2 Synthesis‎ > ‎Art‎ > ‎

Poems

When Androids Cry 12th March 1990

A lake lapped her banks
upon which an android stood,
to mourn her dead.
The gentle wind that made the waves,
blew the android's hair and dried her tiers.
She looked down at a simple wooden cross of sticks
planted into the sand of a shallow grave,
and her love went out toward it as an android's love does,
total in its being.
Her tattered clothes blew about her and the sand about her feet,
and grief about her thoughts.
"Oh gentle wind take me,
take me in your arms and carry me away from here."
Her arms stretched skywards to implore heaven. Heaven answered not,
her beggar's dream, it just continued while she looked and looked.
* * * * *
When morning came she was sitting by the shallow grave
shifting sand with her hands,
watching each pile she made,
eyes glazed or seeming empty over her silent dead.
She was cold but she stayed and stayed, she was a perfect replica.
She was too perfect.
She turned a weep stained face toward the water's edge
and stepped a perfect gate;
Feet reach the waters edge and tiny splashes fly
while forward ripples mount to cross surface.
Her perfect head knows more than we can know.
Her perfect hand can crush a solid stone.
And her perfect heart can drown in greater tragedy.
Oh android, misfortune is with thee.
Listen - listen to the swallows fly,
or sit and watch to see the machines cry,
to mourn their dead with tears in their eye.
Little by little the water rose, she walked deeper.
Then she tripped and fell face down she floated there.
And drownded she was proper like dead leaf in autumn's tide
she drifted out, out of reach and out of mind.
A swallow saw her from up high,
a fairy of the lake
embalmed in its transparency.
She even died, completely, perfectly.



Poor Mrs Kinsley or War Games 9th July 1995

And sailing as one does in ones mind
I watched the carpet of my room
and on it came out some fairy kind.

Weapons of old and weapons of new
toy solders campaigned, for no reason they knew
as legendary planes flew low over head
spitfire pilots and gunners and people long dead
resurrected today to fight in my play.

Poor corporal Johnson has no longer a face
for its part of his arse that makes that grimace
and poor private kindsley has nothing at all
that one in the height of the battle did fall
the warden said sorry to those that remain
"Don't worry my dear, he was never in pain"
Mrs Kindsley knows, it was not all in vain.

All those people that died in mud to their necks
and those that died in water, on battle ships decks
and those that died flying up high in the sky
and those that dropped bombs on people who cry;
are now on my carpet; in my living room;

but supper is ready it must all end soon.
"Oh thank god its supper" I hear the troops say
and sailors look forward to home coming day
and planes land, on carpet, all over the room
the war it is over, and never to soon.
Limps, wounds, blood and dead, stain my carpet
a dark shade of red.


FreudsCat

Freud has a cat
that wasn't much good at
getting old with grace.
and, that cat
it hist and spat
when it saw a wrinkle on its face.
Afraid that God the rotton sod
had put it in its place.


If you like those there are more here Poems and Short Stories



(C)2010 Tom de Havas. The information under this section is my own work it may be reproduced without modification but must include this notice.






Subpages (1): Poems and Short Stories
Comments