STRANGE RAIN

Words and nuclear missiles once launched,
cannot be recalled

 From 'With Apologies to Soloman', a booklet by David Scott-Morgan, 2011
NORTH KOREA

I am a peasant in North Korea.
And sometimes at night when the sky is clear
I look up from my door in wonder and fear

For although it is Kim I do surely revere
And in Kim I do hope And to Kim I am swayed
And for Kim I do work And with his currency am paid.
Oh but..

These stars that somebody else has made!
I must be a traitor for them I do praise
each time I get to partake of this treat
It is as if the sky itself begins to speak.
It whispers, it calls, it shouts, it screams,
And I just stand listening, drinking the stream

On a night such as this in North Korea
Something inside clicks into gear
And I begin speeding out over these huts
and travelling to places that no one can touch
Ssssh...

I must not say more. For in Kim I do trust
Before Kim I do bow. And in Kim I revere
For I am what he makes Upon this sphere
I am but a peasant in North Korea


 Dave Scott-Morgan 27 July 2010
The Lord of Destruction
The Lord of Destruction came sat beside me
and nibbled at the string ‘neath which I was dangled

And he showed to me the pit of blackness
that I myself had built And glorified
and kindled to me the horror Of those beyond all hope
and made me look And made me feel
as if to say: “I am the Lord of all that is real.
- do your nightmares hold you now?
Is your pit more terrible?
or is there there time to ponder?

No, there is no time…
For that constructed by your mind
will not move the lips
nor operate your finger tips
when your eyes behold
that which is constructed in mine.

For I can move your being To the sinews of your gut
where your brain cells can no favours cut
and your screams cry deaf inside the stillness.”
a poem by Dave Scott-Morgan
By itself it means nothing
When I had lost my mind
You came to me
And pretended not to notice
And talked to me kindly
As if I were whole

And after a little while
I began to see my rôle
And take a little pride
And comb my hair and scrub my soul
And do all those things
Which by themself mean nothing

And little by little
I picked up the pieces
And learned to curse again
And stoop and bend

It’s gonna be an awful bind
When that time comes around again
But if you’re a friend Like you were then
Well it will just be one of those things
Which by itself means nothing
a poem by Dave Scott-Morgan
TWILIGHT TIME

be not of sad heart
or of imminent fear
The time is not yet here

for this is the age of the twilight time
and the sky is blue and beautiful
and the sun and moon
of perfect duration
and dependable service

and the land and sea, a fixation
as it should be.

And the quarter that starves
knows not of the other half
nor the golden calf

for this is the twilight time
of laughter and song
and careless wrong

before the wrath of the firmament descends
and ends
the age.

For it is written in the stars
that none of us shall turn that page.
Sing on.


 I wrote that in 1972. Reading it again now brings a new vibration to it. The seventies were indeed a time of careless wrong - for me at any rate, I spent the entire decade in pursuit of the elusive pop song as well as the elusive perfect lady companion. But now in our time, the weather lurches like an off-balance flywheel, departing ever greater from what we call 'normal'. I am reminded of the words of Jesus:  'As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man.'  (Matthew 24:37)
 
THE HOUSE OF THE LORD


Hey what you doing in the House of the Lord
Hey what you doing in the House of the Lord
Have you come here to talk about his ways
Have you come here to sing of his praise
Have you come to believe
Are you ready to receive
Hey what you doing in here?

Hey what you doing in the House of the Lord
Hey what you doing in the House of the Lord
Have you come here for a wedding and a cake
Have you come here for a burial and a wake
Have you come cos you should
are you good cos you're good
Hey what you doing in here?

Lifting up my eyes to heaven
Leavin my troubles at the door
Reaching out to feel his hand in mine once more
That's what I'm doing in the House of the Lord
Out on the street there's a man in the rain
there's dirt on his fingers but blood in his veins
And he's trying so hard to find a friend
And he's trying so hard to make amends
Now he's stood at the door,
now hes keeping a score
he say's 'Hey what you doing in there?'
© Dave Scott-Morgan