Resurrection: Angel of Freedom

There is no death in a death that shadows us

or her eye as it puddles the blood that denies her lungs

the thrills of future breathing

the place is the blood-splash on the street or streaking down her face

her teacher beholding             the big why in her wry           open eyes

the doctor a metre away        who rushed to stop the gush

Anyone stricken by love calls her name

So her killers and all the snipers

shall shrink away

Any girl who bares her chest to defy

two ravens in charge of the nation,

will win the day

I love love though love recedes

I love the white lily

though it withers in my hand

and grows in my song

Wait for me

Oh freedom song

Bloodstains: Nedas

Would that I have told you my sister how that euphoric spillage of feet marching  fist face over the pavements and streets  and howling squares daubed in green would only end in tears of blood  alone on the rooftops crying out  for the grace of god to save us  from our foes and the woes of standing by catching tirades of night raids on the neighbours’ house. Save your tears for the coming flood. In spain eighty percent are marias,  in tomorrows iran there shall be as many Nedas.  Save your tears for the coming flood  washing green rivulets in rivers of blood. This is it, the tricolor of your mother’s grief green for the movement, red for the eyes white for the hope

Forehead beaten in: Shooting Stars

From the East it encroaches on the stars,

the big dipper, the pole star suffer

oblivion for another twenty ... It’s 3.30 am

Sunday’s  light encroaching on the clouds

now blanketing the stars we were watching

on the deck last night, waiting for a shooting star’s

’your wish come true’ moment.

A week in politics come to a conked head.

We back down, go inside, forgetting the milky way.

Last night a superstar dies like a supernova at midnight

BBC foreshadowing the shooting starless revolution

disappearing up in head hanging balloons of green

                                                                       smoke.

The window to the street light is not shattered

the wi-fi globe is revolving through the streets

hushed in the rush of wheels, clicking the keypads

Too high, too low, somewhere in between

the crisis is over spilt milk on the kitchen

floor may be mixed in blood or no, just imagined.

Was it to do with a shooting star? or even a super star?

that this iron grip on the rest of us has engaged the best of us,

but a star is missing and will be?

Tonight a shooting star missed its promise

police takes me instead that in a starless night

like the thinker of the breeze ran in the back streets

lost in his tracks.