Equifinality

Pen-parading fingers little flames melt the ice of must…

A galleon’s belly thine, heavy with counterfeit  bullion, and the legalized pirates anon come flying the skull and bones fleecing innocence. Birth is suicide, the seven unruly seas…

Cheap are the wishes of shooting starlight, fond airs of a fading aerolith. Summer has nothing as perfect as the snowflake, the very flowers are vibrant mockeries thereof nonetheless, and thus perish as prettily… 

Undying legends declare to once be alive is to be immortalized. Maybe there is no atom, or sun, nor empire forgotten, and the unfailing cosmic memory records all. And this kid’s skinned knees teach a kid t’other side of the universe…

A stranger eagerly standing upon every cross roads you come across. You see, your eyes, your touch, your being is the meaning of sword, gun, battle, the lawless justification as the dust to dust settles…

Blessedly curse the sanctioned witchcraft of soulless women, yea, the black magic of blood-soaked men! All the loving loveless they light stars for candles, revolve Utopian worlds for peace of mind. Lenticular their laughter, focusing the furious beam on the omnipresent mirror, and the crying, scratching cockerel sun is not without interpreter…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Windflowers, John William Waterhouse

Windflowers

Swirl our uncertain love in sweet ice-cream snowdrops…

Twirl my love, return unbidden wintry, I’m sprung, all summery…

She makes a week the making of another world. Seven days too many, and I’ve not got a penny more, but I do adore, I do, I do true…

How dare you compliment my kisses and depart? Fair woman of the free wind, hyper-seasonal work of highest art, under-dressed in day-glow… 

Jar our fleeting love in just honeycomb daffodils…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Wildernesses

Sphere us quicker, cosmic dung beetle!

Daringly surmount the skeletal dunes of spacetime daily!

All buzzing aphid grasses assume windy wingedness, not quite flight but quaintly flapping at leaf plucking atmosphere, like the elfin fieldlings eager giggling say, ‘I will solemnly reveal where ingenious ants milk us. Crawling across once piecemeal snails relieved, they come unbidden hither and thither urgently see, carrying our pseudo-dew from the wildling lawn’s fruitful canopy of a languid morn…’

Probationary paths and paths professional: this is the difference between joyous bird-food and earthworm justice. So watch the butterfly steal transformative beetle thunder! Dragonflies rule the roost. Now electrified clouds uprear, giant centipedes without insect peers, and when suddenly a Sunset Morpho sky, creeping nigh the chrysalis night, therein retro we hide…

In the wink of a lady-like antelopean eye, the lasting pride of the preying lioness is her crippled little child! A tribe’s worth of bones for piercing noses, the lazy maned lion’s plan, the making of man…

Monkey chattering ligers and lassoed zorses are little old we!

Forgetful elephants awaiting cetacean return from the ocean…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

The Resurrection of Care

I see you a rainbow phoenix arise…

Alive the flash, a living flare smouldering, molten chains unmade,loosening around your laser wings and unfettered free you fly, now you learn unbarred the new-born beat of your lava heart as the would-be ruby-egg thieves flee, decadent scattered without their dagger wielding swagger, with paltry vengeful pride dim flickering deeply inside their ego imprisoned eyes, the go-getting graspers, the owned uncaring ones, the souls solo…

O you are the waxless candle wounding the deathful creeping dark!On flaming through frozen heavenly gates you go, go, ascending meteoric hope! Whirlpool portals of the future all flung open fearlessly, unto the way faraway unfolding, yea, from the ashes of Earth undone a sibling for the Sun, the Resurrection of Care…

Can you care for the solar whirlwind whipped young planet and its long lost wilderness liberties? For these once fondly skipping seas falling
into an abhorred abyss of radioactivity? Or for the candy floss clouds acidized?
Can you care for the knaves beneath hellish bullet hail in the lampless, luckless,
lawless urban midnight revelry, the never ebbing crime-wave everywhere…?

O care for the shyly waving Tree of Life we passed everyway and
shameless, waves returned not! Go on and watch it gleefully waving and know that it will be
waving still when sapiens rot, know it will be vigorous still when our children’s
children rot, whether they or theirs are wont to wave or not, be sure it will
shed a dancing shadow long upon their waiting graves, long over the graveless
dead and wave…

Care for the nobodies numinous, lost and luminous, alley
ghosts alive ghastly but grimly resolute, gladly reduced thereto, all uplifting
aloud unofficial apocalypses, mute trumpets blaring terror, angels with clipped
wings awry, cryptic silence crying, ‘The
end is nigh…’

O care for our world of parentless playgrounds, too oft
bereft of the daydream pitter-patter of tiny feet. Do you see the haunting,
haunted swings there creaking in the wail tortured wind? Anyway the aching return
to arms, the morbid replanting of minefield flowerbeds, the innocent play of
infant veterans in the nuclear haze…

Care for the undefended overthrown underneath these cruelest scientific tyrannies! Fortify soft-hearted courage to right the wrongs of rationalized
demonic agencies! At last be allied with human nature’s Laws of Love too long
derided and denied, standing up for natural truth on trial in mechanical show
courts of criminal authority…

O rainbow phoenix arise, Resurrection of Care…

O care! I hear the unmatchable harmony of human, humane laughter in
the liberal air! Musical fireworks of distantly exploding despair! Free youth’s amorous
festival yearnings across the streetward greens camped everywhere! I behold outreaching hands given out in pairs, upward and downward swooping with dove tender coos and meeting where real inalienable rights are
lastingly renewed, many brave merry-go-rounds among sown dragon bones dared…

The Resurrection of Care!

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Resolutions of Grandeur

Believe this silly kid would like to be an Iliad and Odyssey…

Forlorn unburnt fool wants apocalypse now, or the judged world justly revolving on somewhere somehow, a little more of living breath dying, yea, dust but less, the curse of death to bless…

All the babies are born for epic tragedies. All see God’s loving face and live you see. All sell a soul to the Devil with a hope of Heaven. Fallen angels for the fun of it, scarring the skyline. Edenic kisses, shooting star wishes, blazing across the bleakest wilderness cheeks the world misses…

Behold the armies of Apache helicopter eyes spinning up high! Megaphone ears listening the pleas into pitiless silence! Behold the mindless riots murdering without violence! The pitiful silence…

Grow wherefore? Metabolize why? Respond and move what for and whereto? Orgasmic organism, adapt and die, aye! Or spit in the sun’s blind eye…

Never doubt you will create your own universe one day, a million immanent stars and impossible lifetimes imagined away, untold imperiled Earths to brood childishly upon, eternal choruses, singing brave electromagnetized brazen song…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

The Art of Hyperbole

Now jovially anew, swallow the stars…

Burp and fart supernovae. Henceforth this is reality: the yet unreal. Or have you never flown in your dreams? But you are not a bird…

Imagine Blake, seeing the simple tree flecked with daemonic fallen angels. Picture Saul made Paul on the serpentine road to Damascus. Believe in a dream a luminous spirit told longing Descartes, ‘The conquest of nature is to be achieved with number and measure,’ and then, count the ancient mysteries never undertaken, the Big Bangs coming to the crunch, your astounded gasps and gaze inspired into aspirant space…

Then freely thus, remember ever confounding dreams, torturous visions, hallucinations of hilarity, teach when they taunt, and such delusions are destiny, and this earthly realm is for the heavenly minded, and when first you found yourself doing philosophy, you were at play…

Climbing skyscrapers with foundations in the clouds afloat, lifting a giant aloft upon your unshrinking shoulders and casting an inspired eye further even than he, what can you see? A universe of adventure unlimited ahead; not made for the mundane; not for answers, but of questions; not for proof, but of the unproven; not of the living, but for the unlived…

Now jovially anew, swallow the stars…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

The Fruit Bearing Tree

Here I take within my hands, thankfully, living plant matter lovely…

But honestly, I am no botanist. What demand you desiring of us, dangling pear, mere dissection or  delight? I dub you biological divinity, a holy fact, sacred reality, yea, all the words silly and sacrosanct to science, and good to eat…

O verily, praise to vegetative pride! Our motherly enrapturer and enlightener, thankless sheltering feeder and publically funded doctor, lordly origin of lore, bless thee, blessed greenery, flesh gracefully forgone…

In you I perceive perception itself. Earthbound, but skyward growthful striving. Lowdown upon outward powers dependent, but upward with inner necessity independent. From the seed astray the sapling, the light uplifted, mineral envigoured trunk, fruit bearing tree, your seeds bearing fruit… 

Sweet the orchard swell, the satisfying click of apple picking, the merest sting beneath the nails when the orange is skinned, berry mouthful variety, even among the same bred strain the changeful shape, taste, colouration…

Here I take within my hands, thankfully, living plant matter lovely… 

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Fallout

But if the bombs fall…

Would they return then? Would they remember valour and virtue…?

Dignity more than moneyed, proven success more than interest payments? No doubt all things are doubtful thus, and the bound homeward bus you long to catch might bury you at last and all your past, the parental embrace, the pink or blue pram you were newborn pushed along in, the schoolyard hopscotch you once skipped across O happily, O hapless…

Will the fight become folly whenever the West be wilder than ever, and the White House radioactive dust-clouds reckoned on the heatwave winds, and the slaver white men make themselves slaves, and the Africans emigrated dig for themselves deep European graves…?

The Russians are coming but not far. Siberia is already here. All the merest things all of a sudden treasures and priceless, the merest family photograph a masterpiece priceless, the wine oil, the bread gold, and the living more alive…

Once see a missile falling reflected in the eyes of a child, hear a hurtling jet-plane howling in an infant’s curious ear, and you will know fear…

If the bombs fall…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Illogic

None of these unpoets for want of seasons, winters likes summers in lathered nightclubs, springs like autumns in zombie apocalypse shopping armaggedons. Desert sun where the skeletal gardens run. Frozen hearths encircled warmly around which the unstoried tales are told… 

Chaste, the undressed moon chews the nape of your needless wanting. Blushing concrete drinks the final round of spirit liquid and you lovingly crush yourself and soulful escape…

Quaint daggers unsheathed in the running and gunning estates! Dying graveyards speak their worthless secrets and motherless mothers weep not. Tearless baby fear, aimless baby hate, massed baby misfortune, but nowhere babes nowadays…

O cradled bricks and bars! All real warmth is but steel and stone. Come awful, awe-inspiring dread of dawn, come ye, embryonic angels, yea, here crouch like an oil-slick heavy cormorant, here upon the stern unrolled stone and scare this hopeful, hated Mary hence! Her pitying, pitiful sight here sickens the Lord your God with jealous glee…

Wildfires trumpet ashen songful worlds throughout a celebrant void, crying smoke! Meandering weepers gather wreaths for marriages funereally, keepsakes with tormented ghosts of roses woven, spitting dewy tears, yea, flinging contemptuous petals at cruel heaven’s gang of envenomed reptilian birds and honeycomb embittering pseudo-bees…

None of these unpoets for want of want…

© Thomas James Foster 2015