I haven't posted any poetry in a while, and, since I'm still working now and then on the St George poem (which grows and grows line by line and may never be finished at this rate), I thought I'd post a short piece I composed a while ago during a quiet spell at work.
In troubled times how muddled men then in their minds become;
In hot pursuit of tainted fruit our nerves are rendered numb;
The onslaught of antipathy so ousts our frazzled thoughts
We cover up our emptiness with what we’ve sold and bought.
While millionaires in mansions are the saddest of the sad,
We want yet disbelieve the joy that Brother Francis had;
The peace that passes muster must have been a foolish dream,
And drearily we wash with little hope of getting clean.
The songs we sang so long ago do now seem bored and trite;
We’ve peace, but only since we’re too disinterested to fight,
And while we seek (by cash or cheque) to save the starving poor
Our lives are no less miserable from having more and more.
MacKillop-Woods Way Pilgrimage 2018 – Day Seven (22 April) – Narooma to Bodalla via Potato Point - I woke early before dawn on Sunday morning having slept like a log in the big comfortable bed at Marg Latimer’s home. The good food and wine and company (a...
4 hours ago