For Mercy, For Truth
The motto: For Mercy. For Truth. &In Jesus
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.
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.
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.
My fair Kabul,
the sun escorts your beauty,
your moon and stars are gentle,
full of fraility,
I remember.
The real eyes are in our hearts,
the ones that give a double take,
a scan and spray on an old tale,
the one we we built and watched from afar.
The voices are a chorus in the wind
In the wind, and in quiet places,
taking up the whole mind,
asking about the names and faces.
My kabul,
my father,
my brother,
and our days come together in a jumble.
Gone are those eyes, that smiled
together with mine,
Gone are those hours, our dignity held
in chambers of time
We were always one,
past the parties,
and fancy dresses
I should have never shun
you out, and you’d still be unturned.
My baba,
Our Kabul
and its hills are on fire,
Now its my turn,
my turn to watch and never see days,
like those when we flew our kites into the sun,
And watched the sun escort us.
Molly, she always wanted to see the sea,
Sunday, I scored a boat for molly and me,
Sunday, all the waves,
all the waves,
watched molly and me.
Molly, she knows the secrets behind these eyes
Molly, you know the stories of a friend of mine
Molly, all the way
all the way (x2)
who’s gonna save our soul
Molly you come a knocking to talk this thru
Molly, you drank away till black and blue,
Molly, its not the same,
not the same (x2)
who’s gonna save us now
Chorus
everyday, we’ll dance our own parade
and play our songs, for there’s nowhere
we belong,
Never mind the weather,
we can always sleep forever
I don’t know how to say
I love you always
Song By Caspian Sawczak and Funmi
Woody wood wood pecker
out to work with his shiny beak striker
Strolling down the trail is a good ‘le hiker
Taking some photos for his followers on twitter
and some to post on tumblr
hey poetry man,
write those words
that read like foreplay