Colin F. Jones


Those who sell the guns have the power,
To manipulate Government thinking and devour,
Like water through a floodgate that doth flow,
Filtered by a money sponge you know;
Every protest clever thought and truth,
By bending pipes to complicate the proof,
Of all the lies which claim were under threat,
By all the terrorist factions; our regret.
For fear remains the politicians’ tool,
Used to change the laws and play it kool,
For secret reasons that we all should know,
But never do til sunshine turns to snow,
And voice our thoughts now that the die is cast,
Too late to quell the spark which forms the blast.

There is no future, yet tomorrow comes,
Supported by the presents promised guns,
And we who have no choice pick up our shields,
And hope before our truth that evil yields.
No matter what new season greets the day,
It will be soldiers, who have the final say,
Thrown into battle by the powers that be,
We fight they say to keep our nation free.
Yet we are the foe that we can never meet,
Who cast our shadows on the turbulent street,
Who cast aside the morals of our codes,
Which freedom won in absence now erodes.
To gloat in choice is to complacent be,
And we’ll die from rot which made our nation free.

The fountain sprays it’s columns to a height,
Dependant on the power of its might,
Formed in the functions of its engines gears,
Upgraded by its servants blood and tears.
But even fountains do not reach the sky,
That soon the water falls, bye, and bye,
That the fountain is replaced to spray once more,
But with a different engine at its core.
Does not the greatest tree reduce the wood,
The more it spreads its limbs misunderstood,
That all its roots run from its own vast shade,
To seek the sun and thus the wood invade,
That in the end its servants are denied,
For all the trees have withered and have died.

That higher standard for which we used to fight,
That piece of paper that promised greater height,
Is now so common that we want it free,
For the modern poor are jobless with degree.
And still, sweet progress; those who’ve passed before,
Criticise still and change they all deplore,
For every passing world it seems was best,
Though all were subject to their sordid jest.
‘Tis change that we must visualise and grasp,
For nothing on this Earth the same will last,
As each and every soldier should have learned,
That every step of change was something earned.
Thus by example we must strongly stand,
For truth and love and attained by bloody hand.

You may well ask what is normal in our lives,
When normal is the way the world survives,
‘Tis normal that we suffer pain and woe,
For our beliefs stand up our strength to show.
A deer was born to flee the lion’s claw,
As man were born to wage survival’s war,
And all spring’s flowers in winter born to die,
Were briefly born to link our inner eye,
With understanding that the world was made,
That all upon was born to be afraid,
That their survival was the vital need,
Which from their essence could not in life be freed.
‘Tis only death which takes our lives away,
But while we live ‘tis death we must delay.

Iconoclastic verse is not my true intent,
If it seems to be then it was never meant,
Yet sour lemons oft do sweeten trend,
And Chocolate eggs are mostly hollow, friend.
Divineness will forever mark our way,
Despite the words great men in History say,
Despite the pot-holed road to glorious peace,
Which ever doth the chance of war increase
While dexterous tongues false promises prolong,
The myths subscribing to accepted wrong.
While those crestfallen keep the sin alive,
With credulous hope that only they survive,
For only they are victims of the times,
Shown in the self appraisal of their rhymes.

Conjecture rules the passions of the shires,
Raising multi-coloured flags upon their spires,
And those who profit congeal in silent tones,
Delighting in the conjunction of their homes.
That oft malign by status and disgust
In those poor folk who ambitious types mistrust:
Mercurial ways disguised as accountable acts.
Misuse of power to smokescreen real facts,
Are normal in this world of want-to-be,
Disguising servitude as an element of the free.
Most all of us do look the other way,
And seldom stand up when we have a say
For few will challenge convenience over wrong,
For truth in self subservience does not belong.

All rivers must be guided to the sea,
Though some form lakes seeming to be free,
But soon are channelled to the central vein,
Despite the regions forces that do claim,
The water should develop its own course,
And from the swollen ocean should divorce.
Well once a man’s strong castle was his home,
Where he could live in silence left alone,
But now he lives connected to the globe,
Which invades the confines of his loved abode.
Big brother watches while he buys his wares,
And soon it is that he no longer cares,
For really there is nothing he can do,
For those who protest are the branded few.