Pile of islands

Tanned bodies contrast with very pale rosy white ones
Walking by boy and girl, child and parent, sand and seawater
Fit middle-aged residents slip through the sand and disappear into the waves
Large awkward tourists mope at the shore, where white wash waxes their lumpy limbs
Football youths bronzed and beer gutted head-butt their ball and brag into the day
as if they were pushing it into being real

Hoards of chilli-bin lugging hawkers make their way arduously
 through the deep squishy sand
Umbrellas have landed like parachutes
Giving short shards of shade for the midday timid
Beach vibration tropical and vivid.

Airplanes drag advertising across the open sky
Thin sly locals rent you beach chairs sunglasses and beards get to work
Launches, yaughts and cargo ships slide off the horizon
like it was the edge of the world
A couple of miles from this pile of islands god tried to glue to paradise

My plane

She flies and like the clouds she should
She's packing now and she will be unpacking soon
We will land soon and take off grand
She's an inspiration in the sand
She's a piece of summer in my hand

Under the umbrella with her all day
Peanut vendors are praying I'll pay
Full of the sunlight they will go home hollow pocketed
She's the plane she's the right design she's my rocket
The beach is ours forever blue never grey

Farmer of war(The grey existance)

The borders are sweet and fertile
The plough hits the earth and enters it like a knife
What he plants will explode when the rebels step to the harvest
The poison he drops from his plane he calls pesticide

He keeps working
Smoke pouring through his crops
Shell shocked Refugees wander through
The fixed frown of the farmer as bent as the hoe blade

He tends his patch while chaos devours the land
Borders burn again and again
He simply plods away at his tilling
As if the shrapnel won't hit him

Conflict finds fuel and ammunition
The farmer of war finds his pipe and lights it
No birds sing or peck the ground for worms
He is not burnt not touched by any bullet

Late afternoon's sun casts the farmer of war's long shadow
And in it's bounds a megalomaniac germinates

The breaking of the Phantom

The spirit's true turmoil strikes the heart and mind
And after the hundred dreadful thoughts
each one a cord for the phantom to climb
I have readied the flame for the dry strands

This magician of the afterlife will meet his doom
Desires extinguished conscience groomed
Doubt devastated through the spacious aware
Now the facades will burn like the ghouls in my room

I promise the lurking specter will cringe
In the quiet darkness where it sings
I will be there with the dagger in my eyes
No longer the observed, I have become the spy

With those regrets disappearing
These lies are weak, I have ripped apart the fear
Well wishing in my hand and I wield it like a whip
I will find your neck phantom...

And choke the heck out of you.
I'll feed you to the birds
The ones that bask in the daylight
Ghostly feed for the beak of my words

The approaching phantom

Footsteps toward the bed
footsteps that the dark night imposed in your head
The second curse
A spectre in your room replenished

Facing it again and again
But the fear drops as sweat
and the cool invisible ones can smell it
they touch your pillow and the cold air lands

Here It is in the dark
The phantom lays the curse
I tear it up yet it reforms
Footsteps across the floor

Something plays and preys after midnight's bell
Something with a hundred mouths
Dull profanity and a union with darkness
I cast it out despite it's fraternity with the night

How did it so cunningly link itself to doubt fed fear
Spread itself through the calm air?
How did it choke my peace?
The approaching phantom will never cease

The flourishing of the deliverers

These handles on days that go by
Rounded and shaped for fingers
Fingers of light
fingers that gave life

Waves of aging crash down
but your prayer has been heard
yes divinity hides behind those eyes
You can't see it, the world a tenacious disguise

The flourishing of the deliverers
Let their time on earth be blessed
And their acceptance of the mystery
their perseverance toward vitality

For living as they do blesses all that lives
and far from scripture
or the preachers mouth
Is the bed of the lord where dreams come true

Gist juice

The taste of understanding tangy on the tongue
The tastebuds know
Flavour is radiating
as sweet as ideas surging and disappearing

A cup of that illuminating knowledge quenching gist juice
Facts flowing rapidly pouring into the swirl of accumulated academia
The IQ levitating and sometimes dropping to graze the base of the brain
Give me the answer the reason the modern interpretation

Let it warm between blossoming ears
Perculate in there
Boil down to something solid and lightbulb shaped
Gist juice