LUCKY, LUCKY, LUCKY!

Our lives are devastation with inflation running wild.
(She's grinding food for animals to feed her starving child).
We may not have a Sunday roast, whatever shall we do?
(Her baby's close to death tonight, he may not make it through).
It's possible subscription to the gym may have to go.
(The rains have failed again this year, the crops will never grow).
The children need some trainers and they'll only have the best!
(Her baby dies while cuddled to his mother's empty breast).
We've pared back to essentials, there is no way we can save.
(With tear soaked eyes a mother lays her baby in his grave).

DANCING WITH ROSES

The path beckoned her,
to weave among the scented colour,
where bees hummed on nectar quest
and insects climbed to lofty leaves
in green delight.

The sun warmed her,
with solar rays of gentle heat,
from azure sky where swallows soar
on delta wings and larksong rings
in meadow air.

The peace soothed her,
in nature's world of simple truth,
confusion slipped from muddled thought
and hid from tired and worried mind
behind a smile.

The world found her,
it offered safety's gloomy cloak,
to wear 'neath medication's rule
and asked how passed the recent hours. . .
she told them. . .

"I was dancing with the roses."

THE LILAC ROAD

I long to walk the lilac road,
the cobbled course to tumbling dunes.
between steep walls of whitewashed daub,
where cherry blossom stoops to greet,
until beyond the grassy cliff
AEgir's daughters ride the breeze
to rise and fall the whale's way,
delighting eyes still winter sore.

Downward to the drifting sand,
I'm dancing through the maron grass,
an undulating sugar world
of softness in a golden haze.
Spring reveals beneath the blue,
where angel clouds sail light and free,
until I melt to lazy mind,
and lilac roads become my way.

URBAN SLICK

A paved flash of urban slick
propelling souls in swaying mass,
diverts aside where Heaven waits,
designer clad
and labelled loud.

Temptation's talons claw to greet,
"see how soft, how glitter rich,"
how shiny is the gleam of greed,
in eyes that seek
to slake desire.

"Touch the dreams of weeping grasp,
luxuriate in sweet excess."
Hades self indulgent rich
denying Penia's
ruling hand.

Courting plastic wealth of least,
unlikely prey are brought to stoop
till urban slick paves hunger's path
and glitter rich
lies empty poor.

HERE BUT FOR THE GRACE. . .

The world didn't change while I slept.

Cardboard chill is still my home,
soot covered broken bridge my ceiling,
how it trembles in fear of roaring
diesel progress, waking the night,
challenging the day, cracking
weary bricks.

At dawn the world is empty,
as my stomach,
as my dreams.
Industry sleeps but
anticipation spikes the air.

Soon, they will swarm;
the rich to their city eyries,
heads in the clouds,
heads of business, heads of state,
heads or tales,
decisions wait!

Blue collars,
in ones and twos,
marching to a swagger tune,
booted and muted
by a sleep disturbed,

but now I must dine,
on sell-by dates earlier than mine,
second hand,
second place,
second to the human race.

As my dignity is crushed
by a well heeled boot
in a faceless rush
memories of clean despair
define a life no longer there

beware. . .

here but for the grace. . .
this grimy hair could frame your face.