Monday, 30 March 2020

Spring 2020, Sestina

Spring 2020 Sestina

Why should incompetents impose such laws
As kill off liberty to save what is
by its nature finite:  life? And do we own
our freedom? Is it really ours to end?
By what right do we kill it now?
And will it from the ashes ever rise?

Why bargain, why take risks?  Why not surprise
the Devil and point out his dreadful flaws?
Our freedom was so dearly won, we know
the priceless thing it is.
A thing on which we thought we could depend,
a thing we thought we never would disown.

Our liberty, so cherished has been known
to lift us up and help us rise
to greater things than otherwise.  Defend
it now, before it’s taken.  Devils claws
will tear it limb from limb, when it is his,
and leave us nothing of it as we know it now. 

But blood will not be spilt upon the snow,
no corpse within the grave which can be shown
to children wondering what they’ve lost.  It is
not freedom when it must comprise
some stunted version of itself, its laws
do not set limits, only bend.

It is our dearest love and greatest friend,
we knew it in our infancy and know
it best at death when we are outlaws
when all that can be known to us is known
and we can finally apprise 
ourselves of what it is.

And yet, then even that will be a précis,
its boundlessness incomprehensible can’t lend
itself to understanding. Yet if the dead could aphorise
they’d tell of liberty to make the living know
it was not something they should seek to own
nor curb, nor cage, nor crush nor seek to name its flaws.

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, 
world without end.  Freedom we can never own,
we’ll rise above these petty laws. 



Spring 2020 Villanelle

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,
You knew not truth, thought death incompetence,
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

For fear of freedom is a foul disease
And so is bossiness and arrogance,
We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease.

We see our hard won freedom wither, freeze.
Though death’s the thing you couldn’t countenance,
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

We’re gone and yet you could still us appease,
If you nursed freedom, gave her sustenance.
We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease

At birth we start our dying by degrees,
Accustomed to it, feel ambivalence.
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

You used us, badly, liberty to seize,
Expect revenge and anger, vehemence.
We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please.

Rondeau Spring 2020

We are the dead, no more alive
Yet troubled, for you can’t contrive
Sweet freedom’s breath to quite deny
And blame our deaths to satisfy
Such theft. The means by which men thrive

Is freedom still.  Do not connive
To use us as a shield, deprive
Of life the free, to justify 
The dead.

Though dead, from death we could derive
Some gladness, if you would but strive
To keep sweet freedom standing by,
Release her, thus indemnify
Our loss.  Sweet freedom must survive
The dead

Spring 2020 A Sonnet

We are the dead, who lie here ill at ease,
We are the dead, who fret and barely slumber.
We are the dead, the ones you cannot please
And still we don’t exist in extra number.
And yet our end you’d barely countenance.
Because you feared the truth, you knew not death,
The end of life you thought incompetence
And so, in fear, stole liberty’s last breath.
We are the dead who would have always died,
We are the dead who never could survive.
We’re those who gladly would have fought, denied
Each sad attempt to keep our flesh alive.
We do not rest in peace, but rest in dread:
You tried to steal freedom in our stead. 

Saturday, 28 March 2020

Enforcing Sadist



Enforcing sadist. They tend to be military sergeants, deans of universities, prison overseers, police officers or people with other authoritative functions who feel they should be the ones controlling and punishing people who have broken rules, regulations or laws.
He’s the enforcing sadist with authoritative function,
He feels it should be him enforcing law and regulation.
He’s full of smug, self serving earnestness, or unction,
And is thrilled to snitch, for the good of the nation. 
He doesn’t like louts who get above their station
And wish to walk their dogs in peace, without compunction.
He feels they should be put in camps of concentration.
He’s the enforcing sadist with authoritative function;
He thinks a spell in prison, in conjunction
With contamination
Is just what rebels need, if he can’t enforce expunction. 
He feels it should be him enforcing law and regulation,
He relishes the thought of total, social isolation,
Or solitary confinement, and would issue an injunction
Against socialisation.
He’s full of smug, self serving earnestness, or unction
And knows his bossiness is simply an adjunction
To his saintliness, worth endless admiration.
He only wishes to protect his peers from bodily dysfunction,
And is thrilled to snitch, for the good of the nation. 
He’d love to impose fines and spells of vile incarceration,
Thinks punishment not severe enough at this particular junction.
He wishes men could hang, based on his simple allegation. 
Liberty for him is societal malfunction:
He’s the enforcing sadist.