The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent (friday 15 May 2009) returned to the age old topic of censorship in the arts. Well, in painting act...
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
The wind it is a chainsaw
in a forest made by man,
it rips the buildings limb from limb
and piles them storeys high.
The mighty oaks and redwoods fall
like old teeth pulled
and full of puss
and rotten with the pain.
Each solitary figure stands,
as cherished notions blown like leaves
are ripped from what would nourish them
and thrown into the night.
There's terror in the chain saw's screech
it echoes every creature's call.
The forest has been pulled awake
as Nature told it sleep!
With chain saws all around us
there's no way from the wood,
the ancient moors, though places loved,
are lost now to our feet.
The loggers who have stricken us
are forces we unleashed:
we stirred the pot and boiled away
what might have been the balm.
The sounds that now besiege us
are the rattles in the throats
of all who once believed us
when we said the Earth would live.