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

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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

Singularity

Truth is, truth is not…

Or not as you thought. See, truth is a figure skating on thin ice without a flinch of scatterbrain fear. Truth is a hand to uplift you from hypothermia, a saviour arm encircling your shivering shoulders, but not the first, nor the last, but everyone celebrating your survival…

Go silently read your Bibles in the ashes of synagogues, O profound priest, and preach at the universal pulpit, in the disintegrating church of the disbelieving world, O impregnable imam! Our loving God is a lust for the ruin, the wreckage and the waste: that much is His mercy, no more…

Behold the countenance of the belligerent sun. Yea, how it shines upon everyone. Darkened we despairingly turn away, tremble astray: the daystar illumines always our wintry night and summer day…

Everlastingly thirstless drying the merciless desert without doubt, our ascendant welder of worlds asserts, ’I am the master of murderers. I am the scolded tongues of innocence orphaned and the associate torturer of sadistic tyranny! O bow not, star-child! O bow never! Shameless lift your blazing head aloft shimmering brazenly! No masterpiece will once be worthily crafted otherwise from within the rawest unrefined ore. Every resplendent deific effigy used to be a darkling effulgence of dirt!’

Truth is, truth is not…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Fallen Light Renew

Hear the Voice of the Bard!

Who Present, Past, and Future sees;

Whose Ears have Heard

The Holy Word,

That walked among the Ancient Trees.

Calling the lapsed Soul,

And weeping in the Evening Dew;

That might Control

The Starry Pole,

And fallen, fallen Light renew!

 – William Blake

One moment is each and every once upon a time, a still pulse stirred around some faraway starry rhyme, my brethren, yea, always deadly alive, immortally doomed and eternally buried exhumed…

Hear the bare tree whisper of windblown leaves, don’t cry, ‘cos it’ll be fine. Fear not, though you rot, by the schoolyard wall. Let the kid’s make their game of your tall-tale scrawled…

Onwards and upwards good and evil fall, suicidal assaults on Constantinoplean walls, ladders at the battlements and pits either side, teary blood where the most heroic villains died…

Can you see them hearing us touching our scent of distaste? All the gods and the ghosts and their killers and kobolds? Taboos in the tattoo scar Nazca lines, on the Earth immaterial matter inscribed…?

See a hungry tiger hides with a swipe of its claws, like it fashioned those stripes after the passage of passionate flawed paws, and the cry of prone prey has made the hunter sneak silently away, yea, in their way, and out of their way…

If you throw a stone and you feel more alive, you’re heart will beat faster when you see a friend die, and when they hate, if you can say, ‘My love, why…?’ 

True peace-treaties are signed with mock battle-cries…

© Thomas James Foster 2015

Lilies of the Field

Let us be lilies of the field…

Loved men and women lovingly blooming liberally, upstanding firm and fearlessly, similarly dissimilar, side by side, hurling their hopefulness ever heavenward…

Clever fool, behold the burgeoning flower buds: why? They are wise. Now watch the vivid whorls unfurl and befriend the bee, promising ambrosial honey, the joyous uproar of petals and pollen, the soothing riot of the windblown leaves whirled suddenly…

Why see we, everywhere, infinite energetic infants efflorescent trodden lowdown tremblingly? Crushed under crude authority, ephemeral fashion’s circular prison cell, stale tradition’s grandparental curse! Entombing debris of days gone by, a given world stolen by larcenous avarice unlearned, feeble survival of the fiercest, ill-adapted to our graciously revolving globe….

Ours the timeless school of the multi-coloured meadow beyond the winter buffeted woodland. Ours the school of the shooting stars afire in midnight’s unshattered glassy skies. Ours the school of summertime’s magnanimous charity, all thoughtless, thankless bestowal of abundance, the lifefully exhumed gemstone richness of the entrepreneurial seed…

Here your hate, it owns no home: not where the green-wood meekly grows into forgivingly surrendered firmament! Behold the lonesome robin on the snowbound bough, singing territorially: wherefore, but that another might join him thereupon and enjoy…?

Loved men and women lovingly blooming liberally, upstanding firm and fearlessly, similarly dissimilar, side by side, hurling their hopefulness ever heavenward…

Let us be lilies of the field…

© Thomas James Foster 2015