Bad Magic
Mankind has taken hold
of the dark end of the wand
for now, so when it
waves this baton of power
it curses itself anew
Eases into greed
The murderer of the soul
Acquiesces to the
Hating heart and the
blood stained fist
But wait and be patient h
For light is coming
And the morning waits
Watching like a mother
Her sleeping child.
©Bernard Pearson
For Shane and Benjamin
The mute spoke
Because you gave
tongue to them
So they could sing again,
And some would swim again,
From the dead pool where
They had been kept
With each lancing, glancing,
Dancing word, the world
was unlaced and freed.
Iron bars became willow wands
Held across hot coals
As we fire walked home with you.
©Bernard Pearson
Aroma
The smell of Death like Skunk
Hangs in the air when you get old
It lingers in your clothes even
when you re not the one who’s
Drugged or cold
Both are not spoken of in polite society
Their scent sticks in your throat
Though both brings on an
a different kind of high
When the world slips away easy
And you no longer think of life
And wonder why?
© Bernard Pearson
Advent
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting
And all the time the lights fade,
Standing, sitting, running, Kneeling
Not understanding , why just feeling.
Evil seems so very close,
I feel its breathe upon my cheek,
It mutters slogans whispers slowly
Of all it hates about the weak
And then the weak are
All around me linking arms
they now surround me
Love you see once it’s invited
Calms the soul of those benighted
So as we wait for the world
To come at last to its senses,
Circle round all those you can
Protecting them not from some ‘ devil’
But from the deeds of their fellow man.
© Bernard Pearson
Tunes of Glory
When lullabys drown out
the march to war,
and harpists unman the guns,
So Generals forget the score.
When songs break out
across old battle grounds,
and the shout and shriek
of shells no longer sounds.
Then not one more whited
sepulchre of waisted life,
will stand, dumb before
one more grief-tombed wife.
And bells will ring out,
where once they tolled,
For the heat for battle
will finally, finally run cold.
© Bernard Pearson
Love on the Railway
Chaperoned
By public transport
And the table between them,
Her eyes looked across on full beam.
He looked at his watch,
Six weeks, three days, five hours,
two minutes, and that first second.
He considered her as a father might
His first born child, the wonder
Of love, paralysed him in thought,
There was nothing beyond her,
Nothing before her, nothing without her,
For her part, She know there was
no other, just the one soul,
with two train tickets
© Bernard Pearson