Poetry and Prose for any season

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

John Lindley (1952 - present)

An experienced performer, John has read at pubs, clubs, theatres and at the Buxton and Edinburgh fringe festivals. He staged a self-written show, Screen Fever: Movie Poems, at Congleton Library in September 1999, which married poems written on the theme of cinema to film music and dialogue. The show has since been performed for arts groups and at the Jon Silkin Memorial Festival in Camelford, Cornwall and at Ledbury Poetry Festival.

John has won the Words of Silk Open Poetry Competition, been a runner up in the Jackson’s Arm Poetry Pamphlet Competition, a three times prize-winner in the Lancaster Literature Festival and a prize-winner in the Manchester Open Poetry and the Blythe Spirit Open Poetry competitions.

Two booklets of his poems appeared in 1976 and 1982 and were followed by his first full-length collection, Stills from November Campaigns, which was published by Tarantula in 1998. This was followed by Scarecrow Crimes, published by New Hope International in 2002 and Cheshire Rising, published by Cheshire County Council in 2005.

John was appointed as the literary ‘Arts Form Specialist’ by Congleton Borough Council to work on their 18 month Imprints Community Arts Project. Other recent commissions include running workshops in schools for Buxton Opera House for their Feeder Reader – Living Book project, for Ellesmere Port’s Fusion project and in day centres for Age Concern for both the WearPurple arts project and the BBC’s People’s War project. He also provides distance learning workshops for writers in Africa as part of the British Council’s Crossing Borders project and travelled to Kenya to run workshops and give a reading.

He was appointed Cheshire Poet Laureate for 2004.

John Lindley can be contacted for readings and workshops at:

Tel: 01260 273219 (home)
07816 766611 (mobile)
e-mail: johnlindley@uk2.net
website: www.johnlindley.co.uk

Address: 26 Albert Place
Havannah Street
Congleton
Cheshire
CW12 2AJ

REVIEWS

“The directness, the levelling craic, eyeball to eyeball, the sheer pace of these poems is exhilarating, upbeat and a tonic for our troubled times.” Mike Bannister, ‘Links’

“.... ranging widely in form and content, yet unquestionably in one, very authoritative voice. These well turned and elegant poems contain wit, pathos, humour, tenderness, humanity, profundity and emotional depth. They are often moving but never sentimental. He has a wry and sympathetic eye for the frailties of the famous and the unknown.” John Latham, poet and novelist.

“Unlocks life’s little moments with uncanny insight. Beautifully written with warm attention to detail; emotionally engaging with nice touches of humour.” Agraman, The Buzz cabaret club.

“His poetry, which is vibrant and taut, is wide ranging in form and theme.” Sean Body, Tarantula publications.

“John Lindley’s poems exist in the twilight world between the merely fanciful and the genuinely disturbing” iota

“.... a quirky, lively talent with a way for the unexpected image. Nothing seems to escape his attention.” Mary Knight, Prop.

“ Lindley’s is an acutely observed world...(his) poetry is sexy, lyrical and by turns melancholic.” Keith Armstrong, National Association of Writers’ Groups magazine.

“An easeful voice pushes you along with a deceptive, unforced elegance.” Steven Waling, City Life.




Yes, EventuallyEventually life sends a message clear embrace courage abandon your fearTake big steps to lead a life of hope anything is possible given enough ropeEventually a great storm will try to slay prepare faithfully for such a tragic dayTake all our evil vices into account upon a charging steed soundly mountEventually critics will call for your head by lying about things you never saidTake measure of the false steps they make shine a great light proving they are fakeEventually the world will learn to respect youEven then, fools and knaves will not have a clueRobert J. Lindley, 07-27-2014 </pre>

Thanks for the information on John Lindley. I already had heard and read about him but never that much info. Very likely a distant relative since my bloodline comes from English/Irish roots..

Here is that poem of mine that you quoted, as it is now after it was edited and a finished product ..

Yes, Eventually

Eventually life sends a message very clear
embrace courage abandon your great fear
Take big steps to lead a life of hope
anything is possible given enough rope

Eventually a great storm will try to slay
prepare faithfully for such a tragic day
Take all our evil vices into account upon
a charging steed soundly courageously mount

Eventually critics will call for your head
by lying about things you never said
Take measure of the false steps they make
shine a great light proving they are fake

Eventually the world will learn to respect you
Even then, fools and knaves will not have a clue

Robert J. Lindley, 07-27-2014

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

To Truly Love and Drink The Cold, Cold Beer


What I once was and just why I survived
I remember a life so damn contrived
Reaching for moon and stars in the skies
as time ate onward, my soul cries

There was this ache that had to be fed
I remember vividly each treasure in bed
Reaching for ever more, such great pleasures
as time ate onward, my heart lost treasures

Then came pride that most vicious master
I remember forced me to race ever faster
Reaching for more laurels to fed appetites
as time ate onward, greater were the fights

Later revenge on the world was the new call
I remember punishing many, me most of all
Reaching for a deeper, harder kind of pain
as time ate onward, all folly made so plain

What I once was and just why I am now here
I gave up the war, the race, the endless fights
to truly love and drink the cold, cold beer!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-22-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Home Thoughts from Abroad

by Robert Browning


Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!


And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
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Meeting at Night

by Robert Browning

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Then the two hearts beating each to each!
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Browning grew up in Camberwell in south-east London. He was educated at home where he had access to his father's extensive library. At an early age he was inspired by the work of romantic poets such as Byron, Keats and Shelley. In 1828 he began a course at London University but abandoned it in his second term.

In 1845 he began corresponding with Elizabeth Barrett after reading and enjoying some of her poems. Due to opposition from Elizabeth's father the couple eventually married in secret and then eloped to Italy in 1846. There they had a son together - Robert Wiedmann Barrett Browning - who was known by the nickname 'Pen'.

Although quintessentially a Victorian poet, Browning's work was hugely influential in heralding in modernism. In particular, his dramatic monologues such as My Last Duchess and Bishop Blougram's Apology provided inspiration for the work of both T.S.Eliot and Ezra Pound.




Robert Browning

After his wife's death in 1861 Browning returned to England and continued to write poetry.

Browning died in Venice in 1889 and it was his wish to be buried alongside his wife in the English Cemetery in Florence however, by that stage, the city authorities had prohibited any new burials.

Browning never achieved the commercial success of Tennyson. However, in his old age he was a hugely respected literary figure. He received an honorary degree from Oxford University and in 1881 The Browning Society was founded.

His best known collections include The Ring and the Book (1868-69) and Men and Women (1855). His last collection of poems Asolando was published on the day of his death

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Dreaming of Elysian Fields



Those dreams of Elysian Fields I so miss
gentle days by the Okeanos flow
Soothing nights with you in such bliss
our souls flying with hearts in tow

Long days spent on the Fortunate Isle
walking the shady parks of Pindar fame
You dancing, dressed in golden style
loving echoes of you calling out my name

Cronus dare not take your sweet hand
for fear of my defending assault
We sing and dance with angelic band
in pleasure our true love has bought

Elysian angels dancing at your feet
the chorus of admirers a great throng
All is perfect, our lives a treat
joyous eternally in our own love song

Robert J. Lindley, 02-25-2015
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Wanted to get this in....-Tyr

Sir John Betjeman

John Betjeman was born on August 28th, 1906, near Highgate, London. His father was a cabinet maker, a trade which had been in the family for several generations. The family name was Betjemann, with two 'n's, but John dropped the second 'n' during the First World War, to make the name less German.
Sir John Betjeman is ranked #254 in the top 500 poets


In Westminster Abbey by Sir John Betjeman

Let me take this other glove off
As the vox humana swells,
And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells.
Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry.
Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans, Spare their women for Thy Sake,
And if that is not too easy
We will pardon Thy Mistake.
But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be,
Don't let anyone bomb me.
Keep our Empire undismembered
Guide our Forces by Thy Hand,
Gallant blacks from far Jamaica, Honduras and Togoland;
Protect them Lord in all their fights,
And, even more, protect the whites. Think of what our Nation stands for,
Books from Boots' and country lanes,
Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains
. Lord, put beneath Thy special care
One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square.
Although dear Lord I am a sinner,
I have done no major crime;
Now I'll come to Evening Service Whensoever I have the time.
So, Lord, reserve for me a crown,
And do not let my shares go down.
I will labour for Thy Kingdom, Help our lads to win the war,
Send white feathers to the cowards Join the Women's Army Corps,
Then wash the steps around Thy Throne
In the Eternal Safety Zone. Now I feel a little better, What a treat to hear Thy Word,
Where the bones of leading statesmen
Have so often been interr'd.
And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date. -

-----------------------------------------
Trebetherick


We used to picnic where the thrift
Grew deep and tufted to the edge;
We saw the yellow foam flakes drift
In trembling sponges on the ledge
Below us, till the wind would lift
Them up the cliff and o’er the hedge.
Sand in the sandwiches, wasps in the tea,
Sun on our bathing dresses heavy with the wet,
Squelch of the bladder-wrack waiting for the sea,
Fleas around the tamarisk, an early cigarette.

From where the coastguard houses stood
One used to see below the hill,
The lichened branches of a wood
In summer silver cool and still;
And there the Shade of Evil could
Stretch out at us from Shilla Mill.
Thick with sloe and blackberry, uneven in the light,
Lonely round the hedge, the heavy meadow was remote,
The oldest part of Cornwall was the wood as black as night,
And the pheasant and the rabbit lay torn open at the throat.

But when a storm was at its height,
And feathery slate was black in rain,
And tamarisks were hung with light
And golden sand was brown again,
Spring tide and blizzard would unite
And sea come flooding up the lane.
Waves full of treasure then were roaring up the beach,
Ropes round our mackintoshes, waders warm and dry,
We waited for the wreckage to come swirling into reach,
Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and I.

Then roller into roller curled
And thundered down the rocky bay,
And we were in a water world
Of rain and blizzard, sea and spray,
And one against the other hurled
We struggled round to Greenaway.
Blesséd be St Enodoc, blesséd be the wave,
Blesséd be the springy turf, we pray, pray to thee,
Ask for our children all happy days you gave
To Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and me.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

We Once Danced Into The Midnight Rain


We once danced into the midnight rain
while our love was growing deep and firm
All was exciting nothing was ever plain
"love you baby", was our endearing term

We saw life mellow within our world
as sweet days and nights floated away
Into a loving lake we were thus hurled
making our love in that secluded bay

Yes there, time stood ever so still
testament to our love's greatest powers
Racing up to top every beautiful hill
never a care for the many wasted hours

That summer, cool and so very gay
resting beneath our favorite oak tree
Never a thought of ever having to pay
for nothing, nothing in life is free

Wet hair, shining in that glowing light
so refreshed after our picnic foray
Longing for the romance of coming night
you and I, we both always getting our way

We once danced into the midnight rain
while our love was growing deep and firm
All was exciting nothing was ever plain
"love you baby", was our endearing term

Robert J. Lindley, 02-26-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A sonnet, just because I haven't written one in months.. --Tyr




The Best Any Mother Ever Birthed And Reared


He stared back at his life amazed
a scattering of miracles here and there
many cried out that he was crazed
when he gave that stern look and stare

Back there vast plains loudly waved
forested jungles crept up so very slow
Nature he wanted touched and saved
a tragedy of pain that the angels know

Dry, dead cities awaited his return
the man that set beauty in the blue sky
his life , a tree destined to burn
walking where others feared to even try

A man among men they admired and feared
the best any mother ever birthed and reared!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-27-2015

note: Dedicated to H D L ....

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Prisoner



He saw the dim rays cascading down
the small room and his legs in chains
One small window, sunshine's gown
sprinkles splattering in when it rains

Prisoner for these many decades now
captured in a terrible massive defeat
Every day escape called but just how
weakened by only stale bread to eat

Those fierce battles long since dead
no more slashing foes with his sword
Pain and bloodshed rips into his head
he muses, tis' better than being bored

He fears not the Gods lurking above
offers no prayers divine intervention
Dreams of the wife he so dearly loves
as he wastes away in miserable detention

Warrior spirit resides in his brave soul
living to see his family again his goal
Morning rays renew his weakened spirit
the morning lark sings so he can hear it

Days are torture, time the enemy in years
heart beats to hold onto his former life
Nights eat away at his misery and fears
greatest one that he may never see his wife

Three decades bound in rusty chains
never giving up on that one cherished hope
Her lost touch by far the worst of pains
giving in to hopelessness a slippery slope

One bright August morn the jailer came
he heard the footsteps coming so fast
And a woman's voice screaming out his name
this day in prison would be his last

For relief and freedom now, he was unbound
crying as he walked into the bright light
Waiting was his wife in her wedding gown
Nightmare over, he had won the long fight

Soon both were flying upward, swiftly away
thru clouds and mist they did gladly fly
She so very beautiful on this great day
for that blessed morn they reunited to die!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-28-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Weep Not For My Many Pains


Weep not for my many desperate pains.
Instead demand that I again renew;
Our deeper love displaying greatest gains.
Weep not for my many desperate pains
Forgetting forever the darkest stains
Where seasons are miserable and blue.
Weep not for my many desperate pains.
Instead demand that I again renew.


Robert J. Lindley


A Triolet

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 Total # Syllables: 80 Total # Lines: 8 (Including empty lines) Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A Total

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The beauty of the wetlands


The beauty of the wetlands
Have you seen, lake Joondalup
In Yellagonga there?
Oh what a lovely place she be
There’s wild life everywhere
It be a precious wonderland
Of trees and birds and flowers
It’s a place that be so beautiful
All filled with natures power

Frogs, they croak, and insects sing
And the birds in all their glory
They sing from trees all bent and gnarled
Such a blessed song it be
As breeze it plays it’s melody
And trees dance gracefully
To leave the mind without a doubt
That there be a deity

I walk these trails most every day
As I’m stunned by the sweet power
Of everything that’s beautiful
Every tree and every flower
And bird, and beast and tiny insect
Do tell a wondrous story
Of life among these wetland spaces
All filled with precious glory

AUTHOR-- Peter Duggan.
------------------------------------------

My humble tribute to this great poem written by my good friend...-Tyr



A Lazy Afternoon Walking About

A lazy afternoon walking about
bird singing almost in a shout
Trees swaying to a cool breeze
Spring bursting forth in a tease

My favorite place a mile ahead
under giant oak my resting bed
Afternoon stroll to ease my mind
What new mystery shall I find

Critters scurrying for their food
got to feed their growing brood
Squirrels racing from tree to tree
what gift to be so happy and free

This trail I use to soothe and heal
gives me delight and such a thrill
Every tree, flower and singing bird
renews my faith in God's holy word

Nature talks in such great scenes
So smooth except when man intervenes

Robert J. Lindley, 03-07-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I got a big kick out of reading this so I decided to share it here for others to get that laugh.----Tyr



"Can Poetry Matter?"
by
Stephen Dobyns

Heart feels the time has come to compose lyric poetry.
No more storytelling for him. Oh, Moon, Heart writes,
sad wafer of the heart's distress. and then: Oh, Moon,
bright cracker of the heart's pleasure. Which is it,
is the moon happy or sad, cracker or wafer? He looks
from the window but the night is overcast. Oh, Cloud,
he writes, moody veil of the Moon's distress. And then,
Oh, Cloud, sweet scarf of the Moon's repose. Once more
Heart asks, Are clouds kindly or a bother, is the moon sad
or at rest? He calls scientists who tell him that the moon
is a dead piece of rock. He calls astrologers. One says
the moon means water. Another that it signifies oblivion.
The girl next door says the Moon means love. The nut
up the block says it proves Satan has us under his thumb.
Heart goes back to his notebooks. Oh, Moon,, he writes,
confusing orb meaning one thing or another. Heat feels
that his words lack conviction. Then he hits on a solution.
Oh, Moon, immense hyena of introverted motorboat.
Oh, Moon, upside down lamppost of barbershop quartet.
Heart takes his lines to a critic who tells him that the poet
is recounting a time as a toddler when he saw his father
kissing the baby-sitter at the family's cottage on a lake.
Obviously, the poem explains the poet's fear of water.
Heart is ecstatic. He rushes home to continue writing.
Oh, Cloud, raccoon cadaver of colored crayon, angel spittle
recast as foggy euphoria. Heart is swept up by the passion
of composition. Freed from the responsibility of content,
no nuance of nonsense can be denied him. Soon his poems
appear everywhere, while the critic writes essays elucidating
Heart's meaning. Jointly they form a sausage factory of poetry:
Heart supplying the pig snouts and rectal tissue of language
which the critic encloses in a thin membrane of explication.
Lyric poetry means teamwork, thinks Heart: a hog farm,
corn field, and two old dobbins pulling a buckboard of song.

(from Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides, 1999)


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The reason it is so damn funny is that I know that feeling so very well.
Any poet that can not laugh at himself will surely go mad. Trust me on that. One must keep the 'ole ego in check or else calamity claims another victim... Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Confessions Of A Poet


As the dark hour slays the great setting Sun
earthly fires in the nether regions flame
The poet's heart must see both to have fun
words spit forth earnestly but not a game
Slashing one's own soul to get the job done

In the midst of the darkest lonely night
poetry burns deeply to release its heat
Poet's heart must feel all to truly write
claws that gash and sharp teeth that eat
Epic battle marching words into the fight

Each verse sings softest melody just to him
as the sky cast down its deepest blues
The poet must see with a mind never dim
searching heaven and hell for any clues
Play with words and toss 'em out on a whim

So says a drunken Muse, the envy of my Soul
she that sulks and cries to beat the band
Pretends winning her heart should be my goal

Robert J. Lindley, 03-09-2015

note-- I asked but why, but why end with that closing three verses. Got back the usual snarky reply, "just shut up and write."! -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Liberty And Freedom, Twins Now Captured And Bound


Illusions and delusions leads to mass confusions
why is it never too late to use lies and hate
Freedom conceptions are lost in masked deceptions
hope is denied by the cry it is just too damn late

Liberty and freedom, twins now captured and bound
our nation, abomination more concerned with domination
True freedom, so longed for but rarely ever found
we are caged animals doomed for the usual castration

The greater Truth has been casted into a dark pit
greed and power now reign as the twin tyrants playing
All past greatness so quickly turning into horseshit
yet we place great hope in the futile act of delaying

American dream has became a nightmare spinning on down
why work or live right when government pays to not
Wearing happy faces, inside each cries an unhappy clown
that feels heart and soul sinking into a darkened rot

Illusions and delusions leads to mass confusions
why is it never too late to use lies and hate
Freedom conceptions are lost in masked deceptions
hope is denied by the cry it is just too damn late

Robert J. Lindley, 03-11-2015

Note- A rare political poem from me.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Broken Heart And Last Desperate Plea



This broken heart lays in bitter moonlight
evidence of a great tragedy that cold night
Yes, I had fallen for her sexy, devilish charms
swept her so deeply into my cheating arms

Next morning guilt began to feed, eat into me
for only then your sweet face did I start to see
Pain burst into this miserable cheating heart
I had broke the vow we made on our loving start

Now I sit in a lonely dark cave I foolishly made
a fool that she used, ever so gleefully played
I told you my sin attempting to wash it away
sadly, you told me to get out and forever stay

My soul is now a casted away, derailed train
my greatest regret is causing you such pain
Forgive this miserable and demolished fool
I was a liar and such an arrogantly stupid tool

Search your sweet heart for the kindness there
remember the good times and love we did share
I beg you with remorse and down on bended knees
hear my lament and my sincere remorseful pleas

The trap that the devil cleverly laid for me
was a cage with many locks but no saving keys
Mercy I beg my lady that once loved this clown
I have no smiles, my face wears an eternal frown

Forgive me dearest, wipe away your bitter wrath
allow me to walk with you on that romantic path
My broken heart and soul is yours to now save
Renew this great love that we both forever crave

This lesson I have just in deepest misery learned
nothing is worse than finding my love for you spurned
Save me, I am nothing without you to love and hold
This dark cavern is deep, lonely and so very cold

Robert J. Lindley, 03-11-2015

Note- A writer's imagination, not based upon any current or recent
event in my life! Although I once should have written something similar to this to a lady but was just too damn prideful to do so. Live and learn..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

After a sincere and heartfelt request from a dear poetess friend at my poetry site I have decided to break my promise to myself to not enter any more contests there. Truly, I only break promises to--myself-- as I then know who the beat up on for doing that.

Here is that effort , just finished this fine morn.
By the way, won the big money pool tournament Thursday night, taking first place and the prize money.
Today at 3:00 pm starts the even bigger prize money(450 bucks first place) Saturday tournament with 32 top shooters. Wish me luck, as only having came back to shoot (once a week) about 11 weeks ago after a 13 year lay off , I will need it.. -Tyr
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Contest entry:
Forms: Sonnet (a,b,a,b) (c,d,c,d) (e,f,e,f) (g,g)
Three stanzas and a couplet(a summary) ..
Ten syllables per line

You may search and find a saying to inspire you please
include the quote on your work..
Please use_ A Penny For Your Thoughts as your title..
Forms: Sonnet or The Form Of Poulter Measure Explained
PM me if you have any questions..
------------------------------------------------------


A Penny For Your Thoughts

Father said, son listen to that church bell
life just may beat you into submission
or drag you deep into a living hell
to avoid that seek truth as your mission

Sound of truth rings so very loud and clear
let goodness be your greatest living guide
On that path the Light casts away all fear
your love and deeds you will not have to hide

Son asks, dad how can I always be sure
will there not be days of terrible doubt
My son, live your life seeking to be pure
then his love you will never be without

Tis' the courage to continue that counts
In this race , best we use our finest mounts

Robert J. Lindley, 03-14-2015
Poem contest entry...
Results shown:

Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140 Total
# Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
N/A Total # Words: 115


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Nationality: English
Type: Statesman
Born: November 30, 1874
Died: January 24, 1965

"Success is not final, failure is
not fatal: it is the courage to
continue that counts."

Winston Churchill

My quote chosen comes from the famous and brilliant
quote from the epically great Sir Winston Churchill.
I had to slightly rephrase the quote to meet the ten syllable
requirement of the sonnet form used.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Another sonnet, written this morning.
There is a movement to convince billions that evil does not exist.
Nothing, nothing could be further from the truth.. --Tyr



Darkness Likes To Ride Solely Unmolested


By not believing in evil one becomes its ally
such darkness likes to ride solely unmolested
Wait, wait to shoot the ducks when they fly
hunting in the realms of darkness uncontested

Believe in nothing but the drunk in the gutter
incoherent ravings of madmen with fake degrees
Listen for the melody of lies they readily utter
soothe yourself with the insanity of their disease

The scholar at least has the comfort of some facts
shallow though many of those sweet beauties may be
Watch the hands of those that arrange pious acts
full of deceit, barrenness and dark, leafless trees

He, the great deceiver, loves to pretend not to exist
vapor of black fog dissipating into the vanishing mist

Robert J. Lindley, 03-15-2015