Friday, 11 November 2016
There is nothing left to feel
the mud and blood have sealed my eyes
there is nothing left to heal
even pain my mind defies
the whistling bombs and rattling guns
no longer frighten me to death
for Death is standing over me
arms folded, waiting my last breath.
To think that all I ever dreamed
a life of love, and love of life
destroyed by powerful men who schemed
and used the likes of me in strife
They will never face such thoughts
as, smashed and shattered, I face now
The future will my bones expose
exhumed by shiny-breasted plough
and once again the shining sun
will warm my relics in the tilth
and birds replace the booming gun
forgetting all this bloody filth.
© Rob King 11th November 2016
Friday, 25 March 2016
|Sunset over Scarning Village|
I've been feeling a bit troubled recently with all the political crap that I'm coming across. This puts my feelings into words.
The sun is bright, but has no warmth
the days are growing longer
Winter's truly done and gone
but I'm not growing stronger
I need to set the blood a-coursing
throughout my limbs so weary
but there's too much crap inside my head
and I sit here feeling teary
Is it me or is it them?
that cause me so much trouble
that make me feel that all is bad -
reduce my heart to rubble
It seems to be a daily fight
to find a happy thought
when the world around me isn't just,
and doing what it ought
I read the words and hear them said
and try to understand them
and assay to divine the truth
but find I can't command them
there's lie on lie, and lie returned
all words of propaganda
and liars thrive within the hive
paid out with a backhander
So if I say "the truth to tell"
I mean it as I find it
and cannot offer guarantees
to the truth that lies behind it
for I can only speak out loud
of truth as it's presented
but walls are built with bricks of lies
and with more lies cemented
© Rob King
Sunday, 31 January 2016
Ode to the Rayburn
Throughout the Summer you solid squat
an iron mass, doors numbering four
your heavy eyelids held tight closed
chrome eyelashed like some blinged-up whore.
Your brooding blackness fills the corner
lends it darkness, saps the light,
no comfort will I find within you
whether it be day or night
for should I chance to get too close
your skin will suck the heat from me
the needle on your gauge at zero
you slumber, and I let you be.
But come the Autumn you awaken
I brush you down and clean you out
surround you with fresh feed and fuel
make you feel less cool without
The ritual begins in earnest
paper first, then willow chips
and thicker sticks, all laid in lattice
tunnels where the hot flame licks.
Now logs to crush the embers down
and slowly make an ashen bed,
so Ash goes in and shrinks to ash
while giving up its heat instead.
Quietly you start to sizzle
water in your boiler warms
spitting willow in the firebox
sparks contained will do no harm.
The needle on the gauge is lifting,
oven warming, hotplate too
I lift one eyelid, you respond
awakening with work to do.
Kettle filled I gently place it,
but water on its underneath
spits a violent reaction
instant steam demands relief
I sit back and read awhile
aware that you are gaining power
the kettle gently starts to sing
from nought to a hundred,
Half an hour!
Tonight, above your shielded hotplate
ironing will be hung to air
a silent job to last the night time
but you will neither know nor care.
So as the winter’s wicked tendrils
creep through gaps ‘tween door and floor
You become the silent heart
of welcome in our home once more.
© Rob King