Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

Tis all too soon that Summer ends,
that leaves turn brown and cold descends
that all the flowers begin to die,
my friends, my hopes and you and I.
Look at the soft blown grass so green,
now glistening with a frosty sheen,
where still our footprints can be seen,
a footpath showing where we’ve been.
There are few footprints left there though,
for seldom do we choose to go.
For War drums beat the peace away,
and joyous thoughts in minds decay,
and men who cannot yet say no,
march off to kill another foe.

~ 2 ~

Children laugh and play in school,
all tethered to an iron rule,
which teachers’ freedom they but lease,
for as they grow it won’t increase.
Those cheery faces, laughing eyes,
will come to be what some despise,
and for some President they will die,
as part of the ever-growing lie.
And they will think that they were right,
as we before them lost from sight,
gave up our lives years before,
that they could follow us to war,
And do it all once again…
and live with all the f-----g pain!

~ 3 ~

No house, no tower, no rich King,
is worth ones life; nor anything,
that’s bashed into a child’s brain,
that as a man controlled and lame,
directs his purpose to fulfil,
a destiny of kill, and kill!!
Oh, round the flag we weep and wail,
in ceremonies held in fine detail,
encloaked in all the bloody hype,
to glorify war’s beastly tripe!!
All the blessings, downcast eyes,
of presidents, priests and passer bye,
weep away the truth and shame,
for none of them will know the pain.

~ 4 ~

So what the Hell is it all about,
this ridiculous life of wage and bout?
If not whose God is right or wrong,
or to which Church one must belong,
Religion – the curse that has no worth,
which wraps its arms around the Earth;
dividing Nations, men and times,
with all its prejudice words and rhymes.
Controlled by brainwashed freaks in drab,
from ancient times; with ancient gab,
intruding into children’s brains,
lest they grow up with other claims
that reveal the farcical disruptive seed,
from which these moronic hypocrites breed.

~ 5 ~

We are not different you and I,
just taught a different kind of lie,
that chains us to a way of life,
that we defend with gun and knife,
directed by the powers that be,
who distort the world for you and me,
that our true sameness we fail to see,
so avoid each other’s company.
And so we war and kill and maim,
not for love and not for fame,
but to erect our different absent Gods,
upon each other’s crimson sods,
for we are all so bloody right
that we wither in our own made plight.

~ 6 ~

Who is right and who is wrong,
the farcical everlasting song,
for as long as two people can’t agree,
no man on Earth will ere be free,
for freedom defended by the gun,
is not true freedom that is won,
for freedom is the expression of a peace,
that one by the other will increase,
but never while we worship God,
for then tis won by gun and rod,
for His name is used as the excuse,
to justify the ongoing abuse,
of all things standing in the way,
of those who believe they have the say.

~ 7 ~

Part of the whole we flourish and we die,
and make ingredient for a blossoms eye,
grow the nettle, give power to the beast,
providing action where tis action ceased.
One great oneness grasses fused with sand,
legs and arms supporting head and hand,
made from water all ingredients lent,
until returning when the day is spent,
to fertilize; re-spawn as fish and sea,
as a billion seeds divided all from thee.
For of the Earth we are, to where we’re sown,
as all those elements from which we’ve grown,
to make ourselves our images to survive,
lest death leaves none of us left alive.

~ 8 ~

We compete with flowers for their beauteous look,
pollute the rivers enslave the bubbling brook,
and crush the daisies beneath an angry boot,
and all that bars our way we whip and shoot.
It is a vital struggle; the Earth a writing orb,
death feeds on life and life from death absorbs,
the living seed transplanted in the grave,
where all life dies that it must all life save.
Yet ashes waste all form and ingredients lost,
deprive the Earth of substance at great cost.
The fulcrum spirit illusive in the soul,
divides belief in a united living whole,
distorted by a preponderance of real doubt
that lacks the trust of those who are devout.

~ 9 ~

The palm grows on a lonely island until it fruits,
then soon tis overwhelmed by men in suits,
like mice drawn by the smell of cheese to feed,
their self satisfying self demeaning greed.
For the flag men die that the wondrous nation lives,
yet death denies all that their dying gives,
for it takes from them the lives from whence life comes,
unborn children to the warriors fate succumbs.
And all the music the fanfares and farewells,
restore no life from where the earth worm dwells,
in the decaying bodies spiritless wasted form,
where their seeds recycled through death drawn,
hear not the crying nor comprehend the grief,
that burdens the living with their vain belief.

~ 10 ~

Shattered bodies across the battle fields lie,
wasted souls lie dead while some still die,
the best of men, the boldest of the bold,
by senseless slaughter lie empty in the cold
while men of fame whom History will record,
sit behind their desks that no soldier could afford,
expressing sorrow for the orders that they gave,
that sent those youngsters to their early graves.
The nation rejoices: God we have won the war!
The flags they fly across the foreign shore…
while in the shadows of that tall flagpole,
the widows weep for those war from them stole,
and unborn babies; ghosts in the darkness cry,
that before their birth they all had to die.

~ 11 ~

Green fields we turn to dirt, then rain made mud
that steals the fodder from the fat cows cud,
and farmers live on subsidised government pay,
to farm the land where there is no hay.
The great wide land raped and pillaged more,
than any scape battered down by war.
Polluted rivers, swamplands filled with trash,
where cities thrive on the greedy and their cash.
We call it freedom to stink up the pure sweet air.
And what of nature… do we really care?
So we build our rockets for we’ll one day leave this Earth,
riddled with cavities all gone its wondrous worth,
To fly away and find another planet scape,
to drain and maim, wage more war and rape.

~ 12 ~

The seeds of man, the DNA of his worth
made up of all the parts that make the Earth.
Whence did it come; from what curious mould,
an elusive trace that none it seems can hold.
From it comes man but what from doth it grow,
from a place called nothing of which we do not know,
where something great and marvellous yet minute,
dwells as a living spirit none can refute.
Tis not the molecule spiral from which life dawns
for a molecule is part of something else preformed,
that yet defies the primitive thoughts we share,
for we cannot yet find something to compare:
Tis indestructible while it lies dormant as a seed,
yet it can die when forming forms that bleed.

~ 13 ~

What joins the ingredients to make the form but one,
a unity so unique when it is done?
Yet being unique each one is still the same,
as all the others; all links in a single chain.
Is not the mind then fashioned from its eyes?
Hearing, touch and smell; we yet surmise.
Thus being so form linked to one great whole,
in the shadow of a single mysterious flag on its pole;
Transparent, solid, yet never blown away
by all the storms and conflicts of our day.
All the nations, fortresses, that we build
for which our valiant soldiers are all killed,
have no more substance than a wild flower,
which blossoms, blooms and withers by the hour.

~ 14 ~

Such wonderful thoughts a lovely mind can state,
yet from that same allotment transpire hate.
Yet neither one initially seems to dwell,
in the unformed brain though it is hard to tell,
if one is born to hate or just to dream,
if he will grow to love or to demean.
Then from what source doth hate and love combine,
or separate along life’s youthful variant vine,
What force determines what the mind doth think,
that leads it onward or from progress shrink.
There is the sexual power in man as in beast,
that tempts the proving to his peers at least,
that he is stronger and can a woman win,
for she is a proven purpose of his sin.

~ 15 ~

Such drive is strong in men to succeed;
Tis their true purpose to fertilise the seed
that is inspired by a deeply felt desire,
bathed in excitement to ensure that it transpire.
Man is not gentle who gentle has not been,
whose mind has from another’s thoughts obscene,
been tampered with that he those same thoughts form,
due to those folk who taught it as the norm.
He was so made of muscle and of blood,
to do his best be it ill or good,
determined by his tutors and his friends,
thus by their teachers too, to form his trends.
Yet by his own law designed to curb his will,
he struggles yet these changes to fulfil.

~ 16 ~

Some in the forest dwell and learn their art,
from that within with which they form a part,
and some upon the deserts find their way,
because from each of each they do not stray.
Man needs a common foe lest brothers fight,
for he must in all his classes show his might,
and demonstrate his power over choice,
to attract the sweeter tones of a female voice.
All that he has he must indeed defend,
for always will his brother seek to offend
and threaten all he stands for right or wrong,
thus man in all his efforts must be strong.
But does being strong mean teaching men to hate;
that love becomes a word to contemplate?

~ 17 ~

The common foe though they posed no threat,
were those folk coloured whom they’d never met,
who lived in countries where the sun was hot,
who had the freedom; that white men had not.
They had the Gold and fruitful fields and tracts,
muscular men referred quite soon as blacks.
They had their cults, laws and ways of life,
religious Gods but armed with spear and knife,
could not defeat the white invaders’ guns,
who soon their valued lands in cold blood overruns.
Imposed like this is there need for hate,
or is love behind the cruelty of their fate,
the gallant tribes the shattered slaughtered souls,
lost of their Gods and their Totem poles.

~ 18 ~

Folk are the same they seek but to survive
and raise their children in their family tribe
Yet draw faint lines along their boundary lines,
for a lion eats not where the Tiger dines.
They appoint a King to justify the law,
and create a God condemning them to war,
against intruders of another faith,
to keep their culture and their families safe.
They appoint their priests umpires of the realm,
who will, with promises, all fears overwhelm,
but whose great power change all common thought,
to think but thoughts only by them taught.
Thus the separate tribes all become confused
for by their leaders they are ruled and used.

~ 19 ~

From this gene man can now make man;
he has the power to research and to plan.
This seed of life from ingredients in the sod
needs not the spiritual touch of a God.
Men will decide as men have always done,
they will not cease their war until it’s won.
Some come and go; these do rarely stray,
who smell the cheese and for that moment stay,
Oft do we purchase what we can’t afford,
by it go broke then blame the tyrant horde,
for most do live above their real means,
based on images of unreal dreams,
there are none who on another can vent foul voice,
for most who live decide by their own choice.

~ 20 ~

If from a single pool a man doth fish,
to supply good nourishment for his dish,
tis soon that quality will decline,
and he’ll seek another place to dine.
Where from do meadow grasses grow,
if constant grazing like the hoe,
turns land to dust and thus the lake,
where flourishing now is his mistake.
The black man moved from pool to pool,
where he dwelt but briefly in the cool,
that when he returned to fill his dish,
there thrived still yet a lot of fish…
yet even he has vanished now…
with all the water and the plough.

~ 21 ~

In the eyes of others we all seek fame,
a known and prosperous, respected name,
and fancy that the words we speak,
condoned by our peers who also seek,
are granted remembrance in long time,
and wealthiness while we write our rhyme.
Oh what vain conquest is this then,
which strikes a bargain with a pen,
which leaks our thoughts out to a page,
that one becomes a well-known sage.
Yet towards what end do we write of war,
of blood and guts, remains and gore…
Of hatred seething in good men,
whose crimson ink yet fills the pen?

~ 22 ~

Why would one want to be told of war:
it’s depraved displacement, blood and gore?
When most know not how meat is killed,
that their lush plates are always filled,
with something dead that once was there,
among the living everywhere!
It matters not for death will come,
to you and I and everyone,
be it by nature or the gun,
or for some human psychotic’s fun.
Death lies there dormant in every home,
where guns are kept beside the phone,
Thus all the love we claim to store,
withers behind the bolted door.

~ 23 ~

Was not a gun for killing made,
as was the bayonets long grooved blade?
Thus why would one who loves the peace,
own that which doth duress increase.
Did Jesus whom we claim to praise,
as the saviour of our peaceful ways,
gain all his power from the gun,
or that which might but threaten some?
Where are we now? What is our choice?
Whose is the influence what chill voice,
directs the way we want to live,
be it to take or it to give…?
Yet while we preserve the private gun,
there is no trust in anyone.