Aisha and the Sea

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Oh! Sea you are so powerful

I am so small

Waves rush past me,

like the fleeing

Gently receding, pulling sand over my toes

embedding me once more into this earth,

 

Innocent unpolluted air filling, cleansing my lungs

from the dark soot of pain

that clings to my soul

like limpets upon rock

for fleeting seconds

I forget that beacon of despair

it is washed from my mind,

feeling one with nature, the sea

 

Staring towards the horizon

reclaiming, restoring my hopes, my dreams

nightmares briefly extinguished

by this planet’s womb-like amniotic waters,

everything so perfect here

Mother smiling with her eyes

that sparkle again

twinkling like the sun’s glistening rays in the surf,

 

I am a child again!

No longer old before my time

Oh! Sea you are so beautiful

I am so small…

 

M.C. Bolton, September 2017

 

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I’m Spartacus

 

Herded into the arena

bloodied by poverty’s lash

sand soft between our toes

as we march into the stadium of despair

mentally chained by our delusion of freedom,

divided into race, faith, nation, class

then pitted against each other

For our rulers’ pleasure

 

But many refuse to fight

Us – the truly dangerous ones

instead pointing upwards to the audience

of those that truly despise and fear us

 

Yet you who plunder our homes, invade our streets,

Women who tightly clutch their handbags

staring at the pavement in terror

for surely we are all vagabonds, cutthroats and thieves!

Suited men who’s bowels loosen

when passing our urban-talking youth

who defend their postcode by the same extreme violence 

that the state metes out to them with impunity,

 

We who are crushed on every side

surrounded by avarice and greed

by disciples of the latest fad,

drinking alfresco skinny lattes on Westbourne Grove

the need to be scenes,

our wrath slowly being squeezed

accused of sour grapes, lacking aspiration,

Yet it’s our blood that makes your wine

with which you wet your lips

as you toss us your scraps,

we who slowly devour and destroy one another,

 

But Spartacus is rising

resurrected like a phoenix in the flames

our sight restored by tragedy

injustice the fire that burns brightly

inside compassionate indignant hearts,

shaking those who’s God is mammon

 

Yet it’s not your eye of the needle wealth we wish to pillage

but your fraudulent sense of privilege, entitlement, arrogance and ignorance

hiding in your bunker-like basements

whilst above, homes, communities are destroyed

 

as we stare at our Stalingrad-like monument,

united under the banner of hope and faith,

love for our children will ever be our shield,

God’s wrath will be stirred

by the death of his innocent ones

 

Millstones will be prepared,

the sea’s depth beckons

those that hide behind their cloak of guilt

for this slaughter ignited a fury in our hearts

we’ll stand against your legions

we’ve buried our dead

but we will never let you bury the truth…

 

 

LW2

M.C. Bolton, September 2017

 

Grenfell – Night Thoughts

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As the sweet summer breeze

blows through this petrified charcoal edifice

stirring the parched remains of the perished

inside this crematorium created by man’s greed,

 

We who are in temporary sleep

slowly inhaling the dust of the lost

unlike God, offering not the breath of life

Yet not forgotten, becoming part of us

 

Fused into our very being

scorched into our souls

as the seared conscience

of those that govern

offers no honour, shame, guilt

or Judas-like, intestine-spilling torment!

Instead scurrying like rats

under the tarpaulin of fear

 

Light exposing their hidden deeds of darkness

that atomized men, women and children before their time

those who’s bodies can no longer cast shadows

 

Your eternal flame

forever burns brightly

shining like stars

guiding both seeker and wise

along the narrow path

in their quest for the truth…

 

 

M.C. Bolton, 28th July 2017

Photo by Hugh

Grenfell

Not just people, their homes

but dreams, futures snuffed out

unlike the flames

that wrapped their unmerciful wings

around the tower without pity or care

the angel of death

resurrected by learned men’s folly

once again the poor suffering

above their station

swept aside like spent poker chips

as the midnight gambler

shuffles into the shadows

to pay his debt

to the reaper

who tonight had his fill

Yet the morning comes

bringing the dew of hope

for out of these embers

will rise men and women of faith

not just in God

but in justice

as the ashes of those

that were loved

are blown into the

eternal palace of peace

 

MC Bolton, 2017

 

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Art by Junion Tomlin

Good Friday

Running my fingers

through the corn of my mind,

seeds sown over many years

mixed with the weeds of insecurity,

these golden fields swaying in the breeze

like ghosts of lost souls underground

awaiting final call and judgement,

may the petals of heaven’s flowers

forever be my rain,

as I slowly march from another time

into battle once again,

fighting thine enemies within,

this poor man’s soul, wounded mind

standing strong in hope,

faltering faith made firm by Gods eternal love

M C Bolton

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Bole Hill Quarry, Peak District

Reflections

To float away into the mist

Upon a piece of driftwood

made smooth by my inner tears

Guided by moonbeams

to the ends of the earth

falling into the abyss of dreams

rescued by God’s mighty hand

placed upon the rock of my faith

Yet this world takes its toll

upon my heart, my soul, my mind

fearing the depths my thoughts

dive into…

Ripples of eternal love

Forever lapping upon the shore

As the sun warms my

ever changing face

never changing heart

that cares for my created…

 

Mark Bolton, February 2017 

 

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Death

Slowly entering the tunnel of light

realising it is all over

my life transformed to another dimension

with a fleeting breath

time no longer has dominion

nor sin trouble my flesh

it will come,

it will come for us all

no matter our position, faith, race or creed

the ultimate reality

the fiercest internal mirror

reflecting every deed

truth’s final victory

blowing a violent wind into my ears

into my soul

as I scream in death

as I did in birth,

yet this a cry of freedom

like Christ it is finished

his blood pulling me closer to God’s love,

in him my only hope….

 

M.C. Bolton 31.1.2017

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Photo by Sibvu