Begat from the loins of the damned
wrathful Sire from a nebulous and sinful grave.
Daughter of a virgin womb,
ravaged upon the funeral pyre.
Progeny of neither man nor beast.

Child of extraordinary power ,
Lithe an athlete and fighter
On the cruel streets of London town.
Dragged up and rejected ,no mercy found
A vagabond .

THE BRICK sonnet
The Wee Elf wants this mundane, "LIke a Brick".
My heart sinks, should I give my muse a rest?
Can mundane still be novel? That's some trick.
It's not just words in poems that may get stressed.
Although I'm slow, I'll try to write them down-
Those lines that flow unbidden from my gob,
I'll try to get them bouncing, metric, sound
If really good give up my daytime job.
Here in my hand I hold two common bricks,
Their purpose, to be part of someone's home.

Try buttering bread naked, and precariously clumsy.
Invite a mate, one unopposed to a little spillage,
and without the best selling brand of paper towels,
buttered bread, buttered bread, have some fun,
feed a friend.

It's time I rake the leaves outside
so now I'll go and get the rake
at the insistence of my bride
and for propriety's sole sake

I'll rake leaves into small piles about
under the swing and old grape vine arbor
working beneath warm autumn sunshine
a yearly necessary labor

Soon wiping sweat from wrinkled brow
muscles loosened from the work
I survey a job well done
and get a drink of tea

Theatrical Thesis…

Two lines into a poet’s song can say more
to me than a thousand preachers preaching
like the speed of light is invariably faster
than sound from a thousand tyres screeching.

So please switch on the light at speed,
as I have only one minute in mind.
As all of you know the worlds great need,
is for people to be more tolerant and kind.

dream trickles down
like the damp wood
of the raceway

above the dark embrace
of the day we can hear
the birds

the soft mute rot of leaves
the silver backbone of
the glacial scar stone

and light falls down on
her face and eyes
the shadows easing
like camaflouge

beautiful and intense

When wrinkles start appearing
Getting deeper by the day
With liver spots accruing
And the hair is going grey
The early morning aches and pains
A stomach growing flabby
The crows feet and the flatulence
No wonder you feel crabby

The mountain stream, pure and cold flows
swiftly into pumpkin and juniper seeds and docile rivers
no higher than a knee,
and the river bends through
the painted earth and snakes its way into the myopic sea.

The bloodstone roots with childhood's end.
The moon, hanging loosely, shape-shifts into images,
clouds
blow away like old men puffing on hand-rolled cigars.

For us to gain freedom from ignorance
We mortgaged our houses to pay bills
That our young ones may read and write
And learn the ways of the west

It was a purpose worth dying for
That our offspring will be liberated
From burden of heavy taxation
So we starved to make ends meet

For us to realize our common goals
We made sacrifices, not to the ancient gods
But toiled like slaves to the imperial masters
That was the only way we had to go

There is a time in your life
When you go through a change
Now, that it's been  three months
I'm planning a men-o-pause party
For my fifty first birthday, yeah!

An operation removing tubes and organs
Bring men-o-pause on early
Making life free from reproducing, but
No matter the freedom to be free
Nothing compares to men-o-pause brought on naturally