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Cast Our Image She's Not a Land to Plough And

Cast Our Image She's Not a Land to Plough And

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Published by ProfPAS
Dr. P. A. Silva's poetry
Dr. P. A. Silva's poetry

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Published by: ProfPAS on Dec 26, 2009
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12/26/2009

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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 selfAwareness 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

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