Colin F. Jones
~ 1 ~
How can I make friends; with this poet’s mind,
That is not by my actions very often defined,
What the Hell is my purpose; I do not know,
I am addicted to this habit as my efforts do show,
Sometimes I am sickened tormented by words,
That invade my mind like a hoard of absurds.
They force themselves through me like horrible worms,
Invading my brain with their terrible squirms,
I don’t want to write poetry; it is a foul fruitless art,
It’s a constipated cranium trying to fart…
Tis the ranting of a soldier left on the battlefield alone,
Like a dog in an alley chewing a bone…
I would wish it on no one, for whom I cared,
For though you give it away, it cannot be shared.
~ 2 ~
Do you know – I don’t care what my critics say,
If they are feeling hungry then I bid them to stay,
They accuse me, abuse me, thinking I care,
But I simply write poetry for anyone to share.
I don’t care if they’re bad or to goodness belong
I don’t care if it’s foul, stupid or wrong.
There will always be critics; goodness knows why,
If I tell them the truth, they’ll all say I lie,
Because it’s by their own defects they judge one to be,
The image their brain has come looking to see,
You’ll be condemned if you’re black, Indian or green,
Or for the words they invented they think are obscene.
It will always be folk like me who speak out,
Who will be chosen by critics as a person to doubt.
~ 3 ~
So believe me my friends, I simply don’t care,
I’m too old and too sick and that I won’t share!
I’m sick of the prejudice the racism and hate,
The greed and the conquests the silly debate,
Conceit and religion that dominate the brain,
For the purpose of power and monetary gain.
I am sick of the talk like the yapping of dogs
That with speculating, lays the real truth fogs.
I am sick of the laws that for revenue are passed,
The cheap bluddy tools made not to last,
The lack of compassion for the dying and sick,
The children who are starving because they are black.
The perpetual endless roller coaster of greed,
The swanky foul rich who have more than they need.
~ 4 ~
So what do I care what you say about me,
I am nothing but a grain on the sand near a sea,
That is slowly washing what I think all away,
For they are simply words that will with me decay.
And I say to you God “you are callous and mean”
To have allowed all this suffering on this planet obscene.
What sort of God are you that folk suffer so?
What’s the point of my asking? You’ll not let me know!
So go then young soldiers and fight till you die,
We’ll just continue here living the perpetual lie,
For when you return leaving your brothers behind,
To live only for the lifetime of a sad father’s mind…
There will not be weeping from the vain general’s eye,
Who sees war as a game, not a reason to cry.
~ 5 ~
Many of you will know of your sad father’s pain,
That from his tragic war was his only gain,
You will no longer condemn him for leaving his wife,
Being unable to love you; for his suicidal knife.
You will know what it is like to be different and wrong,
How hard it becomes for a Warrior to belong.
You will know why we knew what you were going through,
And that the brotherhood of man surely is true.
And if from your God you have perhaps moved away,
Then you’ll know you’ve moved closer and that’s ok,
For you have to have sons who will see what you saw,
Then you’ll pray and you’ll hope they return from their war,
For wisdom and faith takes quite a long time,
To humbly submit to the great and divine.
©Copyright November 20, 2004 by Colin F. Jones