what was it you said when I wasn’t listening
that made the world stop when i wasn’t watching?
the cicada did not give up its screeching
just because they were singing

who were they that took of the earth
and gave it to the heavens
were they from the north or the south?
from the violent east or the restless west?

the time of slumber is past
but dreams now walk in broad day light
the trees are moving, the trees are walking
how do you discern the drunkard?

shallow wells in the village square
hungry throats in the market place
rotund bellies filled with active worms
scabs, scabs, scabs everywhere

I am a stranger, I am a stranger
I will not stay, no, not tonight
the moon is bloodied by thoughts of tomorrow
when once again sacrifice is made to the gods

gods, gods, little gods, big gods
i have no gods
they have neither given me milk
nor fish, nor succulent breast

works of men, gods of wood
give me a cutlass, give me an axe
let me remake the gods
if I must bow, why not to self?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

NOTE: if you wonder how much rubbish I can write in under 5 minutes, you need wonder no longer. You have it above. Nasty little thing – disappointment (that is)

The Good Doctor: 2 years on

The Good Doctor: 2 years on

It is of course 2 years ago today when the good doctor took his leave.

I must admit the complete piece to which the following poem belonged was long and rambling, so I am only posting the poem here.

Father, your work is done
You have laid down the axe, the hoe and the surgeon’s blade
Now with keen eyes, steady hands and fingers sure, strum your guitar with the hosts of heaven

On quiet days when my task is done
Under a tree’s leafy shade
I will catch the strains of the music you make and bless the God of heaven

And when I too am done
And exit this worldly glade
I pray we meet again with kith and kin in God’s blessed heaven