Lockerbie


Hearken to the whisper
Three-hundred feathers — falling
From inside the reminiscer;

Going down.

Amongst the heather
Where purple cushioned silver
O’er the broad landscaping vista.

As their wings fell like a kite.

Now the white’s amongst the heather
And the bright’s brought down to nether
They were flying home for winter.

But that winter lasts forever
In the hearts of those left never
By those last words spoke together.

Three-hundred feathers falling
O’er the town, the brae, the valley
Evermore each mourning’s tally..

Brings; three-hundred, fore — each night.

© poormansdreams



Happiness, wisdom and foolish tragédies


Happiness is a forbidden fruit

when your soul consumes such grief,

the smiling, juicy, joyous flesh

makes Temptation a willing thief,

it’s often sought in seas of excess

leaving wrecks at Dependence Reef,

it can turn the sinning, wicked brutes

into patron saints of belief.

The taste of Happiness is absolute

without eating branch and leaf,

and, a tangle with despair’s wiry mesh

makes the taste that much more sweet.


Wisdom is an unwanted gift

when you think you know it all,

it hides in spirit’s plane of sight

foreseen under Sage’s shawl,

it can make ignorance feel like bliss

and, learning truth – a bloody brawl,

but, nevertheless, a worthy fight,

one worth every scarring maul.

Humility provides the lift

when pride tumbles as it falls,

and compassion reconstructs might

building bridges from crumbled walls.


This experience of all, which pervades us,

from cradle to grave and beyond,

can be unremarkable, perplexing and outrageous

once spawned in primordial pond,

this human condition exists to enslave us,

catching feelings that try to abscond,

a state which makes fallen angels our saviours,

and, breaks the chains of sacred bonds.

So, until selfish, greedy, loathsome behaviours

become unworthy, unkept, unfond,

there’ll be no happiness found in wisdom’s favours

while foolish tragédies eclipse le monde.