Harry Baker: Paper People
When I saw this I just had to share it on my blog.
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As Rare As Summer Snow
(Written for a friend who walked into the sea one day in 1967 and kept walking!) A top hat floating on the water Nothing left there, Just our total despair, And the wind, Your old umbrella gone, Misty solitudes sand in our shoes, Where did you go? I do not know from where your garments
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Cruel Time
Who am I to ask God for favors’? When the aging are made living skeletons in human flesh, and sit in ‘Care Homes’ lined up like the condemned before a firing squad. How can I pray, ‘not me please, let me escape’? Where did this deep-seated ego come from, that pretends that I matter more
MADMAN’S BRIDE
SHE WALKS WITH LIES AND EXPECTATION ‘CROSS FIELDS OF FISCAL LOVE, SHE COMES WITH GIFTS OF CERTAINTIES AND MOUNTAIN CAKE PROMISES. THE CAPITALIST CONFETTI FALLS ON HER LUST FILLED HEAD, POWER AND MADNESS HER WEDDING RING. WITH EVANGELICAL FERVOUR SHE STALKS THE LIVING DEAD, HER BEAUTY MAKES THE MEN IN SUITS CRAWL ON BROKEN GLASS
Life
Some people think they have solutions to life. Jogging is one. I feel compelled to say that after years of trying to get fit; this does not inspire me with confidence at all. I see some of these the poor wretches coming past my window, dragging their ghosts along. What tortured perverted mind could invent
A Home in the Lindsey Lowlands
The snows of 1916 freeze on the spirits they know now as cemetery friends. Men dreamed greatly of empire back then, and had inner glories tattooed on hearts of patriotic certainties. My generation slowly learned of the price those men paid for their love. And when we walked across those Suffolk fields, silence told truths
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Rosie’s Road
It’s Gone Rose, everything we knew and loved gone. Now they make us curios of the past, like vampires they have sucked out our spirits so that they can worship their boring collage of lies. If they could they would put a tax on happiness, and if they could they would take away even our
Running Away
I was born running away. Running from expectations tyrannies. Running from playground wounds, where the language of the young stabbed like word spikes. “There’s a home for little children above the bright blue sky,” we sang in that infant’s class of yesteryear. Those words were sung with a devilish fear, incarcerated in a 1950’s shadow