Hid behind some cob webbed cracks -
Cold autumn’s airy touch on hand -
Phantoms stirring cross the way -
Scraped broken plate and crumpled tin -
End time’s sustenance
Not a banquet, not so bad -
Then darkness, dreams of happiness -
She and I, in fondling clasp -
Now rust and dust and long decay -
Shadows lengthening cross the day
Just one of millions in this plight -
Though poorly armed for end time’s host -
very little comfort
So hid behind this cob webbed crack -
Surviving with just one true friend -
D E Austin
I cannot laud the wondrous butterfly,
nor ant, nor swan, nor owl’s lone, haunting cry.
The spider and its web’s most sure another
done to death by this world and his brother.
Actually, there’s really nothing left;
they took it all, and now we’re left bereft.
Why bother lifting pen in hand at all?
Might just as well stare stupid at the well.
And lo, I spy a subject I might broach,
as down the wall climbs Harry, the cockroach.
O inspiration, I do cry, my roach crawls on the floor,
then turn in dread, and bow my head, as opens up the door.
My wife steps in, I wince and grin, as inspiration’s lost,
O bitter world, a horrid fate, my Harry has been squashed.
D E Austin
|A Loud Mouth
A Mouth roars long and loud across the airwaves
exhorting tired old notions o’er the land.
And from their countless, polished, pompous enclaves,
a flock of bleating sheep laud his command.
How can, the Mouth roars on, we keep our neighbor,
a costly and unwarranted New Deal?
It’s time the lazy louts got fruitful labor,
those sluggards who demand a prepaid meal.
There’s naught that’s wrong, the Mouth to all its minions,
proclaims while praising its own excellence,
with hoarding wealth and gains, the noble fruit of
one’s striving for another pound or pence.
Though Tory times are long since past,
more webs are being spun,
by wriggling, venomous creatures,
the Mouth’s Republicans.
It’s true a shame, the Mouth roars on and loud,
that only some of this land’s teaming mass
can decently in brick and stone be housed.
But let us not rush quickly, sounding brash,
by crying that there’s any nagging problem,
or numbers marked greater than of old;
and even if the mob grows loud and fearsome,
with just and righteous force they’ll be controlled.
It’s true, it said, in every street and lane,
when in unruly haste the mob’s been caught;
we can no longer pity for the pain,
must send instead a gift of grape and shot.
Though Tory times are long since dead
I shudder at the words,
I’ve heard the Mouth speak all so loud
to its malignant heard.
There was a time, before the Mouth burst forth,
when matters of such high significance
could be the average man and in due course
be spoken wanting not intelligence.
But greatest sorrow’s for the drooling host,
those legions awed and dazzled by the Mouth.
Will they and it in chanting roar soon boast
of carnage others view with scorn and loath,
of paupers laying spread across the street,
the soldier prone and peering at his gun?
Don’t doubt a lurid, potent new elite,
if one and same are Mouth - Republican.
Though Tory times are long since done
comes now another trial,
the Mouth roars on across the land
and ‘heils’ another mile.
Just one precaution I might add,
to end this simple letter,
the other party now about
ain’t a whole lot better.
D E Austin