Poetry Corner: Ire

I

Time is sick, but once it departs 

as long as it sells, there’s no greater burning

to write for dear life, as soon as it starts 

and no man can get by, except when by earning 

and no one should live all aside from the arts, 

No matter which way, at once it’s concerning 

So hell, as it starts, we’re all under the weather

Thirsting for elsewhere, together together.

II

Hearing the wind outside plagues up the bones

in ache, so prone to madly wander

so scarce of fortitude, and scones

Inside our absence, growing fonder.

To not regret the come and gones,

fruitlessly lost, no more to ponder;

out of places, aren’t we all-

Whilst we sit down, we can’t fall.

III

Stuck, inside meets every day with 

vigour in it’s splendorous dark-

Not wandering, wondering what to say if,

Jupiter’s light came to burn its famous arc-

Our words may not be consecrative,

But aren’t to be taken for a lark-

The earth is lurching, growing hither;

terraforming, as we wither.

IV

Heat has come to a smoulder, whilst we wait, 

justice for us means bucket loads to be taken.

Our predictions become colder, but more accurate,

the young become older, oldest forsaken. 

To live in our entrails, written in fate, 

cursed to our beds, no world to partake in;

Except for our old friends, books, red wine and mead-

A life stuck inside makes you awful well read!

V

All our chances for glory so aptly hurl’d,

yet even the lazy now grow creative;

Lots here to play for, still, in the world,

fiction is like real life, but not so speculative 

All the flags of the Earth have at once come unfurl’d, 

So evaporation is preferable, to being evasive:

For as once steadfast nations curl up and let die,

preceding politicians will surely fly!

VI

A license now required, for voting or roaming,

indoors alone is the newest/only spot.

Weird as the world is now so becoming, 

we hold on to old, with all left that we’ve got.

Spring is made beauty, the honey is combing,

as beautiful is, as the news is not.

Only once the last flowers come to wilt,

will we realise the road we have made, difficult

VII

Plaintive, sullen calls from Greece;

Democratic means remain her keeper.

Quiet as it was, erst sodden in peace,

they took in the harvest, we dance with the reaper.

Brief concern then relief, both arms full of cheese, 

and the kids in the mine learn to run from the creeper .

The wisest can’t claim that they wouldn’t waiver,

Or wiser still, flee this wretched endeavour!

VIII

How best could we lay ourselves off for a favour?

Throw off all our days for a partial stipend,

a transient ticket, a life/day saver,

foul government fiends, just a means to an end. 

The senator’s sons both berate and get braver,

what’s the line from the party? What due do we send?

It is useless to fret the whens and whys,

all life is the same, when you close your eyes.

IX

We were harmony, now we become ire.

For nothing in beauty, we once were adorned. 

Take flight from parsimony, into the fire;

Alas, for the wont to be mourned.

Slick now, we’re covered in honey,

all the worse for the misinformed;

And aren’t we all? Pages torn,

from the day that we fall, to the day that we’re born

Cameron Mason