JoeC's Blog Spot

JoeC's original poetry and photos about life and all things under the sun.

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Sunday, February 19, 2017



Cry

All that black,
where the white wants to be seen,
where the light and vision tries to break in,
or venture out,
when its boxed and locked up,
morally exhausted,
when fingers so broken,
they can't lift that blinding veil,
refuse to pry open that box,
no matter how hard we pray,
or try and try and try,
while all that blackness,
steals away all the white,
and all we really want to do,
is cry and cry and cry.

Saturday, February 18, 2017



Uncaring Sky

I wake from nightmares,
Grab pen and paper,
Scribbling those horrid memories,
All that pain, all that painful,
All that suffering and torment,
Marring so many broken pages,
Ink spattered between morbid lines.
Laying down again,
Such a lonely gauntlet I've run,
Watching busy spiders spin webs,
Beautifying the uncaring sky.

Friday, February 17, 2017



Mother Earth wept today,
While Robins sang spring tears away,
Behold! Swift clouds, drifting o'er an icy crest,
As Sister Moon cups her swelling breast.

Restless vagabond, wand'ring lost,
Caged below a barren sky, appears embossed,
Protest sweet dreams with some torrid verse,
Attendant, page thy idle King, ere thou fondly curse.

Deft Horace cleave this coming month at Ides,
Ere justice burn the tree of life with its serpent tides,
In remote regions, where nothing evades corruption,
That talking snake with its poison, its sly invention.

There is a sacred spring, deep in the barren desert,
Where God cries out for the faithful to congregate,
A sacred spring hidden deep in an ancient forest,
Where perfect light entrances wisdom into a sacred fate.

There is a sacred spring welling up in our souls, a living gulf,
Seeking a river to the moon, to the stars, to heaven itself,
Beyond the edge of forever, where a mighty dragon lives,
Where roaring lions lie down with the lamb, such power gives.

Oh intrepid Lilliputian Nuthatch!
Ascending sturdy trees in hopes to catch,
Juicy vagrant insects, where e'er you go,
Such a splendid bird, hastily flitting to and fro!

Atmospheric March, changing seasons portend,
Cousin Titmouse comes verily, a substance to wend,
Migration stations north and south, beyond the heart,
Slipping past errant danger, doing their nomad part.

Stripped to the bone, which modern has done,
All that ancient custom and ceremony gone,
All our flight feathers torn out from the very root,
So corporate profiteers successfully silenced moot.

How much water has been uncaringly poisoned?
How much good soil has been treacherously ruined?
How many worms and birds are drunk and dead?
How many family farms, now despoiled with all that dread?

Pure water and the lack of it, so much hurt,
All that intense diverse desert, lack of good dirt,
Scrutinizing and speculating, such a varied sum,
Nervous in our midst about what may and may not come.

Wonderment about what went down, again that sacred tree,
Across the sands of time, across that vast roiling boiling sea,
Across the face of the laughing moon, so spiritually grand,
Stars falling into the blazing sun, like drifting desert sand.

Galaxies wandering across the universe, like lost children,
Uncertainty about whether it will rain upon some warbling Wren,
So much angst about hurricanes, whether life will be blown away,
Many questions, if the tide will ebb or flow, whether good life will stay?

As night draws its uncertain curtain, before the coming dawn,
As the sun dries drops of reflective dew, from off the desert lawn,
From off all the fragrant blooms, neighbours to struggling herbs and shrubs,
In this changing season and atmosphere, birds search for juicy fat grubs.

Where the restless world cavorts with untold disaster,
Where wells and springs dry up, searching for a water master,
Disappearing once again, that unforgiving desert with its curs,
Heroes and explorers strive blindly, so invention, so abundant cures.

Before lying down in the freezing cold, harbouring their sorry goals,
Numerous failures and waterfalls tumble, stealing their ragged souls,
Dragging them away in shackles, contrite through the moil and muck,
Across virgin territory towards virgin home, where life is thus unstuck.

Further into weeping  jungles, across arid deserts, souls are lured,
Where only helpless screams and cries shall e'er be heard,
Until all is finally calm with all those faithful, left bravely standing,
Beyond those unfortunates left behind, kneeling and cowering.

With all our trembling hands and voices raised in thousands,
With all our mystified eyes riveted on those unblinking heavens,
Meeting all that treachery and gloom promised with that stature,
Washing o'er the failing earth, in all its grief and all its vivid nature.

While God sits high upon his golden celestial throne,
Pointing down with his angry vision and roiling tone,
God's deliberate finger grazing this wounded earth he's seen,
Knowing once upon a time all was perfect, once everything serene.

Saturday, February 11, 2017



When those twenty million gallons of agent orange were sprayed,
a lasting gift from that great harlot, those barbaric war lords brayed,
so many weapons of mass destruction, readily used with harmful intent,
on Vietnamese people, both Viet Cong and Viet innocent,
leaving so many poisoned, multitudes of dead and crippled for life,
stripping vibrant jungle of being, demanding destruction and strife,
as is that pernicious agents very nature,
autographed in orange with a lasting horrid future,
artful lethal compounds, such morbid conjecture.
Still three million innocent children live rough,
all those others too, that have lived long enough,
growing into adulthood, after agent orange stopped falling,
unable to cope in normal, institutionalized by some kind calling,
some effort, little medicine, some compassion, so heartfelt,
beyond that toxic substance, with invasive dioxins, horribly dealt,
those chemical companies producing, not ever owning up, even yet,
forever, "It's not our fault, the army paid us handsomely, you bet!"
"Our armed forces needed, just another weapon of war, so we could live free!"
Planes dousing mischief onto trees, drenching all the birds and the bees,
raining down on green lavish jungle, onto what was never negligible,
on once happy Vietnamese, folk simply growing rice and vegetable.
Agent orange, eradicating foliage, annihilating flora and fauna,
wrecking birds and fish, insects and mammals, all that jungle manna,
wiping out goodness in Asian gardens, extirpating soil with a shocking tide,
creaming life out of the place, dreaming ruined lives, obliterating countryside,
disfigured babies, deformed DNA that be born, life struggling in heroic ways,
trying to survive, wanting breath and hearing, simply seeing, praying for better days,
 to have a body, with arms and legs, fingers and toes,
as God and nature intended, beyond unjust travesty, so it goes and so it goes.
War in Vietnam, initial reports in 1965, a 'police action', so that cover-up declared,
war in every corner of the earth, war war and war, no wonder the world is always scared,
strife forced on normal people, compelling nations, strong-arming government,
ferociously coercing mother earth, Gaia to bend, as if ecosystems do not care they're rent,
insisting violence mar religion, violate the world, simply because,
simply because, simply because, red plagues they cause,
hammers and sickles, those unions and peasants and workers,
that red myth, bullet holes spewing red blood from all those dissidents and shirkers.
Life splattered from ripped veins and arteries, while justice cowered deathly still,
politicians and generals, carving flesh from wailing turf, destroying every rise and hill,
burning villages, cities and jungles, wasting women and children, both young and old,
leaving devastation, total destruction in their wake, with their twisted wartime mold,
creating more dissent and hatred, making all the world despise and loath them,
heartless commanders in their shallowness and malice, unoccupied by zen,
in their odious nature, forgetting nations won't forget, people shall never forgive,
those many travesties, year after year, poured out on the earth and all that live,
their evil and warfare, all that carnage and demolition, demanding a definitive rout,
dreaming up battle plans, nightmares for the world, to sweat and scream about,
while compassion and understanding is torched, so ever wrong,
with each conflagration, without respect, or any happy birdsong,
without prayers, void of God's assent, without a trace of humanity,
with their lost souls relishing all that immoral wicked travesty,
immersed in their depravity, soaked and cloaked, in all their heinous villainy,
dropping bombs, causing death that makes them smile, all that planned tyranny.
"I love the smell of napalm in the morning", so commanders claimed,
eating bleeding hearts, breakfast for champions, all their contempt unchained,
spouting lies and falsehoods, about glory and patriotism, part of their subversive game,
demanding villages be blown up and burned, while the moon goes black with shame.
All that Vietnam, untold atrocities, as corporate consumers plead, all that rigid starkness,
ignorance ne'er belayed, without guilt or disgrace, into night, into darkness,
further into hell, while freedom and purity, savaged like hungry ghouls and ghosts,
ravaged and strangled by the neck, unceremoniously hung from city lamp posts,
that no longer shine, from sorry trees and goalposts, that no longer feel any humility,
until all those burning children, crucified men and individuals, executed without civility,
so many shot in the head, strafed and bombed into bloody, bits blown all around,
now laying mortified and grieving, moaning below the weeping ground,
buried deep beneath, entombed in that moist and melancholy Asian soil,
crypts that shall never forget, can never forgive, result of all that moil,
waiting for the wrath of God, retribution against that invading horde,
trusting in the word of God, "for vengeance is mine" saith the Lord.
In time, all that harlot's assumed greatness and fiendish haste,
nefarious taste, reformed into towering pillars of salt and toxic waste,
consumed by greed, shocked by caustic chemical corruption,
perishing, shall rot away into nothingness, a just submission,
in godforsaken vestibules, uncertain and forsaken,
where devilish plots are contrived and undertaken,
scheming in bunkers, all that is agent orange, bombs and guns,
more deplorable war, setting another stage for further runs,
drawing another curtain, for the blind to gaze through,
with their big heads stuck deep in the sand, it's true,
while all those dead Vietnamese, so many other nations,
smile at their destruction, at their folly, from foreign stations,
while the humorous sun does a double-take,
in this lasting winter, for our sad world's sake.
Kneeling in that Holy place,
Jerusalem, a virtuous space,
that new peace,
dome of the rock,
a wailing wall,
so much hope,
so much prayer,
so many folk,
with so many cares,
courageous acts and faithfulness,
wanting in their bleeding hearts,
living life with all its good parts,
good neighbours, live and let live, forever,
maybe not yet dear God, conceivably never.
Perhaps only when the sun turns its face to the east,
setting an esoteric table, serving another pious feast,
all people cry out with fervent choice,
seeking freedom's truthful voice,
requesting true religious faith, not folly,
oh sacred sacred and holy holy,
blessing all those mystic rings,
remarking all those living things,
drops of consecrated water bring,
seeping verily from that deep wellspring,
all that rising holiness,
wisdom bubbles forth with all its godliness,
effervescent with its thirstiness,
washing away all our sinful trope,
watering favourable Eden with a cool spray,
overflowing with divine goodness and hope,
where comforting Angels come to pray.

Friday, February 10, 2017



Ramblings of a Mad Man

So there we were,
sailing across that Arabian desert,
a splendid sea,
teeming with fishes and sea monsters,
hoping to reach the Black Sea,
before noon on the moonless morrow.
Mermaids, dressed in embroidered silk kimonos,
sang for us from the very crests of those flowing dunes,
while we made merry eating dates and figs and raisins.
Our landship was like an ark,
so many cubits by so many cubits,
with a draft of plenty,
built with stories of scented planks,
wood oozing frankincense and fragrant myrrh.
Our brave captain saluted the blazing sun,
as that bright orb skirted brilliant Venus,
heading for warrior Mars and ringed Saturn,
on that daily journey,
across the mystic universe,
where absent landlords,
marvel in great numbers.
Our sails billowed with happiness and joy,
as our camels brayed from that wooden deck,
before morning prayers,
on that shadowless trek,
crossing the depths of that endless sea.
Sarah and Penelope, adorned with bangles and beads,

timbrels and cymbals keeping the shaking beat,
danced wildly across the shimmering deck,
as our shipmates caressed their sweaty brows,
with handkerchiefs made from spun gold.
In our wildest dreams the world sank, 

arrested into blessedness,
not withholding all the tea in China,
not withstanding all that was promised us,

when we departed our now distant home port,
dear Agrippalonia, on that fabled coast,
midst hails of cheers and good wishes,
from legions of bystanders and well-wishers,
waving, as we drifted away into the night,
enlivened by a myriad of twinkling stars,
and all those legends that were once forgotten,
before the flood stole every man's heart and soul,
before God renounced the world,
making us spin and turn and twist like tops,
into tomorrow where dreams are made,
and all good things surely come to light,
on those beautiful shores and acres,
upon that stark and mysterious Arabian bight,
we all adore, and love to call heaven's makers.

Tuesday, February 7, 2017



In time I must bid adieu.
At last I must say goodbye,
to all those I knew.
Burying forgotten dreams,
by and by,
remembered visions,
so verily I sigh.
Raw emotion,
so filled with fear,
rememb'ring cherished love,
wishing I could bring things back,
those significant matters that were so dear.
Then the blue sky turns black,
like the vagrant morrow.
I drift through the hours,
days filled with sorrow,
my heart so heavy,
tears blur my sorry eyes.
Today we escaped,
all those dead poets and I,
sleeping in graveyards,
evading the blazing sun.
Together we vagabonds eluded,
that tortuous consuming fire,
beyond all that want and need,
leaving behind sin and greed,
all those infinite sorrows,
so many indefinite tomorrows.
Precious time ticks quickly by,
timeless moments race swiftly by,
charging reckless into each foreign fray,
reaping tutelage in some broken way.
In this time of darkness,
in this time of strife,
in this time of uncertainty,
we each seek meaning for this life.
When the world and men go insane,
when young men pick up arms,
rush off to war,
when blood is spilled for glory,
oh so vain,
when peace is doomed,
there is love no more.
Toss horrid war on the scrap heap,
dig a grave and bury war deep,
on war's tombstone scribe 'Good Riddance To Thee',
in that place worship worthy peace,
as peace bows down for thee and me.
Thank you for inviting me here today,
let heaven's prayers help us find a goodly way,
rememb'ring God blessed us with a generous feast,
honouring the stars and moon,
guiding us to that sacred peace.
Oh sacred mountain!
Your sweet vapours so amazing!
Spirit blessings garnished by that ancient fountain!
Awash in milk and honey, a wondrous glazing!
Source of holy Shiva's birthplace,
Godhead visited, once then twice,
sanctuary of this epic human race,
where infinite dreams forever suffice.
Eccentric mystics no less,
where evasive ascetics dwell,
worshiping this divine goddess,
chasing the elusive wind,
such a harsh mistress,
whispering through that holy dell.

Monday, February 6, 2017



What luck?
White dove of peace,
bloodied, nailed to its wooden cross, 
awaiting death like a wounded duck.
Come Angel, pray, desperate release,
while errant dreams lay still,
on a patch work quilt of moist green moss.
Trudge uphill,
from that incurable place,
a slow death,
seeking fire and rain.
If luck be with us,
no room for loss,
only latitude for gain.
What love,
if love be true,
mends a broken heart?
That dying dove,
mended hearts be few,
tears flood o'er every broken part.
If God exists,
if love be true,
if love heals,
imagine passionate love,
rallying compassionate trysts.
Heaven's gentle kisses too,
whilst holy ghosts caress wounded souls,
the spirit feels,
infinite love, in heavenly time and colour,
that place where hearts are mended,
wounded souls are tended,
where brave angels exist with untold valour.
While here on earth, light's ethereal plane,
existence remains, existential.
Life is suffering, savage greed and lust always vane,
though air and water, true love too, so essential.
But luck, like peace, so seldom rendered,
and those wounded hearts,
like broken lives,
are tempered cold with rain.