The Fate of Roses

When in the summer garden,
white petals spread thin snow across the path
time fails

When in the bursting  hedge
dead elms point leafless fingers at the sky
hope  falters

When in the silky  sand  of childhood's beach
the rusty barbs
intended to hold invaders
flapping like ravens to be shot
tear up the  dancing foot
innocence is less

When in the bowl of lights
those heads appear
exchanging streams of words
which avidly avoid
time, care and hate
truth fades away.

I'll take the fate of roses if I may

Richard Lawson

Reggio Emilia 1999

September 11 2001

This footage beats the worst of Hollywood
a sudden bloom of cancerous fire
and smoke, the beating of a million black wings

Obsessively we watch the symbol of the modern dream
collapse in stark fragility, a house of cards;
the highest order falls to fiery hate

And you my sister, brandishing that scarf
‘I’m here,’ balancing height and heat
until you chose the sheer sharp flight

We can not see the rush of startled souls
not hear the too long groans of pain and fear
until sweet sleeping death crept over them

Ah yes! you’ll be avenged! More sons
will die, more mothers scream and raise their hands
to an avenging God.  We cannot stop the world.

It has to be like this. We’re only human after all.
This is reality - not film.     Justice and reason -
that’s just a childish dream. Think what you’re told to think.

© Richard Lawson 13/11/01

COLOUR BURST

September garden
low white clouds
move south

late sunday afternoon
last one before the
great revenge

not knowing
when the blow will fall
or what its echoes will become

Down the dark path
that runs between
my home and work
in the dense green foliage
tired and confused

a sudden blast of colour

petals
unfold an orange flame
around a golden core

taste of wild strawberries
burst on the eye
healing that bitter flare

peace rose

© Richard Lawson

Congresbury 24/11/01

If Your Mother Doesn’t Need Ya

If your mother doesn’t need ya
Get a job within the media.
Want to lie without redress?
Get a nice job in the press!
If you're regularly pissed
You could be a journalist.
If you like to cast ordure
You could be an interviewer.
If your thing is smearing poo
Broadcaster's the job for you.
If you'd like to be a Nazi
You can join the paparazzi

Don't let them fool you all the way - 
Make April First your No News Day!

MANY PATHS

There're many paths.
Not all of them

require
the blood of innocents,

not all demand
we trample down

the web of life
that feeds our body and our soul.

It doesn't have to be like this.
Colours and springs

the wondrous caravan of life,
its cruelties

and sweetnesses,
its flashing lights

the tangled jungle
laden with snakes and butterflies,

the brittle, hard-edged city
clanging with noise

teach us - if we would hear -
a few short words

that just cannot be spoken now
because they do not lie, but lie

beneath the flow
of humdrum life, hidden, but there,

a deep intensity
that if we knew it every day

would make us run
shouting, as Ramakrishna ran

Kali-beguiled,
but killing nobody, as we,

assenting to the framework, do,
silently, giving the nod

because we're soft,
and let our passive selves be led

by solemn lies
dressed up in suit and ties.

Maybe the pen
was mightier than the sword, but guns

and bombs, they make
all physical existence weak.

And so, without a word
we give our cash to hired guns,

to leaders who,
like it or not, express our will.

Even so, the way of death
is not the only way for us.

Joyful, we can
take up the tiny-colossal

changes that lead
away from death and misery.


It does not
have
to be
like this.

© Richard Lawson

2007