Sing-a-song

sing-a-song-of-lullabies
a pocketful of earth

keep out of the counting house
for all that you are worth

see them pray for rye to grow
from sticks and stones and broken bones

but keep out of the parlour
the queen is nursing honeycombs

see the people running
through wars that everybody knows

don’t peer inside the garden
the maid is hanging out their clothes

see the people moving closer
with songs that soothe like honey

hear their voices growing louder
and the bombs that drop like money

but keep out of the counting house
that’s none of your affair

keep out of the garden
and keep out of the lair

don’t look inside the beehive
or the bees will keep on stinging

don’t wonder what’s inside the pie
where the birds are always singing

bring

Thunderstorm! Bring space-
Bring me to the edge-
Bring me your lines

Bring flashes of memory
and news from the south
and absorb this humidity

My thin walls and skin-
bring the house down
bring the emptiness in

G.B.H.

Grievous

Risible

Endeavours

Abroad

That

Brought

Rich

Individuals

Treasures

And

Incapcitated

Nations.

Hard Cs

Power always begins
With a strategist – who keeps

Wealth in the hand
That feeds him – heaps –

In his high chair. Pausing only
To throw scraps at the dogs –

He plays, and tinkers, shits,
And smiles and receives

Accolades that trigger
Public reaction – he farts.

The man is receiving a medal
On the other side – for services

Rendered, for keeping up with
The boys in their carts

Vast chunks of public loot
Adorns the walls, his best suit.

Meanwhile someone else
Is trying to live on credit

Having bought some food
And a few gifts for the baby.

Wondering if they’ll effing freeze,
Dry January means having nothing at all.