Thursday, 12 May 2011

An Epistle or Poem for a President

(After conversations with William Blake, Lord George Byron & Samuel T Coleridge)

Dear Friends
From Azabikhan to Islamabad
Foot soldiers track north to take flight
Under cloudless skies, soon humid night.
Men in charge, stand back to back
Cowardly fear seen through eyes
Deceitful thought on tender light
Oh Nirvana! Power lost to deny.
Missiles rain down upon
Mankind on scud parched land
Where sometime terror brings incense
Forbidden now in the bleary sky
Warring faction destroy pleasant scenery.
Terror, Terror burning bright
Stalked freedom innocence, who is right?
Impossible hand or eyes doth see
Night vision frames two centuries of lies.
Once lived in history now past
Dust from distant ships survive
Burnt offering fire in enemy eyes.
Black hawk lands will a Judas aspire
Focus on truth somehow no ceasefire
So friend shadows cross pleasure dome
Life just a shell above Frozen waves.
There I see no truth, stolen treasure
Taken from walkways inside caves
Miracle now rare device
Under pleasure dome, they never saw twice.
From Islamabad to Azabikhan
Political Tyranny died for all to see
Echoed across land untracked by man
Afghans worship Allah, my friend
100 miles above the fertile ground
Listen Mr. President, hear the screams
Crumbling walls coveted, lost and found

Gregory Brimblecombe © 2011

Bin Laden's death brings up questions on interrogations


Greg Brimblecombe currently resides in New Zealand. He has not escaped yet. He has been writing poetry for over 20 years and co-ordinates a Poetry group on a beautiful bush clad Peninsula.