Vulture

(More lyrics for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)

It crawls up the wall
This vulture. Clinging onto
Concrete forests, hunched,
Beak in a dirt trough.

Let’s watch it,
Give it a chance…
Slowly, head raises, twitches,
Wings set in posturing gesture.

Suddenly beak opens, dirt vomits,
Spewing gall and bile.
A fine mist of poison,
Seeping in.

The vulture picks the bones,
Pulling at what’s left –
Tendons, sinews, marrow, blood –
And waits for more corpses brought.

It purrs and caws
Testing its voice, the range of tone, the
Lies. And how the ears and eyes
Receive them.

It practices a death song,
Over and over, repeated and chanted,
Louder and louder until
The ears accept it.

vulture4

Advertisements
Vulture

Gone/Not Gone

(Didn’t quite know how to do this one or whether to publish it… my grandmother had Alzheimer’s Disease and died a few years ago now. That inspired this poem.)

 

When I am gone, I am not gone.
I sit and see
Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday.
And I was so in love with him.

They were in love with me.
They love the latest me too
Although I’m not sure why…
Who stands there,

Beaming and speaking slowly
To mum, or gran.
I keep my hands working,
But for why?

The television buzzes on
About people and life.
They keep nodding off in their chairs
And here’s breakfast again.

I don’t like here,
Locked in, locked out
Scratching at anything
To make sense.

I can do the best I can
To remember
I am I can do the best I can
I can do the best
I am I can do the best
Remember
I can
I am
I

Gone/Not Gone

Brocken Spectre

(Lyrics written for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)

 

brocken-spectre

 

Rich descendant of its

Poor and stupid ancestors.

Hoard-obsessed giant,

Arms wide on its mountain.

 

“Oh yes, I am the light.

A rainbow shines out of my face.

Shadow-cast your little minds with

Crazed joy – keep you in your place.”

 

We are of dust and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.

 

Feet fused with foundations of rock,

Too much time to roar and stare.

If its face had formed, it would have

Mouth contorted in a grimaced grin.

 

Delirium – you’re blind to its cloud-stride,

Trembling bones at laughter’s crack,

Shivering in spatters of cold rain.

Yet the little feeble chant comes back:

 

You are of mist and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.

 

(That poor mortal tragedy,

Necks bent, shuffling in the dark.

Overshadowed by the mountain giant,

Ever crawling through the mud.)

 

Poor giant, as the light dims,

This light illusion blurs and breaks –

The cloud shifts, disturbed and rolling,

Pierced through by jagged peaks.

 

It ends, curled up, foetal,

Imagining its mother’s arms

But falling through dispersing fog

Turning to a broken ghost.

Brocken Spectre

On the Harvest

van gogh wheat field with crows

A song for the harvest, based on an old tale of folklore… (Painting by van Gogh – Wheat Field with Crows)

In early spring, young dreamer, Silas Crow
Did so lament his status as a farmer..
Not full o’ fortune, rather full o’ woe:
When came to growing wheat, he were no charmer…

Crow was his name ’cause he was friend o’ birds.
Nah chased them off his field, at cost o’ yield.
The crows he favoured, by his very words,
His admiration truly had been sealed.

One day, while he was fighting with some weeds,
(Who seemed to laugh at him – this farming joke)
Young Silas tumbled back, scattering his seeds…
He banged his head… ’til sunset hadn’t woke.

And when his eyes did open, looking down,
There was a friendly crow who opened beak…
Unsure if t’was the injury to his crown,
Young Silas jumped as it began to speak:

“Farmer…” it started, in a raspy tone,
“Ye wish a noted harvest for the year?”
Silas did nod. “Then seeds are to be sown –
Don’t waste yer time a-sittin’ on yer rear.”

The man got to his feet and Crow did spake:
“I’ll help yer to a rich and fruitful yield…
If ye do as I say, with no mistake,
Ye’ll have the fullest bounty o’ yer field.”

And with that, Crow did ask of the young man
For half his seed to feed his birdy friends..
Silas agreed, open to any plan
That might result in any fruitful ends.

So as the year rolled onwards, Summer-bound,
The crops did flourish well, not pecked and small.
Silas came out for battle with the ground,
The ritual pulling o’ the weeds so tall…

But suddenly, alighted his friend Crow,
Who merely stood and slowly shook his head.
Young Silas stopped and leaned upon his hoe
To listen to what Crow came forth and said:

“Pull up the weeds, but leave them not to die.
Instead, replant them, bordering the field.”
Silas, he frowned, and questioned Crow: “But.. why?”
Crow laughed: “Ye’ll find a fuller crop so sealed.”

So Silas did his biddind… and come time
To reap the fruits o’ harvest for the year,
He did indeed each farmer’s yield outshine.
He gathered crops and grinned from ear to ear.

After the grand harvest celebration,
When Silas took the crown for best o’ show,
The bird flew down and by him took his station.
Silas did thank and praise that wily crow.

The crow explained: “Plants are like earthly balance…
Each brother needs his sibling to be close.
A man can have a lifetime full o’ talents,
But listen to this Crow, so well verbose…”

“Without the vicious weed, there is no flower.
Without the lengthened nights, no rest for sun.
For now, ivy takes oak within its power…
The tapestry o’ nature here is spun.”

On the Harvest