Cast Our Image

She's not a land to plough and reap

Our minds are never wrong to beg for yields

I'm thinking of the foundry

I want to cast our image

But, first, I must sign on to openness

To pour our gold, silver or copper.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

BLAIR’S TORY

A kingpin has ferried shuffling middle clouts

Into the lower regions of Britain
Three times, they were dealt the wrong deck and the pack
Needed constant reshuffling to make the fudge last
Super co-ordinates and entente royals, Charlie-showed
The economy to make dark wealth and braggarts
They sit on a footstool, precariously leaning into the
Reminiscence of Jester years
The ailing century when Britain did not work
And Capitalism became Colonialism.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

Doubtful Sixpence

Dark continent,
a different ball
game.
Diptych for
a tamed spider
mixed media
on a canvas.
Crypt of the
black Madonna
Mooreland benediction
the doubtful sixpence.
The woodcutter and 'Father Jose Maria'
married the artist's wife at
potato harvest
had chips in a bed-sit
with inmates.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

Drummers of Revolutions

Drummers of revolutions
Dusty means and ends

Collaborator-glazers
Green brick and scenarios

Outlines of concepts
Tinges of colours

Sanity undermines imagination.

Mystery of forgotten dreams

Spiked blood
Thinks red with rage

You played along beside me

Knowing I was a game
A pale brown soil!

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

The Earth

Brandishing grief, a seabed had pub-crawled

An orchard through a blind alley

We priced the earth and had wept

Turbulence full to bathe a storm!

We'd been on a boat smelling sweet with such tripping

In the dark and had tried out our last gossip

We'd stampeded our feet as a nuisance and had

Held our smile to the fragrance of a smudged world

The Earth, our own, has kept us alive

Eternal Almighty Regenerator Triumphant Hold-us-ness.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

Guantanamo Bay

Guantanamo mourns full of

Othellos whose times have purchased
death and their judgement a dread circle.
With a little carefree, GWB baits anger with art –
his family comic collection.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

I smell paradise

I smell paradise when George in a dice of solemnity

Embraces the hiatus.

The only Hercules dancing away the throes;

Chest-beating the barbarians -returnees - from five thousand years of history

This jig and this lull epitomise

The new love for Herculean heroics on superior plutonium wings.

I smell paradise full of people a newly liberated form from

The crutches of Saddam Hussein

Those once impoverished now celebrate

With tanks of water and bucketful of poohds.

The crossed swords, emblem of Baghdad,

Are now fitful smiles of the freed Iraqis.

I smell paradise when the old Europe prostrates

To the New at the helm of reconstruction insomnia.

Americans with pocketful of peace dice

NATO into a rapid disability;

Branding the once shaky,

Blurring the truths once held dearly.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

LEVEL CROSSING

It was above her

Affecting her profiling
In the dim…
Mmm, a different person, a different meal
She said the thought but the It answers:
“You mean people eat differently?”
‘No, men and ants are meals alike
Rhyming like cars, getting there to here.’
“But ants eat different
Things! They eat
Stones soil and wood
They eat other ants,
Not like people,
People do not eat people
No, not now,”
She was the idea
She has brought all its episodes into
A lump fit for level crossing
She’d face it now,
To tell it that as a child, she knew
‘Ants eat ants
But men kill men
Not even for a meal’
Then she thought, just tell it to the Police

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

By-Gone Lights

Leathered wilfully, desperate caricatures

are laughing still as folklores live longer
than people, and people are tripping in and
out of lights. Different shades of darkness
are pontificating at bare existence... But
the poor make round the goings on in the
world. Self-amusement is enchanting as an
honourable Philistine, praised for his
masonry outside womanhood only to go home
to 'mummies' rejected in the bright, but
loved in shades. Disparagement of a pint or
a glass of wine would not do the damage to a
dream reeled on knocking the stars, beaming
silly! Neither a 'James Bond' nor a 'Nicole
Kidman' has a monopoly on aesthetics. The
downtrodden are the infinite symbol; their
efforts are real icons rekindling the craved
boldness, the boldness of by-gone lights.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

Womb, the origin
Of life, woman brought forth
Man in herself demonstrating her complex self-
Awareness of life
Neutralising physical power of death, as of man

And the dullness in man condemned

Have you not seen or heard

The cravings of excitement by men
In brawls or the display of aggression
By manners unmeasured
Confirming how lonely a man is. Dissatisfied
With himself, needing to find the meaning of self

And the dullness in man condemned

Women always defend men in gentler ways than one

Men’s defence of women adds up
To one and only one, the grinding, abrasive muscularity,
Then, the collapse. Yes, a man drops in many ways,
Firstly the trickles and last, oh at last the self-inflicted exhaustion;
The near-loss of consciousness, needing a woman’s respite

To come back to life not to combat life

Yes, women die too

A poetic death
A disguise for the continuation of life in
Different forms and shapes tracking the
Life in man is real
And will grow

To come back to life not to combat life

Women are the substance of life

On earth, they’re in bits
The great Mother
And the lesser mother
Mother of all, nonetheless

To come back to life not to combat life.

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva