Words Of William Saint George

Verses Written to the Tune of "Ein Feste Burg"

2013-05-07T15:43:00.000+01:00

We stand atop God's holy mount,
beneath His wing-ed arm we hold.
Anointed from the living fount,
let fly His banner brave and bold.
Ranks of the ancient foe
upon our borders grow,
for deeper draws the night
to contend with the light;
Fear not! The Lord is with us.

In dread resplendence sits our Lord,
obey you now His call to arms.
Our shield His Spirit, sword His Word,
His champions shall not come to harm.
Though earth and heaven be rent,
our faith shall not relent.
Through fire and wind and rain,
our cause shall e'er remain.
The victory is granted us.

That victory through Christ is won,
whose blood was shed on Calvary.
Thanks to the Father, to the Son,
and to the Spirit glory.
Yet for the world we pray
for peace beneath his sway;
that righteousness abound.
In none let sin be found,
that all may come to know him.

All glory to the Godhead three,
from all the world be given.
Praise Him that loved and set us free,
your anthems lift to Heaven.
And while we stand as one
before his glorious throne,
with angels to adore
His name forevermore,
in humble supplication.

Saint George's Day Is Gone

2013-04-24T00:46:00.001+01:00

The day gives way fast unto night
and dim are all the lights,
the sunny smiles that shone at noon
fade in the watching moon.

The spells that made the morning sweet
and day both glad and meet,
now wane, and life must carry forth
for April Twenty-fourth.

The gifts of words were nothing more
than blessings long before
wished well upon this cheery lad
which made him gay and glad

The ticking clock respects no time
and soon the hour will chime,
but let this precious moment last
while all fades in our past.

The wind that blew on face and brow
are still born breezes now,
and so Saint George's day is gone,
my work here too is done.

Thoughts On A Cold And Sullen Eve

2013-04-22T23:27:00.003+01:00

Let us raise a little glass
and blow on little trumpets.
Let us toast, dear friend of mine
while the minutes march ahead.

Time is swift and time is soothing,
but memory disturbs the dream of living.
Dark the shadows, long the raincoats,
the pitter-patter of the raindrops
oft reminds and often hinders
one from going about their daily duties.

Still let us raise a little glass
and blow on little trumpets.
Fairies make me glad by day
and singing elves by night.

Her smile and call like Luthien's are,
and I, like Beren, eagerly follow.
Desperate for attention
and a warm and guiltless shoulder
while trying to keep the Darcy facade.

While trying to keep the cold outside
and killing the fire inside.
Two decades and three
and many more to come;
Of heartbreak, hope and hubris.

But let us rise and call for order.
Let us lift the little cups.
Drink, my dear friends, drink on me,
and do not waste one drop of wine.

Times are hard, though days be hopeful,
hard to come by, joy has proven.
Drink like there is no tomorrow.
It may turn out to be true.

So walked out Bill and dear old George
into the falling rain.
I sat and watched the glass doors swing,
and sighed as taxis hurried by.

I told myself, it will be fine
in this dear life of mine.

When The Jokes Are No More Funny

2013-04-05T13:37:00.004+01:00

Late into the year,
the excitement of the new
has long faded.

The heat of the day
grows at the slightest
irritation.

Smiles are plastic
and last a little longer.

Idiosyncrasies play
like a broken record,
repeating ad nauseum
to your heightened tension.

Then fun begins to hurt
from the saturation of the heart

and the closet misogynist wakes up
to play.

Pills, Restlessness & Prosody

2013-04-03T21:41:00.003+01:00

An overdose of pills
and heartache
and a nap
on the shrink's arm chair.

There's too much
to focus on,
and so little time
to think on it.

It's like
an Olympic dash,
but the track extends
to the far future.

And I hear it doesn't end.

When there are no storms
to draw one's fancy,
one looks within,
at the hurricane;
and in the mirror
a gorgon stares back blankly.

This is not a masquerade,
this is life.

The Lucky Ones Are Not Yet Born

2013-03-24T13:23:00.000Z

The lucky ones
are still unborn.

Still they live
in Odomankoma's womb,
and cast pearls
into the ocean
we call the starry sky.

They look down
into his pot,
and ask the old (wo)man

What is that black smoke
and that flashing flame?
Why do they cry
when they know
you do not hear?

Odomankoma,
wisest in all the heavens,
tells them:

That is hell,
with her new gods,
preaching fashion and make up.

Ananse has fooled them,
and taken all knowledge,
so they read a book
and think they are right.
They do not look,
they will not find,
but pray I do not send you there,
you lucky ones!

Farewell February

2013-02-28T19:39:00.000Z

Thank you,
when what you gave was not enough
it was enough
that you gave.

It has been fun,
and laughter
and pain.

So long,
farewell
until we meet next year.

Coldness

2013-02-25T23:16:00.001Z

Hopeless flies
the arrow
hard
against the wind,

a cry in the distance
of the desolation
of a desperate heart,

a sudden stop
within the enigmatic
eye of the storm.

The revolution
passes by,
and silhouetted faces
smile,

furrowed brows
masked by shadows,
and cloaks of falsehood
like a masquerade.

The drum rolls,
and bells toll
with an uncertain harmony.

Alone,
I sit on an iceberg,
and watch the loveless sea,
as the continents
float away into my dreams.

Take the children in,
and drain the blood.

There'll be carnage
in a bit.

Happiness

2013-01-22T22:33:00.001Z

I want to be happy.

But what is the end of all
life's endeavours?

The winning of friends,
and the losing of your soul?

If happiness was the only blessing
God gave,
why then does it evade us,
until we die,
and taste of it as we leave
this tired world,
with a grave sigh,

and reach for an eternity
that may still play hard to get?

What is the goal,
the grand desire?

Is it written in a book,
or carved on the stones
of our hearts?

Or is blindness
preached from a pulpit
by passionate culprits
the key to this illusion?

What is happiness,
and why does it tease us
in the deepest moments of despair?

What a cruel Queen!

And why do tensions fill us
instead of the cool springs
we were promised?

On whose blood is the testament
made,
and why does he not speak?

There's something fishy going on.

Victim

2013-01-15T20:36:00.002Z

Her captors did not hesitate
To desecrate and mutilate
Her consecrated cavern.

Now it lies,
Rent as the tomb of Christ,
And crying out
With Abel's voice.

The less taken path
Is her open grave,
The dry bush is her wreath.

The marching ants
May pay her homage
With bits of cockroach legs.

The crickets sing a requiem mass,
The spiders weave her shroud,
The blinded earthworms silently
Declare a solemn feast.

Crippity, crippity,
Slippery slomp,
The earthworms make
A solemn feast.

The Air Is Rife With Singing Bells

2012-12-24T23:35:00.000Z

The air is rife with singing bells,
in this heart, there joy rings
yet in the deep is heard the knell
that weeps for passing things.

To ancient stories we must hold
to failing hope we cling,
believing all that we are told,
what joy this season brings!

The lion once lay with the lamb
digesting in his gut,
and to an end we must succumb
and pass this earthly rut.

Yet in this folly must we hold,
and to our faith, must cling,
believing all that we are told,
what joy this season brings!

We wait for peace that will not end,
for joy that ever lasts,
yet chants the mantra, spend, and spend
for pleasure never lasts.

Yet for this folly do we hold,
some, for this faith, must die,
believing stories they were told,
where do their bones now lie?

The winds sing with the tolling bells
and joy runs to all men,
yet in the distance, hear the knell:
we know not where, nor when.

Closet Golliwog

2012-12-02T23:12:00.000Z

The room is dank and stale,
bed sheets and underwear shudder
in the closet bottom.

There, mucus stains
and bits of broken chicken bones
lie strewn as the slain
after Troy was sacked.

Windows are dark and dirty,
haunting curtains fly
as the lonesome winds sigh.

Pretentious music faintly sings:
bit-sized string quartets
chime a jolly melody
to an imaginary audience.

The mind grows faint from
pleasure's distress,
and foreboding what
may never come.

Reality is the chore
we robots must endure:
To escape in poetry
is like running off a cliff-
to an impending, thrilling end.

But it is more:
to rise from the dead as from sleep,
and know
that there's one more day
that must be lived.

Blonde Melons

2012-12-02T23:00:00.004Z

Are they a thing of the past
that have come to haunt
our future?

Turning on
with frantic twists
as we gyrate
to the platform of uncertainty,

we ignore the hoisted noose,
and tap our feet
to the rolling drums.

Goddesses of lipstick
and milkshake,
and the new Adonis,
revered by lustful bosoms
that condescend
to themselves.

Are we now a caricature
of our tv-tuned thoughts?
Have baked ideals
scripted by Mr. Scott
and scored by Mr. Elfmann?

We're like the walking
condensate of Hollywood's
vanity fair:
the centre-spectacle
of a ruinous carnival
on yellow painted buses
with beaded melons
juggling to the mind's
basest awe.

And the train-wreck-to-be
marches on with festive songs
-blinded by the fog of fun-
as it plunges head-first
into the gulf of Guinea.

Hopefully, the empty heads
will float and learn.

Periwigs and Petticoats

2012-11-14T17:12:00.001Z

Periwigs and Petticoats
fell out of favour
for ipads and twitter feeds.

No one pens them anymore.
They instead say them,
with the freedom
of the spirit,
without care
of consequence.

I fail without the comfy chains,
I cannot defy the sun's hot stare.

So I hide under a shell,
with a sheet and a quill,
an aging muse
and a bottle of thoughts.

And in solidarity
with the old, toothless hag,
I write and I care not.

A Response To John Ashbery's "What Is Poetry?"

2012-11-07T09:44:00.000Z

What shall we do when we tire of beauty?
The sun shines too hard
on our pale, transluscent skin.
Let us dance in the moonlight,
or take cover under leaves.
Roaches and earthworms
make the greatest company.

Who'll walk the red carpet in a black dress
and a silver tiara?
Who will we stare at? Who will we love
in our dreams?

Why should we bother? We can whore ourselves
to some hag in the corner,
because that's what they want,
and that's what they'll get.
It is not right to condescend,
so let every man choose the pig to pair:
Why bother when the stakeholders are amused?

Believe every incomprehensible phrase.
There is art in it. All of it.
Only it leaves a sour aftertaste.

Through A Shattered Mirror

2012-10-17T19:51:00.002+01:00

The eyes fly across
scapes defined by broken thoughts,
misbegotten dreams
and a deep disdain,
for the mouth of the stream.

Darkness paints the purple sky,
and a yellow moon,
tossed about the tumults
of the stars scatter their lights
-the only true essence -
on us lowly persons.

Who will scale the mount
to pluck the fruit of the gods?

We see the world
through a shattered glass.

It mirrors us, we see ourselves,
naked before the conscience
that condescends like the judge
and smiles on our fate:
Destined to walk over the cliff
and plunge into the icy waters
of the After.

But which of them
will grow wings before the splash,
and taste the seed of heaven,
and become immortal,
even as the maelstrom
devours all into forgetfulness?

Who will tug on the coat of remembrance,
and ask of him:
Pray, tell them of me?

Only the frantic venture to,
and so are remembered.

Nameless Fiend

2012-10-08T13:17:00.002+01:00

I am standing at the cliff's edge
as I look out to the sea;
waves crash on a nameless shoreline
stirred up by a nameless wind.

In my spirit I am pounding,
filled with dread anticipation.
Something in the air is stirring-
portent of a nameless fiend.

I can feel her fiery breathing
and can see her charming eyes.
I am incapacitated
by the shadow of her being.

She's the mother of confusion,
the enchantress of despair;
keeper of a flock of sorrows,
goat-herd of a thousand fears.

In the storm clouds lowly lying
pregnant with a load of woe,
rides her throne in middle heaven
cast in a devouring night.

As the day slips into darkness
and my courage withers more,
she arrives in all her splendour,
clad in most commanding black:

"Come, my love, and cease resistance.
Let us waltz into the night.
Come, forsake all light and living.
Sacrifice your will to me."

I am weak and I am broken,
I have lost, for she has spoken.
So I step unto the scaffold
as her mists engulf my soul.

There's a calmness in her bosom
reminiscent of one's death.
In the doldrums of my defeat
there is not a thing that breathes.

Then I hear a distant echo
from the corner of my cage:
Something outside must be stirring
that I do not comprehend.

All goes dark and all falls silent
but I think I hear a voice.
Must be my imagination,
but it draws a smile from me.

I am lying in the sunshine
looking up to clear blue skies,
as a gentle, nameless sea breeze
ushers in a nameless hope.

Beauty And The Beast

2012-09-28T16:18:00.000+01:00

There she runs,
Bamby of the woods of his heart,
frolicking about the low leaves
and high roots.

Look, she joys in the freedom
of the trees,
holding back the world
like some ancient harness
that binds the black god
to his stool.

There's her innocence,
leaping in the mist,
drinking of the ambience
of courtly bird songs.

He sees through the eyes
of a crouching beast:
He picks up her scent,
and his decorum is vanquished.

His love is like
a wolf on the prowl,
it lusts against his will,
and devours on its own instincts.

She moves like the wind,
he flies like her shadow.

She flitters like a butterfly,
He reads her like a moth:
Was there no beauty
the beast did not find?

He cannot resist the inevitable.

Entangled

2012-09-15T23:12:00.003+01:00

Escaping boredom,
I take the road to freedom,
and find myself tangled
in a net of thoughts,
that lead me to where
I chose to flee from.
You win again.

The Lion In The Cage

2012-08-30T15:10:00.001+01:00

The Lion wakes up in the morning,
sitting in the cage.
The sheep rose up and put him there
to watch the old beast age.

They shut him in,
they shut him up,
they will not let him out.

His cubs are lost
without his roar,
they fear the bleating sheep.

Saving Innocence

2012-07-15T21:29:00.000+01:00

I am thinking of a rosebud that is high up on a shelf;

That is infixed, seeming guarded, by the thorned bush in the vase,

It is very newly budding on a stalk all by itself,

And amongst its full-bloomed siblings, verily looks out of place.

I am looking at a lily, young and new and on the water,

Leaves out-spread and basking cleanly in the early morning sun.

In the brakish underwater, two large eyes swim quickly after.

For that lily, sparkling silly, must the toad defile for fun.

I am dreaming of the linen mother left to dry this morning

After soaking overnight and washing thoroughly at dawn,

In the early morning hours was my spirit early waking,

Clearly shaken, for the cloth was dirtied on the muddy lawn.

'Twas for fun, the kids that tore her from the highest drying line,

Home from farming, thought to clean their dirty fingers on her white.

Clean they did on mother's linen, but to them the dirt was fine.

Did not bother for the expense of their cheap and selfish blight.

I am hurting for the clear brook that is stirred up by the hiker's

Mindless straying into water that is home to plant and fish.

Worse, the dirty, muddy tires of the eager mountain bikers

Do not seem to get my message that they're actions are selfish.

Ask me why I bother dearly, to wake up so cold and early

When the lives of men and women are at need and must not wait.

Ask me why I seem to bother, why I fret and why I worry,

When what needs to happen happens, why I stop and instigate.

It's a keen philosophy that most escapes the pitter-patter

Of the daily selfish urge to get what one feels he must get.

When in haste we do not think of all the harm we do to others

And lose sight of many little failings that we must regret.

Now I see that feeble rosebud, that is high up on the shelf,

That is certainly well guarded by the thorned bush in the vase.

She is very newly budding on a stalk all by herself;

And about, her full-bloomed siblings must protect her private place.

Where Leads This Road

2012-06-20T01:04:00.000+01:00

Where leads the road beyond all sight,

to vales of joy or dens of night?

We cannot tell, but on we go,

to where the whispering voices flow.

Where leads the green perennial trail,

up founts of youth, or holy grail?

We shall not tell, lest many tow

their burdens to the place we go.

Where leads the road beyond the sun,

where rivers sit, and valleys run?

We cannot tell, for it has lead

beyond the bridges of the dead.

Do not be fooled by foliage green,

as though, of life,this road has seen.

We whisper, that is how we warn;

"Take flight before the break of dawn!"

Mental Prostitute

2012-06-14T14:24:00.001+01:00

Try so hard to be someone
then you forget what you've become.
Your day job is a constant frown,
your diadem, a leaded crown.

You strut the streets with oppulence,
yet are not paid your recompense.
You lie, you cheat just to get by;
alone, you're broken, and you cry.

The world's a stage, but not for you.
You cannot ignore what is true:
you're a filthy, broken destitute,
at best, a mental prostitute.

Why wither, when you can regain
the treasure that you still disdain?

Humanity

2012-06-05T22:15:00.000+01:00

To celebrate this spirit,
that was born in hope and sorrow,
and carried through
the timeless winds,
to the making of horrors and dreams.

Here we all are gathered;
noble, vile or wicked,
round the altars
with our sacrifice,
before the shrine
raised for ourselves.

We prostrate to the gods,
who are our greed and our self love,
yet it is from this love that
all the fruits of piety blossom.

The weak and the strong,
the brave and the broken,
all one under one banner
in the name of all Men.

Waterfall

2012-05-16T09:30:00.001+01:00

Floating across the surface,
a human speck admist
flotsam and jetsam,
I drift away from you,
into the sunset where
I'd rather be.

The wind huffs again
in a little cough
urged by my pestering prayer.

Away, away I go,
with that cold bread
damp with sea-salt
and clenched by
a determined fist.

I watch the rays of sunlight
set to a redish hell
of playful lights,
dancing like water nymphs
across my face.

I watch the mermaids,
and they remind me
of what it feels like
to be one, yet another,
and tossed in the middle
of land and never-ending sea.

I listen to their music
dance on the droplets of light
that drip with crystal salt
from my hanging hair,

and I think of life in your lair,
however awful, however fair.

But away I drift,
before the hour is passed,
I shall be dragged beneath
by the currents,
or tugged underneath
like the little nymphete's
plaything;

Or even tugged up into the sky
like a fish about to be eaten;

but this fate is not mine to tell,
nor is this life mine to wish and spell;

for now, I drift away from you,
and let my spirit taste
the gritty salt of an
over polluted waste-water.

And I wash myself
with the tears of the night time,
bask in the showers of eternity
as they swiftly pass before my eyes.

A waterfall, the maids have won this time.

Let the sylvan elves mourn no more,
for ever was he glad,
who freed himself from the world,
and swam the celestial plane alone
and unguided, wild and unrestrained.

Away, away from you a fly,
with the speed of an eager dolphin,
and the stealth of a stealing shark.

Away, and spin the stars to do my will,
even if it be for a time,
that time, shall be my eternity,
and I shall be its God,
until the next shall come.

A plunge pool, and all is well.