For Mercy, For Truth
The motto: For Mercy. For Truth. &In Jesus
Monkey in the middle
they play it like a fiddle
hopes tossed around the circle
Where are the linears
There is this talk
In the back countries
Lined with dark tonned spaniards
Uptown folks echo its melodies
As they perform their work
Unnatural austerity has taken hold
There is a crack in the fold
It’s Christmas, but the lyrics
Mention not a saviour
Born
No, none,
Not of a woman,
But of El Gordo
God spoke
And it was.
Seventh day,
He rested from His creative speaking,
But it can be felt,
That His creative speak echoes on,
It echoes on, and on my friend
The young are restless,
And the old settle
But to which does the soul hold to
At heart
The young become Old
and the saved Old
become the resurrected
Reverberating a plan
after His heart.
your the magic in the air,
you keep my heart alive,
I want you by myside
come right here,
right now girl.
In the scents of the air,
lies the very transportation
to ferry you into another people’s lair,
a part of this medium
It’s in my neighborhood
where the white chinks
make their frenchly things,
And the black krakers
ride their car of stripes.
It’s on the shores of
Number five Dale street,
and number 20’s turf
that the way of fiji and the swiss
come at me, 50 feet from my bed
Offset arrangements of coffee cups
In tragically hip patios and shops.
Swat the sides,
play the pipes,
the rain is coming.
Twas first watch of night,
and the crescent moon light,
where at this very dusk
existed a gentle juxtaposition
between their parting lips
The spirits that be
converged to ferry
them down the path of wanderlust
Running from stale tears,
trying to lose the cross-hairs
that frayed all that was dear
A train ride.
electric charges.
the sparking of lances.
In Hyde Park.
at the centre.
London.
The gates open up
at the speed of a last gasp
Journey of a thousand miles
culminates in a transfiguration
- a joining with lights
Blue and intersected neon green
own the visuals of this field of dreams.
The shutters, clicks and clacks,
sound the journey to the lunch shacks,
Row and columns of sitting hearts,
Readying to ferry sands of tar
Liquid gold!
In gritty moulds,
of silica
in mother nature’s pot of stew
Underneath every coverall
is a story, truer than false
shielded away with a
dry
joke.
hey poetry man,
write those words
that read like foreplay