Colin F. Jones



Each thing is set to grow upon the Earth,
In proportion, to the things around it placed,
Mortal death subserves continued birth,
And all of nature’s foes are soon disgraced
Where else, would a rose, so pure be found to grow,
Other than where, the background makes it seen,
Though crimson is revealed in frigid snow,
Tis brighter red against sweet Summer’s green.
Trees in their beauty need no glowing lights,
Nor is there better light than the Suns decree,
The natural light with that of a candle fights,
For flame was meant to burn not lit to see.
All things do fit, but where then fits the man,
Who was not born when all this life began.


All men have lust and greed a greater share,
Than the measured amount provided for their keep,
His vital role to give his offspring care,
But never for their sorrow will he weep.
He reaps and kills and kills and reaps again,
And has no common bond with life itself,
All is self a self which has no shame,
Based on increasing only his own gain.
Burdened with reason he seeks to establish law,
To curb his violent lusts and heartless ways,
All men are rivals each must yet deplore,
Yet like a flower lives and dies; decays.
For all that man can claim to be is brief,
Death chooses not the servant o’er the chief


So where does woman fit in life’s great role,
Indeed the woman is transient life itself,
For of herself she is the human whole,
Who lives to gain for all a greater wealth.
She is the flower, which lives to love and bloom,
To bear the torture of nature’s ruthless way,
Creating life in her restricted womb,
Nurturing love until her dying day.
For woman man erred in Eden and beyond,
And as his fellow beast competes to sire,
Despite himself for he cannot yet abscond,
From the inbuilt intrepid nature of desire.
For man is but designed to propagate,
As is for all male creatures’ common fate


God, of whom so much is yet unknown,
Is said to be the creator of the Earth,
Making from the dust all flesh and bone;
Giving man a brain to give him worth
Without the brain but of the same design,
He made the plants and all their vital seeds,
The wood the fruit the branches and the vine
With all the growing plants man shares his needs
Somewhere in history someone raised a pen,
And scribed a book of letters with his friends,
This was done, though no one knows quite when,
Confusing all the experts and their trends.
But it was writ and said to be Gods word,
Though many claim the whole thing still absurd


Then to the Earth God sent his only son,
Though in his shape was born of human kind
By his choice he had but only one,
So this method of deliverance he defined,
That man would view his son as one of them,
Who grew among them as a normal man,
Who would die and return to them again,
The Saviour came to rescue every one
So Jesus died that man in heaven might live,
Immortal life the desire of all who die,
Establishing in man the new quality ‘to give’,
And challenging with truth his every lie
It followed then that many deemed it wrong,
But many more still sing Gods sacred song.


Here we are all writers every one,
With all the moods and defects here sustained,
In all the parts of man there’s nothing gone
All the faults of Adam still retained.
The flesh is weak and bone is fragile stuff,
All our thoughts are based on hope and fate,
For we’re not made so strong nor very tough,
And mostly wisdom comes to us too late.
But what uniquely we in common share,
Are deeper thoughts that most do yet conceal
For few do risk what most will not declare
The innermost thoughts that weaknesses reveal.
For this I’m grateful, overcoming fear,
Inspired by friends I hold so very dear.


All that nature is its brutal way,
Lives prolonged in the human soul
That forces us to turn to God and pray
Lest its primitive grip takes a greater hold.
What marks us higher in a world of fear,
Than all the beasts that kill to survive,
Is that we know we have the good Lord near
That He, when we do falter, will provide.
Have you not seen the forests after fire,
Restored to greater health than before
Or heard a soldier reluctant to retire,
Condemn the wasteful toll of tragic war.
By this growing wisdom man and God,
Will overcome the heritage of the sod


Tis in the woods, deep among the trees,
Where the spirit of life is often best to feel;
Where in the natural element and the breeze,
The cruel reality of life is not concealed.
For beauty is but clothing for the snake,
And camouflage for the deadly beasts of prey
Decorative spiders await a fly’s mistake
What lurks at night sleeps contented through the day.
Yet all of this is given to inspire,
Our greater reason to trust the word of God,
To work towards the truth we all require,
If we in prosperous shoes hope to be shod.
Here where I sit where the creek doth flow,
I must confess we have a long way to go


So much are words like falling flakes of snow,
That gathers in drifts then slowly melt away,
Like clouds that gather in the evening glow,
But bring no rain of any use to show
No matter the envy of another’s lot,
We’d change not self to acquire his wealth,
Nor give away the little that we’ve got,
In order to obtain his better health.
Where stands the man in all of these true things,
The individual who has no singular rights,
Who by himself no progress ever brings,
Who gives more oft his anger than delights
Where doth the yellow ape make his den,
To write out history with a truthless pen


What is the vibrant passion in his soul
That makes him but a beast of fen and field
That saps his mind of reasonable control,
To turn upon the woman forced to yield.
To turn against his fellows on a whim,
Then sorrows for the wrongs he implements,
By turning back to those who saw him sin,
To steel from them their better complements.
Thrice forgiven he seeks to make it four,
For now he has a mandate to do wrong,
To do again what his foolish friends deplore,
For they all now to his viler acts belong.
For when the mass feels guilty for the one,
Justice for the victim is never done.


The yellow ape the law unto himself,
Behind closed doors in private homes prevails,
A cowardly creature unseen due to his stealth,
And camouflaged his methods never fails
He is the cuckoo ruling o’er the nest,
Dislodging the things that gather in his way
The master bull a primitive man at best,
The smiling man you meet who says “G’day”.
And women in their thousands battered slaves,
Who thought that married life might well be bliss,
Fear to speak against his violent ways,
For he keeps on crawling back for a forgiving kiss
And those who are not as vile as this ape,
Understand why he must beat and rape


So now the young man full of virile blood,
Is called upon to meet a foe in war
Some feel offended some feel it is good
Some will have the chance to hurt some more.
They have no choice they can’t this need decline,
Lest they be scorned for thinking for themselves
So most do what they’re told and do their time,
And leave youths thoughts behind on dusty shelves.
Those who chose to live the Army way,
Prepare the minds and skills of those who’ll fight,
Expendable they practice every day
But a glorious machine makes a glorious site,
They move as one a mass of Army green,
Filled with holes when they have been and seen.


Some must be leaders but first they must obey,
They cannot hand out orders otherwise,
They must believe they’re right in what they say,
Though many use their office for disguise.
A man in charge can always march beyond,
The distance that his soldiers have to go,
For leadership will make the leader strong,
Those soldiers who have been there they will know.
One acts his best when he is out on show,
In front of men his pride won’t let him down,
They will follow wherever he might go,
So long as he is faithful to the crown.
Thus being this an actor with a role,
He’ll do his best to reach the given goal.


Orders received oft challenge common sense,
But common sense is not a leader’s lot,
He must obey despite the end expense,
And some who have not done so have been shot
The question arises, when can he disobey,
Robotic faith opposes rational thought,
Is there a time when he must have his say,
Defy the logic of the things he’s taught.
There is no drill to relieve him of this fear,
No set design in nature’s natural way,
All is black and white and very clear,
He advances blind or bravely has his say,
And all those lives he saves he’ll not recall,
But every man who died he’ll know them all.


The soldier who responds knowing he will die,
To an order which tells him this he must do,
Is he a fool, a hero or an average guy,
Or like he who disobeys, a coward too.
Is it more cowardly to run before the foe,
Than to disobey an order in order to survive,
By not going where he’s told to go,
That staying keeps himself and his men alive.
How many soldiers die because of fools,
Who lead them as trained robots into war,
Who base their targets on such basic tools,
As ours is to do and die and nothing more.
Some pose before the cameras; “I’ll return,”
While those who make them heroes die and burn


All men in life have their jobs to do,
Based more oft on the level of one’s skill,
Which in turn is based on his faith too,
Carry out such duties with a will.
Men in groups do march in line and rank,
For ease of movement and for mass control,
There is protection at the rear and flank,
Enabling efficiency to be the primary role.
Tis said that beehives represent a troop,
Of soldiers linked as one in combat mode,
All doing not for one but for the whole,
Which spreads and therefore lightens any load.
Tis true such combinations work the best,
Yet why do they so often fail the test.


For a truck to move with safety straight and true,
Its eighteen tyres or more must not be worn,
And every tread must be the same true blue,
Efficient enough to weather any storm
Yet all these things mean nothing in the end,
If the driver of the unit lacks the skill,
To steer the rig around each precarious bend,
And hold her steady down each winding hill.
Every man has defects like a tyre,
And like a tyre he may or may not blow,
To cause the unit to buckle under fire,
And open up a weakness for the foe,
At the helm the leader with his skill,
Must impose upon the unit mammoth will.


Tis seldom those who wear the higher rank,
Than those commissioned leading from the face,
Who fire the guns and drive the battle tank,
And who indeed gain honour or disgrace
Who share the mateship war forces to exist,
Among the soldiers despite their vulgar dusts
Due perhaps to the fact they can’t resist,
Without each other in whom they all must trust
A common foe brings many groups together,
To bring about a victory for them all,
But then when sailing in the fairer weather,
They’ll fight amongst themselves to keep the ball.
Such are the views from the complex human tower,
On foundations crumpling slowly by the hour.


We recall those mates, years after the war is gone,
And even though we fought there side by side,
We still deplore the acts of the occasional one,
Who loved to kill and see how the other died.
Some hate their own more than they hate the foe,
Who saw the barbaric methods of their way,
Some we call ‘mates’ were never mates you know,
But of their foul deeds we are forbidden to say.
Forbidden! To speak the truth; reveal the facts,
If only to relieve the pain of our own disgust,
Once again in war just natural acts,
How can a veteran those once above him trust.
War is damnation vile and makes men bad,
Others well, it simply leaves them sad.


The farmer loves the land but not the tree;
He loves the cattle he butchers every day.
He kills the fox, the bat and kills the flea,
And has much less to do than he has to say.
His own dictator, the master of his maid,
With a Stone Age message in a modern time,
Half living in light the other half in shade;
He is the forest’s death, the twisted vine.
Frontiers recede and justice has its way,
The old dogs climb out from under sordid hats,
Their eyes still half open in the light of day,
Still seeing starving cattle on the treeless flats
And all exposed and useless there they stand,
Fallen uncrowned Kings without their land.


Those who’ve never farmed and never served,
In opposition are the farmer’s friends,
For both their trails are long and both are curved,
Both subservient to the future trend.
What ere they do and no matter what they say,
Some group will form to gather what it can,
In order to preserve a useless clay,
And mould it into something you can’t ban.
As it serves the veteran to stoke the glowing fire,
Then it will serve some political group to make,
A powerbase with wheels for the tyre,
To control the purpose of every trucks mistake.
For those who lead and think they rule their men,
Are booted by the stroke of a discarded pen.


To “be someone” is most folk’s true desire,
If not the King a prince or golden knight,
To stand upon a bastion with a squire,
That all look up with admiring envious sight,
We’ve all had dreams of greatness in our lives,
Selfish thoughts that make us greater men,
The Queen Bee in our turbulent social hives,
The master of the sword or of the pen
Yet there are greater folk than Kings and Queens,
Like Mothers and those who care for friends,
Those who work alone yet work in teams,
On whom so many dying folk depend.
For greatness is not climbing up a hill,
But in helping others that same process to fulfil.


There is no care in children for the rules;
They see no wrong in the natural things to do.
They do not long abide the crap of fools,
And love you simply because you are you.
But they fast change when faced with social law,
Subject to the vultures of the modern day,
By adult fears and the things that they deplore,
Those things the child has not the right to say.
Taught by denial most do soon offend,
For what human being likes being told?
If raised in fear they will long pretend,
Or raised in truth make their statements bold
No matter what they face a biased view,
And will be taught their clique is always true.


Some will grow in wonderment of the Pope,
And these will know that no one else is right,
But in their lives they’ll find it hard to cope,
With the contradiction of their saviours might
They won’t find friends where good friends wait for them,
For they will pause in fear to cross the line,
Lest all their teachings which all else condemn,
Are found to be quite less than they define.
For black and white are only black and white,
If the differences are revealed with common word,
And power will govern what is wrong or right,
Even though their laws become absurd.
For self divinity compares with biased view,
Everything others think might well be true.

Authors note:
The use of the word ‘Pope’ obviously refers to the
Roman Catholic Faith. However in this context, it
is simply an example of any religion and does not
specifically refer to the Roman Catholic Faith.


It comes to pass that those who live condemned,
For being native to their ancient lands,
Are given names they neither want nor lend,
And their different ‘skin’ becomes their social brand.
Considered less among those who define,
Themselves as right in everything they do,
They use their ‘difference’ to erect a shrine,
In order to advance their point of view.
In Vietnam our soldiers formed a tribe,
For they outcast had not done what was right,
Like the natives they had to then decide,
To form a faction to retain their might.
Their great nation bowed its head in shame,
Though too late honoured their proud name.


A truthful man will often lie for gain
But an honest man will not,
No my friends, they’re not the very same,
And if they are then maybe you forgot.
There are no ethics in ambitious men,
Yet such men will warm to honest view,
Many befriend to escape the commercial pen,
One of substance but not one of his crew
Would not a Queen delight to have a friend,
Who has no will to compete in social squall,
Nor pose as someone better or pretend,
They’re not themselves not themselves at all.
Sometimes we all pretend a greater role,
But some retain the character that they stole


Men often find, that for which, they choose to look,
That causes doubt to creep into our brains,
For fame resides in recording in a book,
Ancient relics, or a dinosaurs remains.
Yet most of what is found is less than most,
For shape and form is lacking in the find,
That ambitious minds form solids from the ghost
That later for ambition is defined.
One can liken it to the sacredness of a tribe,
Of things that they prescribe to be divine,
The secret things they always yet must hide,
Lest others make an effort to refine.
Our God exists as a sacred ghost,
But the Gods of others are myths or pagan hosts.


When I am told that two and two is four,
Indeed tis only four if two is two,
It is the meaning of numeric law,
Yet both are simply names like me and you.
How often do people judge another’s way,
By their own way, never really wrong,
But never really right some might say,
Who sing with different words to that same song.
All folk are righteous on sweet Mother Earth,
All know the truth but all of them do lie,
All have a doctrine justifying birth
That loses all its impact when they die.
All have a God which makes their causes right,
And for those many causes they will fight.


What do we think ourselves to be, and are we right,
Some build the ships some sail them out to sea,
Some justify themselves, for whom they fight,
Some sit in little rooms and sip their tea
What do we know that has not come from books,
What of the writer from whence his knowledge comes,
Tis only truth if the Chef eats what he cooks,
Yet he’ll discard many untasted crumbs.
The Lord in death was only thirty-three,
In adult life he lived not many days,
And yet the world would with his words agree,
And most would follow his redeeming ways.
So who are we, the soul that few do know,
What is our goal? What seeds must we yet sow?


He has not lived long enough to learn,
(He’s just a boy; he’s under twenty one,)
The value of the things he needs to earn
Now his actual childhood is past and gone.
Still shy with girls confused by his desire,
He rebels against the vigour of the law;
He’s full of fun of eagerness and fire,
Seeks new roads to ride and to explore.
He’s preyed upon by vultures down the street,
Who disguise their goods to look like what they’re not,
Selling him every desirous but falsified treat,
To part him from the money he has got.
Then the bugle blows the pied pipers call,
And off they march not one but one and all.


“Here son take this rifle,
it’s your brother from now on,
For where you’re going you’ll need it
And these bullets every one”
“But Sir! Where am I going?
I’ve done nothing like this before”
“No son! But you’re now a soldier,
And you are off to fight a war,
You see your country needs you,
To go to Vietnam,
To blow them nogs to pieces,
As only us soldiers can”
And the bugle kept on blowing…
And how the red blood ran!


First humiliation,
With all your hair shaved off,
You are told that you are stupid many times,
They introduce confusion,
And forced to march in line
Accuse you of a host of little crimes.
You are taunted pushed insulted,
And they never give you time,
To do the things they set for you to do,
And in the end the training,
Which has made you good and mad,
Has made a rookie soldier out of you.
Now to your chosen corps you stride,
With an ever growing pride


No matter where a man might choose to go,
Someone will try to tell him what to do,
And challenge him to let all sundry know,
That he has some strange power over you
Tis primitive stuff that modern man can’t shake,
And is kept alive by teachers there in school,
Who welter in the pupils that they make,
Into the systems engine as a tool.
For teachers gain their knowledge from their books,
Accept it as the accurate factual truth,
Quaint stepping-stones across unseen brooks
That lack provision of an actual proof.
In this way oft lies do pave the way,
That they become the truth in what we say.


Men from work do often stay away,
But in so doing are forced to tell a lie,
For they’re not sick yet they do claim their pay,
By saying they are sick but don’t know why
By this excuse the sick book swells and swells,
Recording facts that are not really true,
That a study of it taken falsely tells,
The respondents to it what they ought to do.
So many records claimed by man as true,
Are in fact false documents you know,
That store rooms filled with junk that they accrue,
Become a fact the documents don’t show.
So in the light of this it’s very hard to say,
What message to the powers might this relay?


While opinion makes its way where facts are none,
To paint a picture lest that scene might die,
Down that same road the truth has often gone,
Though on opinion one cannot rely.
Most things we hear are lacking truthful facts,
Yet by those tales we make our happy way,
On what one says, another person acts;
Thus we are steered through life by what they say.
Tis by obscure reasoning of an unknown source,
That we do make decisions of our own,
That someone else somewhere will endorse,
The same event or at least its closest clone.
For yet what seems chaotic by design,
Makes all things merry like a bubbly wine.


He’s learnt to shine his boots and march in line,
And look like all the rest that do the same,
And he practices his art that every time,
He gets it right he wants some more to train
He’s fit and tough and told he is the best,
He looks the part and wallows in the praise,
He’s eager now to pass the real test,
Advance beyond this boring training phase.
Fathers smile now they see their sons are men,
And Mothers weep knowing they are boys,
Knowing soon that fighting will begin,
To test their skills with their lethal little toys,
For soldiers are an expendable expense,
Ensuring every nation has a defence.


Most sons at first want to be like their dads,
They have their heroes mostly in a sport,
It’s even better if they wear their father’s pads,
And their baseball bat beats a new one bought.
In their Mothers they find faithfulness and trust,
And special love all children understand,
Yet to be top dog is a definite must,
So mostly they can’t hold sweet Mothers hand.
Time will draw them back into the fold,
(If war does not kill them on the way)
To analyse the things that they were told,
And find that they have much they want to say
|Then Mother’s words true wisdom in their ears,
Reminds them of those long neglected years.


What great love has a daughter for her dad,
What glowing pride when she would speak of him,
No one a better father ever had,
Nor will his daughter let his memory dim
For when he’s called away to go to war,
That his farewell is yet be his last,
There’s a sense of loss that most cannot endure,
Though it may fade into the soothing past.
But her great love and pride is never lost,
That lifts her up from where it struck her down,
Recalling every passion that it cost,
With a lasting smile she wipes away her frown.
For God knows in her heart true love awakes,
That her father lives with every breath she takes


Must one be white, or pink or maybe blue,
Not black or brown or coloured as they say,
To have the right to have a different view,
To have the right to go a different way?
The white man took a native from the past,
And brought him to the present over night,
That he the native, he was so aghast,
That he suffered from the white man’s silly spite.
‘This lower class’, they do not understand
That clothes were worn to hide illegal skin,
Not to cover parts from blowing sand,
For natural things were rated as a sin.
Thus prejudice arose and has not waned,
For shame was brought to those folk unashamed.


A work of art a boat floats on the sea,
With fishing nets or with a rod and reel,
The folk aboard are fishermen you see,
Who fish for sport as some fish for a meal.
A tiny dot upon an ocean wide,
That one can’t cross unless he’s in a boat,
Though through the sky where some folk pay to ride,
They cross the seas without the spray and soak.
Man has no gills so the ocean is not shared,
And he’s outnumbered by the fishes too,
Their different lives cannot be compared,
Though they are much the same in what they do.
But man, he seeks to conquer every sea
That not a fish will ever be swimming free


Do we not stand defiant of those not feared
Yet are more humble to those we think we need
Our mind cogs are so oiled and so geared,
That nothing can predict our future deeds.
In modern times the stronger man has brains,
Though in structure a weaker man may be,
Though he is never seen to take the reins,
He pays the man who does so for a fee.
It is the fool (they say) who gets dirt upon his hands,
And bends his back to earn a decent pay,
While those who really own the richer lands,
Are those weak men who have the final say,
For heroes maybe heroes in the song,
But all the heroes to the team belong.


From nature man takes all the things he needs,
He clothes himself and builds his fine machines,
He takes his food and populations feeds,
And builds on his success his mortal dreams
But greedy man who reaps not power enough,
Seeks more than what’s required to sustain,
A stable growth that stores the surplus stuff
That he must build an Army to retain.
Great nations by their forces show the trend,
Describe the human as he really is,
He is a beast, who will, by will, offend,
To gather what he wants that will be his
For in the minds of some there is a flaw,
Which by their acts will lead the world to war.


Thus by design the structures built for war,
Indicate the nature of the beast,
For one gun leads to two, and two to four,
And he who lives in peril has the least.
Men do rise to lead and some do fail,
And they become the target of the rest,
But many work their hardest to prevail
The people thank them when it suits them best
Some they do profit from criticizing those,
Who would by all their means seek to please,
And the critics, who from others do compose,
Their letters for the audience which agrees,
Build their mansions from another’s fame,


When nature strikes with her floods and fires,
Or buildings crumple from a madman’s bomb,
The goodness in the human being replies,
And all their moans and arguments are gone.
They risk their lives and sacrifice their jobs,
They work their hearts out to their final breath,
They cradle one another share their sobs
And sorrow for the victims in their death.
In the face of horror they shudder and do cry,
While fighting back every inch of space they’ve lost,
And thousands for their mates and comrades die,
For they do not refrain to count the cost,
For this great thing in man God must admire,
Is all tied up in his complex desire.


By common threat man seems to be as one,
All sharing skills to accomplish a good end,
But when the threat is over and they’ve won,
Back to their stupid ways they all descend.
Some like the Irish like to put you down,
And yet be first to come and help you up,
Some hide their smiles behind a ‘manly’ frown,
But really are as playful as a pup.
Yet there they go marching off again,
The nation’s youth called on to do or die,
As their Fathers did, now they do the same,
And all the people still are asking why.
God must know and does, he shows the way,
But they did not see, and do not see today.


Education is the quickest way to peace,
But that is based on whom our Teachers are.
For teaching can indeed a war increase,
For oft a nation’s culture sees not far.
Some folk in greater nations vast in land,
Know nothing of the world beyond their shores,
While those of smaller nations turn their hand,
To learning more about another’s laws.
So yet while one doth worship their own God,
Believe in different ways to live their lives,
Tis what we know grows out of common sod,
That must for peace then open up their eyes,
Yet we do know that Earth must have one King,
One monarch ruling over everything.


How does man define the spirit alive in him,
Indeed is there a spirit living in him at all
Tis only words describing wafer thin,
That when he dies he hopes for God’s recall.
There is no sign, no inner glow without,
No whispering cherub no substance of design,
It shows not in the eyes when they go out,
Or in his golden works he thinks divine.
Do we not gain that which we seek too soon,
Or is it that such wisdom comes too late,
That all advances only lead to doom,
For what we searched for is our future fate.
And what that is we cannot really know,
Unless there lives a spirit when we go


The argument is, is there a God at all,
We think there is but that’s for personal gain,
Who would care if our heart beats failed to stall,
We would by this live our lives in shame.
To heathen minds what adds a thought of love,
What makes a man respect his fellow being,
Who’d paint it pure the ever peaceful dove,
What other reason can we deduct from seeing
If we did not die then fear we would reject,
The Earth would fill beyond its current size,
Thus by this theory one might well expect,
That dying does not come as a surprise.
Yet beyond the Earth where the planets wait,
Perhaps there lives another kind of fate.


One must admire more perhaps than fire,
The gentle person who keeps great faith in God,
For on this Earth so much doth transpire,
That reeks of Satan’s whip and savage rod.
To keep ones faith is greatness of the heart
That builds a wealth far greater than a Kings;
For though they stumble they never do depart,
From those great places where the Angels sing.
Why does such goodness live in such people,
Despite the vile horrors of the world
That shatters in the Golden Steeples,
Like a desperate savage bird?
I have no answer to this question,
For the human being is absurd.


When one writes, revealing scape and sky,
Describing quaint reminiscences of the heart,
And delving deep into the bye and bye,
He is by others of others judged apart.
He bares his soul and thus reveals his pain,
Shows opinion of truer truth and lie,
Thus is a target for critics without shame,
Who give opinion rebuking all reply.
Tis a sensitive pen which dips in personal ink,
To share such words, be they foul or fair,
And binds the writer to the thoughts they think,
That all he writes is subject to their care,
On this plain the message that he sends,
Is made or broken by his closest friends

Towards a central power we must go,
To build the tower God has long condemned,
A dark sun shining in a world of snow,
Where freedom is a word called let’s ‘pretend’.
For the price of peace is discipline and law,
Restriction and observance the way of it,
That every child born we will adore,
Will have the implant of a silicon chip.
For central power is the gathering of fools,
Installed by factions corrupt and thus controlled,
With dictatorial fingers on the vital tools,
That all the moments of our lives will carefully mould
Ignorance later being our condoned concept
For what is convenient now that we all accept.


The moment that we live it life is gone,
And a single lifetime is a moment passed,
You and I and all and everyone,
Are grains of sand on a beach so deep and vast.
Man seeks to be the God he keeps unique,
To secure his chance to wear the Golden crown,
He praises God whose power he would seek,
For what he worships he intends to own
But spoils are never shared by the conquering hoard
Land is never owned though a price is paid,
Most of what we want we can’t afford,
And a tree cut down brings light into the shade.
Where can you build your house without a fee,
In this great land we claim is truly free.


Those who lived here when we first arrived,
To trespass and to claim what we did not own,
Were of their culture and their rights deprived
No respect or kindness for them shown.
We do become what the powers that be decide,
Our Christian Church was built on the ashes of doom;
And Priests, behind false Pagan clothes do hide,
Offering light to brighten their carefully constructed gloom.
Tis an old concept to bring the peoples war,
Then claim to be the resurrector of the peace,
That the people who such conflict so deplore,
Ensure that congregations never cease.
The game of power is by religions so well played,
That all who do oppose them soon are slayed.


All Churches have a castle in their midst,
With Towers which rise above the common man,
They take from the poor their money and invest,
To ensure tax free all the profit that they can.
Their Priests don’t serve they rule and pass the law,
They seek no advice from those who serve their Lord,
Who are the folk who flock in through their door,
Falsely convinced they are pursued by the devils hoard.
They have their rituals robotically performed,
With tented palms chanting practiced rhymes,
With special music in candle light adorned,
Designed to convince you that you have committed crimes
Tis all carefully done to woo the subservient mind,
To promote authority over the subdued blind


The evangelist is the modern world’s false Priest,
Who’s trained to talk and act to gain your ware,
He seeks to feed you bread with a seductive yeast,
To profit from your confusion and despair
He leads our youth into realms of fear and dark,
Then offers himself as the pathway back to peace
He is a Devils Angel and a shark,
Whose only goal is his profit to increase.
They know the simplicity in gaining trust from those,
Who think these preachers all are men of God,
Who have the answers in their emotional prose,
Not designed to give but designed to rob
How can one fail in offering to the ear,
Those things divine that all people want to here?


God we love and yet tis God we fear;
How does one fear the one we dearly love?
These are interpretations still unclear,
Contradictory flights of the complex Dove.
Such is the problem of translating scribes,
Who may or may not insert their personal thoughts,
And what of the bias of conflicting tribes,
Whose political views all history distorts
Fear germinates respect but never love,
Admiration yes! Even worthy praise,
It promotes in man a defiant glove,
But not the gentle valour love would raise
Therefore this poet ponders on these words,
Defining reason from the strange absurds


When we do examine any written line,
We note that in it much has not been said,
Thus though we gather wisdom from the rhyme,
Tis good to think of that we have not read.
Like silence, empty spaces say much more,
Than sounds and words which divide them both,
To give us time that our thoughts explore,
The textures in which these absences are clothed.
For be it favoured that a line might say,
What one might want it’s meaning to decree,
Oft by the abstract twixt the words, delay,
The truer meaning that the wiser see.
But it is not for all in silence and in space,
To see and hear the words of fairer grace


Is not the whole, subject to the success of one,
Is not the lowliest flower the sample eyed,
For when the Summers pass and Winters come,
The Summer flowers tend to lose their pride
Without the poor man in the city street,
Corporate giants could not be what they are,
Great power lies where vagabonds do meet
But selfishness shades the golden star.
We save our money in the giant banks,
Which use it to make profit and invest,
Yet charge us for this privilege without thanks,
For we are victims of self greed like all the rest.
We have the power but lack the basic skill,
And in solving that, we lack the basic will


The world is changing, the institutes of old,
Are under challenge by independent thought,
They wear more clothes out in the bitter cold,
And have more detail in their first report.
Things of nonsense are many times ignored,
Traditional farce that occupies real time,
There are no marks where the bull has gored,
No grease applied to make a slippery vine
Folk are more vulgar suffer not from shame,
Though lacking wisdom repeat again mistakes
Yet seek out always someone else to blame,


The inequality of material reward,
The passage of power in uneven ways
Leads to social unrest and discord,
That social division is seriously raised.
When control of disorder is lost,
More challenging aspects evolve,
With a horrible disturbing cost,
That usually takes a war to solve
Group power eventually disturbs,
Those who are not in the fold,
Who challenge the legitimacy of words,
Set up in the programmable mould
Thus conflict the simmering soup,
Is due to the factional group


Most societies are structured in law,
The people ‘programmed’ to obey,
In the interests of the controlling core,
Of those who have the power to say,
How society will manage its needs,
And formulate peaceful resolve,
But common interest socially breeds,
Classes and groups who evolve,
Which leads to eventual strife,
With factions and unions and clans,
Wielding the club and the knife,
To disrupt corporate plans
To challenge the dominant creed,
With a revolutionary radical seed


A person’s status in the society of man,
Is determined socially by material gain,
The power over others he has,
And the power others have over his name.
The higher the status he’s got,
The more influence he has over others,
Deciding perhaps who is shot,
And whom he considers his brothers.
Politicians are mostly controlled,
By corporations who have all the power,
So they mostly do as they’re told,
Lest the downpour turns to a shower,
And those who think they are free,
Should thank the restrictions they’re unable to see.


There is no point in building a gun,
To sell it to a lover of peace,
For such folk won’t use it for fun
So the making of profit would cease.
So the corporations look for a place,
Where conflict is likely to be,
And the politicians caught up in the race,
In the end are forced to agree.
People respond to what matters to them,
To what the groups who influence them do,
What they wilfully advise or condemn,
Be it tainted or possibly true.
Social groups divide and destroy,
For prejudice is the trend they employ,


To unite a community in a social place,
No society has ever yet achieved,
There is always a challenger to face,
And an innocent molested and a grieved.
There will always be those we deplore,
And those who will challenge our way,
We will always be marching to war,
Regardless to whom we do pray.
So the man from the shop and the store,
The butcher mechanic and player
Will be called up to fight in a war,
To become a killer and slayer.
To die or live to survive
In our totally despicable hives


Preconceived opinion is something we all know,
Is normally unfavourable of other folk,
Oft to taint the value of another’s show,
Said with a serious gesture or as a joke.
Sometimes we take for granted that teacher must be right,
Or that a friend would never tell a fib,
But this is simply prejudice and of narrow sight,
That determines how some groups have come to live
In order to establish over those who disagree,
Who are social and or economic threats,
A power long and lasting that is prominent to see,
For they promote their own opinions without regrets
But class distinction leads us to the door,
Which opens up to reveal the flames of war


Guerrilla warfare is a special kind of war,
For it seeks to overthrow the established school,
The thought it raises as never quite before,
What rights has man to challenge Government rule
When is it mans true duty this act to perform,
Can such a conflict lead to lasting peace?
Or is it a just reason for progress by reform,
That by a short achievement war will cease
Self-consciousness in man (as Adam with the fruit),
Is apparent when spontaneous actions fair,
In joyous trend are challenged by the group,
That brings about emotions of despair
Self-awareness raises, thoughts of moral guilt
Where the structures of remorse are often built


We seldom question the reason we must go;
A conscript might more often wonder why,
But the volunteer needs not really know,
For his profession compels him to do or die.
My Father’s father fought in World War One,
All my Uncles fought in World War Two,
When for a time my Dad had also gone,
To fight in France and Belgian, there to do,
What soldiers do in war survive or die,
And in surviving become their Fathers son,
Filling with their promise their sons eye,
Who with pride will do as dad as done.
This was the way until the lesser wars,
Opened up a host of complex doors