Vic's verse then you think.

Love poems

Parental Plot

Why visit that distant grave?
Why, in the loneliness of chilling rain
Caress engravings weathering on a slab
Bend clear frost broken leaves
Lay a holly wreath bright with love red berries,
And in such empty air,
Defy still the death of stillborn dialogues?

I remain baffled,
And plan the trip
My children may help me make.

Love poem:

Back from the solitary kill,
He paused and checked the horizons;
The tundra ran coldly from his stare.
He returned into the stone, body-heated lair.
Their warm early pups satiated on her hot milk.
He eased the meat of the freshly slaughtered doe from his belly.
Ravenous but cowed their pack companions made no move towards her meal.
This mother had torn out the hearts and babies of sisters.
This pair’s servile fellow killers shivered in their own famine.
They waited and whined for the howl and hunt, which would lead to slaughter and fullness.
Ignorant of need, a wolf and an empress rested, replete.
I will bring you havoc and grace,
And the peace of a sacred place.

Beloved King

A drab dawn drizzled onto the grey village.
Damped ashes lay stilled in the chill breeze.
No spark remained of fire, which had lit the plunderers carousing laughter.
Unprized scrawny animals shivered and pawed where their pens had been.
The corpses of the ruined villagers lay where the flies and foxes would shortly find them.

Such was the ruin our raiders had rendered from the living hearts of the village; Hearts our fight against winter’s threatened famine had trampled.

Such we were told by the fighters we had left to await that village’s men.
Doomed champions whom, with rumours of boar and deer in a distant wood, we had lured away.
Whom our poisoned spears left to moan their last, shamed, miseries,
On the approach track where children had used to dance them home.

And we, at home, roar to our giggling children new tales of our force that will not be withstood.
Give to our women the hides and meat that will clothe and warm their feasting family futures.

And you take me, my queen, the unchallenged chief into our tomb safe lodge.
I weep, to you only,
For the hopes of cousins I have mangled.

Clarity.

From his failed crusade
Richard returned to find
His kingdom taken and his queen beguiled
Despite fortune men and honour he had spent
John bore the kingdom’s weight
And faced the queen in the state’s portrait.

A Lion’s heart
Prowls the grim land
A terror and a fate
Which never did abate.

Story teller 2000

You might meet him first in a newspaper report,
One harassed and coffee laden morning,
The young man who says he is the son of man.
Not singing as a star and moving souls,
Not acting and inspiring from stage and screen,
Nor shaping worries and wonders on a writer’s page,
Nor painting mornings that move memories,
Not dancing and drawing drabs and demons from mockery and derision.
But telling stories easily retold, Inflaming saints to chorus and step in the dampness of dawns:
The story of a stranger who saved a wounded man wounded again by the desertion of friends;
Of a parent made whole by the needs of a broken child;
From his own story, his protection of the despised girl from hearts he stoned with shame:
Folding and smoothing your newspaper
You may meet your heart again.

Vic's verse then you think.

Love poems

Look Back

I will bring you

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