant Hold-us-ness.



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Guantanamo Bay

Guantanamo mourns full of

Othellos whose times have purchaseddeath and their judgement a dread circle.With a little carefree, GWB baits anger with art his family comic collection.


I smell paradise

I smell paradise when George in a dice of solemnityEmbraces the hiatus.

The only Hercules dancing away the throes;Chest-beating the barbarians -returnees - from five thousand years of history

This jig and this lull epitomiseThe new love for Herculean heroics on superior plutonium wings.

I smell paradise full of people a newly liberated form fromThe crutches of Saddam Hussein

Those once impoverished now celebrateWith tanks of water and bucketful of poohds.

The crossed swords, emblem of Baghdad,Are now fitful smiles of the freed Iraqis.

I smell paradise when the old Europe prostratesTo the New at the helm of reconstruction insomnia.

Americans with pocketful of peace diceNATO into a rapid disability;

Branding the once shaky,Blurring the truths once held dearly.



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LEVEL CROSSING

It was above her

Affecting her profilingIn the dimMmm, a different person, a different mealShe said the thought but the It answers:You mean people eat differently?No, men and ants are meals alikeRhyming like cars, getting there to here.But ants eat differentThings! They eatStones soil and wood

They eat other ants,

Not like people,People do not eat peopleNo, not now,She was the ideaShe has brought all its episodes intoA lump fit for level crossingShed face it now,To tell it that as a child, she knewAnts eat antsBut men kill menNot even for a meal

Then she thought, just tell it to the Police



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By-Gone Lights

Leathered wilfully, desperate caricatures

are laughing still as folklores live longerthan people, and people are tripping in andout of lights. Different shades of darknessare pontificating at bare existence... Butthe poor make round the goings on in theworld. Self-amusement is enchanting as anhonourable Philistine, praised for hismasonry outside womanhood only to go hometo 'mummies' rejected in the bright, butloved in shades. Disparagement of a pint ora glass of wine would not do the damage to a

dream reeled on knocking the stars, beamingsilly! Neither a 'James Bond' nor a 'NicoleKidman' has a monopoly on aesthetics. Thedowntrodden are the infinite symbol; theirefforts are real icons rekindling the cravedboldness, the boldness of by-gone lights.



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Womb, the originOf life, woman brought forthMan in herself demonstrating her complex self-

Awareness of lifeNeutralising physical power of death, as of man

And the dullness in man condemned

Have you not seen or heardThe cravings of excitement by menIn brawls or the display of aggressionBy manners unmeasuredConfirming how lonely a man is. DissatisfiedWith himself, needing to find the meaning of self

And the dullness in man condemned

Women always defend men in gentler ways than oneMens defence of women adds upTo one and only one, the grinding, abrasive muscularity,Then, the collapse. Yes, a man drops in many ways,Firstly the trickles and last, oh at last the self-inflicted exhaustion;The near-loss of consciousness, needing a womans respite

To come back to life not to combat life

Yes, women die tooA poetic deathA disguise for the continuation of life inDifferent forms and shapes tracking theLife in man is realAnd will grow

To come back to life not to combat life

Women are the substance of lifeOn earth, theyre in bitsThe great MotherAnd the lesser motherMother of all, nonetheless

To come back to life not to combat life.


cast our image she's not a land to plough and

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