Tuesday, December 27, 2016



I am spirit, I am wings,
I bring terror to tyrant kings.
I am here, I am now,
I am everywhere that I vow.

I am storm born, lightnings glare,
I am the soul’s protector n’ heir.
I am prophesized with a mark,
I am fire in the dark.

I am the watcher of the skies,
the oracle of the wise,
I am the hush of screams,
the voice in dreams.

I carry the future, and a warning,
empathy to the mourning,
I am the end to damnation,
I am your Salvation.

About this Poem: The World inches closer to global war and annihilation but as 2016 came to an end, the lies of the west were laid bare in front of the global community…mainstream news was exposed for willfully spreading the sins of their government. All over the World, by virtue of the internet and independent thinking, the people have awakened from a spell that was cast over them by media propaganda. We now stare truth in the face…the lies have fallen, morals will be chosen as time closes in on the tyrants…Salvation is in the peoples grasp…it speaks to you in times of silence, and great upheaval to awaken you at the right moment, to fight for your freedom…and your Salvation. 

Sunday, October 2, 2016

Facebook Row

Photo Source: Dr Rich Swier

Facebook Row

Another Facebook time-out, they didn’t like what I said,
nor the posted pictures, of the terrorists who are dead.

I’m in political limbo, I’m not allowed to post,
Jailed by Facebook’s police, barred from coast to coast.

Caught by deep state censors, my words they say are bad,
I’m not allowed to use good terms for Putin or Assad.

My news feeds one-way traffic, visits are all blank,
Unless I bow to extortion, and pay them from my bank.  

Their advertisers hound me, I mark them all as Spam,
Greedy corporate pages of belligerent Uncle Sam.

Suggested friends make me shudder, who the F*** is that?
with pages blank and empty, another troll or rat.

I plan my re-emergence, Palestine posts are due,
I’m sure to piss off Zionists, facebook's other shoe.

So here I wait in penance, eager to do much more,

and celebrate my family, all activists to the core.

~ The Activist Poet ~

About this Poem: Facebook is not a social network anymore, in fact it’s more of a US Intelligence program and corporate data mining tool / application that either penalizes users who do not fall in line with their politics, or data mines information while extorting small businesses for money. 

Ask any activist who’s been isolated for their political posts or ask a musician who now has to pay out money for their page posts to reach those who already subscribed to their updates. After paying Facebook for putting posts on more of the bands subscriber news feeds, bands find themselves out of pocket with no real results, as it's all just a numbers game and scam.

LINK: Facebook Is Collaborating With the Israeli Government to Determine What Should Be Censored

Little History Book

Little History Book

What words the victors’ gather for their coronation;
the lies of their illusions and nightmares, with title,
taught in little schools, by little men, from little books.

About this Poem: ~ History is written by the Victors and not by the truth.

Saturday, October 1, 2016



Roaring fires dance with defiance in the eyes of determination, while muscle, bone and conviction harden to pleas for release in the last days of Rome.

Indignant slaves of industry, now thrust upon the alien shores of rebellion, unite as a fist to combat the tyrants who rule them...Tyrants who command allegiance by fear, permeate the faces of children with horror and hunger…Fury has driven the oppressed to the edge of madness! Rage fuels anger, resentment and resolve as the masses race to drive out the vile and corrupt patrician class.

Ruthless centurions obey their god commander and march forth to quell the uprising in the capitol. Saturated and drunk on psychotic illusions that they are supermen, these belligerent mercenaries are destined to drown in a sea of humanity that is intent on their demise.

Truth has forged the steel of rebellion and blessed the masses with honour, resolve and courage, which now stands united, in defiance, before the gates of the holy city.

Panic rides the brow of a falling regime as their victims rise to shatter the dictator’s illusions with each rock of truth thrown at his castle of glass.

Elitist arrogance and supremacist conviction, laid waste in the putrid vintage of its barbarity…the realm decays in its own rot, and brings the cusp of its own extinction…

The mighty hunter now becomes the hunted in foreign lands where empathy was slain long ago by a ruling elite, barren of forgiveness…

Evolution and chaos wait for judgement on the edge of desolation.

Will the oppressors be treated with the empathy they lack, or will the face of oppression harden in the image of a new king?

The search for reason takes pause in judgement and ponders with the stone cold stare of emptiness…
About this Expression: When people are oppressed and pushed too far, they will rise up and take back what was denied them. Sadly, what often happens after popular uprisings is that the masses go back to sleep after giving up the reigns of power. Thus the cycle repeats itself over and over again.

We have not yet seen the end of this greedy power cycle, which is fuelled by a private monetary system…but it is possible to change once the illusion of money dissipates and spiritual reality takes hold. When we collectively decide to change the way money works, we will evolve into a better world. Otherwise if the status quo continues we will in effect repeat a cycle with predicable consequences…

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Where Ice Winds Blow

Painting By: My Great Aunt "Phoebe Harney" (Circa 1916)

Where Ice Winds Blow

A mighty forest once graced the dell,
So green and lush, the lungs would swell.
The birds so numerous and full of vigour,
The skies back then so blue and bigger.

Our home was built long ago,
Where harmonies been and spirits grow.
Crystal waters blessed our land,
Along the mighty River Grand.

In life we toiled in rock and earth,
Our blood n’ sweat, death and birth.
Fate our own, belonged to none,
And everyday came the sun.

Alas the darkness brought its weight,
Outside the barn, the post of fate,
Trails in snow, deep red and black,
Each animal sacrificed n’ hung out back.

A child sobs his curse for food,
Eyes so flush his grief imbued.
Outside, the evening’s cold and damp,
While oil wick Flickers inside his lamp.

Melancholy howls, sing through the night,
T Wolves in prayer, under moon's light.
Sleep is restless, nightmares surge,
Drawn in fear where guilt’s converge.

Inside our haven, fire crackles with heat,
This prairie bungalow kept warm and neat.
Canning done, jars waxed and sealed,
now packed away, our autumn yield.

Winters barren lifeless thatch,
Bundled carefully behind the latch.
Fields now barren and covered in snow,
Whistling gusts, where ice winds blow.

About this Poem: A photo struck me in a Poetry contest I entered recently, called “Outback Shed”. The Photo prompt in the contest was of an old homestead in the Outback that conjured up a memory of a painting my great-aunt made and gave my grandfather in 1916 (100 years ago.) The painting, depicted above, is of a farm at night, where outside, clearly visible is a trail of blood leading into the barn…the painting left an impression on me for a long time, that I’ve just now expressed in this Poem. Life and times were very different 100 years ago but this painting will always remain chilling with a reminder to me that all life is precious…

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Warning Hubris Halls

Warning Hubris Halls

To those in power in hubris halls,
around the corner destiny calls.

Your laws of division are about to fail,
And soon you’ll see the Justice scale.

I don’t imagine you’ll do so well,
the place you created, is a living hell.

Considering all the damage done,
Don’t be surprised or look so stunned.

Truth has born the people awake,
Pray for mercy, in their quake.

About this expression: A warning to dictators, Oligarch’s, and the hidden majority shareholders in Mega corporations and Private Banks…beware of the informed masses, for the crimes you have committed will be judged in the court of morality...your end is near...

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Economic Fall

Economic Fall

The clash of steel and iron plays on foggy screens, as raging economic fires consume every town and village across the land with echoed screams. Empty homes ablaze on smouldering markets of greed, now just a pile of embers, ash and shattered illusions.

Desperate fingers point at created enemies, scribbled on leaflets and dropped on the starving by patrician thieves. Desolation notes, delivered by Trireme commanders to man the oars and destroy the rebellions abroad.

Ship of fools, rowing in madness towards the jutting rocks of truth on the raging seas of insanity; Woe to them who are chained to the oars of empirical delusions…

The stores are empty onboard tall illusive dreams, where shell-shocked rowers fall by the weight of the chains they have come to depend on. Leaky ships eastward steering, sink to the bottom of the sea, while their cannons are fired in all directions…

The mirage of recovery fades in the pangs of unfulfilled promises and broken dreams. A generation crushed by debt, left smouldering in the ashes, has lost its hubris…the empire is dead.
About this Expression:

Mankind’s destiny has arrived at a major fork in the road…one path leads to extinction, the other to freedom and salvation. However, the choice is blurred by the noise of propaganda and parasitic elements that drive a sociopathic leadership towards chaos and destruction…the decision has already been made for us, as we are blindly led down a road by the directors of greedy addiction, desperate for its next fix…they have chosen war instead of peace…

Monday, July 11, 2016

Mob Boss Hillary

Mob Boss Hillary

There’s nothing she can’t handle,
that’s why there’s Scandal after scandal.
A butcher by trade, in a trail of blood,
her stories are buried and covered with mud.

Extortion, theft and murder her bag.
Little Rock’s Hillary, the mafia hag.
Now the sociopath has a nation to loot,
With slush funds hidden to cover dispute.

From Travelgate, war crimes, those still to commit,
this Presidential psychopath is truly unfit.

Whitewater schemes and real estate rafting,
crimes she patched by special grafting.
All sails down that memory hole,
along with the money that she stole.

Cattlegate, filegate, Chinagate too,
How many fiasco’s did Hillary do?
Extortion murder, blackmail and theft,
How many people has she bereft?

Here comes the Clinton’s Defence Fund,
her accumulated bribes have left me stunned.
But power is corrupt in all the bribed places,
now paying dividends in her electoral races.

Millions hidden with IRS abuses,
Offshore accounts, billions of excuses.
Pardongate me, are those your FALN thugs,
Why the smiles? Why the shrugs?

Election rigging, senate rules violation,
the law of the land, now on vacation.
FBI clearance continues the fraud;
Who the hell is it, that’s backing this broad?

Warmongering slut of the US M.I.C.,
a Pentagon whore and oil slick.
This plea for sanity, do not ignore,
because a Vote for Hillary, is a vote for war.

I was interviewed by Press TV today and shared my thoughts on the US Presidential election. Here’s the Link.

US presidential election system corrupt, farcical

Monday, May 16, 2016



Perceptions in the world have changed,
imprisoned minds unblocked,
eyes are quite wide open,
no longer closed or shocked.

September brought the earthquake,
October brought the war,
November brought insanity,
by December we were poor.

The global coup came creeping,
every nation on the block,
the twists n’ plots so furious,
economies held, grid locked.

The world’s been set on fire,
arsonists are in charge,
raging fires burn our homes,
insanity by and large.

Demons run the country,
more are in the wings,
trained to spawn the chaos,
and the turmoil that it brings.

Heaven help our children,
their futures not so clear,
and so the world keeps drifting,
in panic and in fear.

About this expression:

I’m appalled and outraged by all the violence, greed and destruction that the US establishment has imposed upon the people of the World…I simply cannot accept it, nor can I live with the reality of it, therefore I write to express my disgust of it...

Friday, May 13, 2016

Death of Empires

Death of Empires

Old world fades, empire dies,
forgotten books filled with lies,
barren promise, empty platitudes,
hubris lurks in hollow attitudes.

Malevolent empire, on your knees,
burnt out quick in the breeze,
embrace the world of ash and smoke,
now rest eternal your evil yoke.

Pass away, pass away, we hear no more,
of evil deeds on foreign shore,
nor thieving twists or crimes of hate,
we embrace your fall, embrace your fate.

The Arch of history, has your name,
inscribed, the truth, your endless shame,
now fade away with sands of time,
malignant empire, malicious crime.

About this Poem: One Might call this a prayer for salvation...

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Reality Mask

Reality Mask

Awareness arrives by first breath heard…
eyes open, imbued with confined realities,
choices offered from a box of masks,
one that I must choose.

Consciousness diminished, I’m awake,
reality plane unfolds in a world shared with others,
where patterned movements repeat in rhythm,
by occupied masks, and choices made.

Beings surround me,
clothed in white flannel,
cautiously walking invisible tight ropes,
confiding in their manuals.

Do not disturb signs around their necks,
they walk silent in all directions,
lost in sequential patterns,
as operational programs.

A mask,
I do not choose,
but instead sit down
watching wasted time,
by a thousand mimes on aimless paths,
all working to feed the machine god,
that gives them light to do so…

They have chosen,
as have I,
who gets up,

and looks for the door.

About this Poem: We are born into a World that expects us to choose from a limited set of choices that serves only the machine of Industry and its master.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Erdogan: The Judas Sultan

Erdogan: The Judas Sultan

He claimed to be on Palestine’s side,
promised an escort with Turkish pride.
Yet freedom flotilla set sail alone,
Mavi Marmara left on its own.

Strange the Israeli’s had the passengers list,
hitmen with photos strapped to their wrist.
Betrayal was flush by Erdogan’s sort,
before Flotilla set sail from port.

Ten people murdered, nine on the spot,
by Israeli criminals who took over the yacht.
Global waters were stained with blood,
the day our freedoms turned to mud.

Erdogan hollers, “I’ll take them to Court”,
then buys their weapons in support.
Several years on, the court case ends,
charges dropped, and back as friends.

Fake messiah and Ottoman king,
Erdogan reaches for the Sultans ring.
as Palestine burns by Erdogan’s nod,
his smile reveals the demon god.

One by one Arab nations go down,
each one a jewel in Erdogan’s crown.
The Judas Sultan betrayed them all,
destroyed their peace as they did fall.

The war on Syria proved Erdogan mad,
backstabbing his neighbour, Bashar al Assad.
With NATO approval, and American shield,
Erdogan plundered Syria’s yield.

His family swims in Syrian spoils,
a neighbour to loot and strip of oil.
Tanker convoys, stretch miles long,
bleeding Syria is Erdogan’s throng.

Turkey furrows as Satan’s bane,
terror camps built in his name.
Arming and training the terrorist thugs,
That rape and pillage and run the drugs.

Turkish Military transports the scum,
there and back, to and from.
Caught on tape by Serena Shim,
her death then ordered by Erdogan.

Freedom in Turkey does not prevail,
all that criticize are thrown in jail.
Crimes not covered by mainstream news,
unless the stories are Erdogan’s views.

He Wars at home, many have died,
another Turkish genocide.
Kurdish citizens live in fear,
their cities attacked throughout the year.

Western nations arm the Turks,
who butcher Syrians for EU perks.
All do suffer Erdogan’s insanity,
a nefarious stain on all humanity.

Bloody dictator on a murder spree,
Sending millions to panic and millions to flee.
Expelling his victims to EU shores,
extortion paid they promise him more.

German Poets express their revulsion,
Feelings expressed by their convulsion.
Erdogan freaks, demands their arrest,
Merkel obeys, to appease the pest.

Freedom of speech now against the law,
for the German people, the final straw.
Apathy now spells Europe’s doom,
division and promise to consume.

It’s time to hang the tyrant’s ass,
the dictator, the monster, the piece of trash.
Here’s a middle finger for the Ottoman Turk,
and a poem of truth about the fuck n’ jerk.

About this Poem: Jan Boehmermann, Bruno Kramm were recently arrested in Germany for reciting a poem about Turkish leader Recep Tayip Erdogan. At the Turkish presidents insistence, Angela Merkel the leader of Germany obeyed her fuhrers command…thus eliminating free speech in Germany…this poem is in celebration of free speech and in solidarity with both Jan Boehmermann, Bruno Kramm who were arrested in Germany for expressing their opinion. Time to repeal that fascist law! AND deal with Fascist leaders…

Monday, April 11, 2016



Life evolves by the planting of a seed...an idea...
resonating into light, to become a sea of profound changes.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Truth and Lies

Truth and Lies

Brought up to be truthful, honest and fair,
and told that the answer to life was in prayer,
we made our start with endless giving,
and when assailed, we were forgiving.

The promise in life would come down the road,
but things got strange when the economy slowed.
Oil costs went up and inflation appeared,
the tale of life became very weird.

Things didn’t make sense as I grew,
the more I questioned, the less I knew.
All we had was what we were told,
and no internet for minds so bold.

The bully emerged, then came nine eleven,
criminality surged, and released building seven.
we watched it all unfold on our TV’s,
collusion of media, government, insanity.

The systems governance and media cries,
expect you to believe their pernicious lies.
While society bubbles around the World,
begin to pop as their sovereignty unfurls.

People the World over, awakened by events,
research the internet till their energy is spent.
Building seven fell, in its own footprint,
takes months to wire, should give a hint.

War was launched from that moment on,
economy is worse and the jobs are gone.
Fifteen years later, ignorance resumes,
criminals still free in corporate boardrooms.

Architects and Engineers: Solving the Mystery of Building 7 - w/ Ed Asner

Video Source: ae911Truth

About this Poem: We want a REAL independent investigation into 911…! Millions of people around the World have paid with their lives because of a story that was covered up and continues to be unresolved. The evidence against the “official story” is overwhelming and so we owe it to our future generations to conduct an impartial independent investigation into 911.  

If this investigation is not conducted, the direct result of 911 will lead us to World War III…that path is already in motion…

Match Day’s End

Photo Credit: Artist Bob Barker Painting “Secret Messages”

Match Day’s End

Winter furnace, row on row,
chase away the evening’s cold,
lights are out, day’s at end,
half past twelve, as quiet descends.

Match day fest has come 'n gone,
derby, cup and the song,
all is quiet, village asleep,
save two boy’s on their feet.

Backyard friends so elated,
connected by cup and wire,
sending message to the other,
no signs that they do tire.

Brimming joy and happiness,
excitement fills the air,
game replayed by voices,
in detail ‘n great care.

All seemed lost and over,
biting moments in the game,
seconds remain with corner,
last chance for glory 'n fame.

Moments held in disbelief,
prayers of hope relieved,
last minute goal by Teddy,
our chances now retrieved.

Jubilation stirs the nation,
and two boys barely nine,
electrified emotions,
ecstatic and divine.

Stadium’s roar still lingers,
match resumes again,
red rush down the sideline,
our captained side of ten.

Official checks his watch,
as our team gains the area,
a forty yarder tally,
sending all into hysteria.

The Bench and stands do empty,
cover pitch at Wembley way,
players aloft, paraded,
by emotions, carried away.

Delighted minds replay the game,
well into the night,
reliving glorious moments,
two friends in red and white.

About this Poem: Some magic moments in sports stay with us forever especially when experienced in our youth. All our worldly problems with their daily strife falls away to ecstatic feelings that embrace moments of hope and divine thought; and so this poem depicts the lingering euphoria of that moment by youth, having won the championship.

Visit: Artist Bob BarkerOfficial Website
Bob Barker Art on: Facebook

Monday, March 21, 2016



I live by society’s grace,
and in disgrace by their revulsion of me.
No one hires my kind, an experienced person in life.
“Get a minimum wage job, or live on the street…”

It’s not for the lack of trying,
that emails remain unanswered, phone stays silent.
If only someone took a chance,
I might not die of embarrassment,
when asked what I do.

I have all the skills required,
except the language of choice,
I’m in my mid fifties,
Am I too old to?

I paid for my own training,
when recession took the jobs away.
Electrical engineering, technologist,
in a lean manufacturing boom.

I paid to get ahead,
but soon those jobs left too,
and took my first marriage,
my family, my sanity, my health.

Ostracized by siblings,
frowned upon by acquaintance,
they’re no friends,
their chorus of condemnation parades me.

“Look at him, he doesn’t work.”
“I don’t like his lifestyle” they say.
when all I want is to support my family.
I’m not asking for much…

Maybe I can create my own work,
try to evolve once again to build that damn dream,
maybe help out other’s, so they don’t have to go through hell,
when asked, “what do you do?”

Hard work never pays off when all the avenues are blocked,
…and that endless condemnation…

I don’t like this world,
they would prefer I leave,
well just wait a little longer,
while I try to give my family a fighting chance.

My little girl understands, she’s learning French.
Though she need not defend me from emotional scars,
her battles lay ahead, when ignorance again, rears its head,
and people say, “Look at her, she doesn’t work.”

About this Poem: What it feels like, to be an unemployed Anglophone in Montreal Quebec.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Western Blindness

Western Blindness

For we who see beyond TV’s noise,
the broken Gaza girls and boys.

The Syrian children screaming far away,
the bombs on Yemen by the Saudi’s today.

Israeli prisons full of children, concrete bed,
Palestine’s suffering, empathy dead.

Of children’s torture, rights abuse, and death,
the silence, their sentence, their last breath.

I who speak out unlike western leaders,
demonized, by misguided readers.

To those who wish my mortal end,
my judge and jury, your message send.

The pain has overwhelmed me today,
I guess you just need to have your say.

But God will judge me, and you too,
What’s important, humanity or you?

Caesar Incorporated

Caesar Incorporated

When Caesar Incorporated won the war,
their vets came home to mind the store,
while Patricians, ever busy,
put American’s in a tizzy,
and made the nation their whore.

All seems right, until economy begins sliding,
then age-old monsters come out of hiding.

Decisions cast by suits in costume,
ship the jobs to Chinese stockroom,
unemployed, now so restless,
vets in rags became the crestless,
and poverty the sonic boom.

Tempestuous exit, jobs down the drain,
economic tailspin, communities in pain.

Monetary cards now all played,
new world autocrat plans are made,
with proxies picked, monsters slated,
foreign dictatorships are created,
backed up by Military aid.

Plans in action, red lines drawn,
both sides supplied before the dawn.

War unfurls, fought by fools,
recruitment made by broadcast tools,
while bets are hedged,
new private banks pledged,
Patricians still create the rules.

Tempestuous exit, life down the drain,
economic slavery comes around again.

Two nations engage in conflict appalling
one in growth the other falling,
new economic powers rise,
with propaganda battle cries,
war becomes their calling.

When Caesar incorporated wins the war,
The cycle will begin on another shore…

About this Poem: The United States and its OECD friends are controlled by an international economic crime syndicate that has come full circle since the end of World War II. The empire has now been hollowed out by those in control who are well on their way to establishing their final phase of ruling the World from a new and final economic empire…but before that can happen, they need to take the World to World War III…

Monday, March 7, 2016

Cardinal Spirit

Cardinal Spirit

Cherry red, in snow covered tree,
Cardinal spirit visits me.

Social bird, sadly alone,
Perched in tree behind my home.

Winters mourning, with twilight’s birth,
In cold he sings, all puffed in girth.

Throughout the day, he bides his time,
expectant wait, for song in rhyme.

Conscious whispers, find my ears,
from father gone, so many years.

Visit your mother, was his plea,
Empathic feelings, whispered to me.

Never knowing what life brings,
I visit mother, with heartfelt things.

Arriving early, mid afternoon,
surprised to find emotions strewn.

Her spirit appeared so far away,
Though a pleasant time we had that day.

With tears in eyes, yet very caring,
though why she cried, she was not sharing.

Ninety years old, tired and alone,
All she wanted, was to go back home.

Empathic nod, I understood,
as memories flood from childhood.

Our visit ended, we said goodbye,
She smiled at me with tear in eye.

Arriving home, deep in thought,
I watch the birds, and Cardinals spot.

He flies to me, on window’s bay,
The song he sings, soothes my day.

The evening reigns, his vibrant sound,
Chasing blues and sorrows crowned.

When sunset casts its evening shroud,
Cardinal sings, return is vowed.

Night brings sleep to weary eyes,
Old dreams pass, with greying skies.

At three AM, I’m suddenly roused,
It’s chateau place, where mum is housed.

The news is sad…mum passed away.
I reflect on time we spent that day.

Pain and sorrow bites with grief,
My systems flush with no relief.

Mourning gathers, Cardinals return,
on window sill, emotions churn.

Eyes meet mine, understanding fate,
for there behind, his new found mate.

She hops to window, looks inside,
Chirping brightly, old soul and bride.

Together they sing a hopeful song,
bestowing strength, to keep me strong.

At that moment, memory recalls,
the story she told me at Twin Falls.

The spirits of loved ones will visit you,
and appear as Cardinals, to see you through.

About this Poem:

It is said that the spirit of a loved one comes to visit through the guise of a Cardinal. The Poem “Cardinal Spirit” is dedicated to my late mother and father.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

A Mid Night’s Walk

Photo: Wet Feet Warm HeartBob Barker

Poem by: Stewart Brennan

A Mid Night’s Walk

The blue grey flicker of theatre’s twilight,
pales and recedes to red velvet curtains and end credits.
Fright night is over, and just begun,
for worried faces with no way home.

Movie house ushers left behind,
two boys barely nine,
unattended left in mid nights darkness, alone,
walking empty streets, they plan their journey.

A mile to go,
roads devoid of life, dead,
young audacious intellect no longer composed,
agree upon the shortest distance to sanctuary.

Autumn fog floods the air over cobbled streets,
leaving atmosphere crisp with biting chill, swelling panic,
and two young boys attentive to surroundings,
ready to bolt on the faintest sound.

Evenings haze billows on nights breeze,
absorbing lamp light, voice and vision,
to mirror strange reflections in pools of water,
on stone roads and imagination.

Shadows lurk on silent streets, trailing,
provoking image, form and being,
by young omnipotent minds,
creators of tales, myths and legends.

Dragons breath emerges from sewers and moorish fields,
ringing alarms heard by two quickening hearts.
Foul stench and fires steam,
shed the weight of cumbrous legs.

Eyes of the beast zigzags the nebulous fog behind,
Spreading panic in the marrow of its prey, fearfully running.

The screech of the dragon is upon them,
Enticing one last blood curdling shrill of life before their fall,
Adrenalin pumping, blood flowing, lungs inflate larger,
Speed and pace faster in guarded rhythm, accelerating…

The glaring whites of the beasts eyes close in,
Nooooooo! Therrrrrrrlll…

“Who you running from? Get in the car ya dumb kids!”
Arriving at the right moment, our champion slays the beast,
and drives us home with much relief.

About this Poem: Two young boys walk home after a late night horror show.

Photo Credit: Bob Barker Official Website
Bob Barker Art on - Facebook

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

The Barnsley Boat

Photo "Joy Riders" Credit: Artist Bob Barker 

Short Story By: Stewart Brennan

The Barnsley Boat

Stonefield, the home of my precious guarded memories and immortal youth; its been so long since I was home, so the first sight of the long row of tenements today, gave me a warm feeling with a little shiver as if I had gone back in time.

All my youthful memories came flooding back as I passed by the homes of friends and families I once knew, calling out the original owners by name as I drove by. They’re still there in my mind as sure as it was yesterday.

Down a small side street within our little village of row houses, was my destination and the place I called home, Barnsley Street.

Barnsley was on the outskirts of town and descended into a marsh that served as a young child’s hunting grounds for frogs and pollywogs but also for our tree forts and games of hide and seek.

The voices of children’s laughter and merriment echo back to memory and paint the scenes of a street I grew up on in the mid 1960’s as I emerge from the car and look down the road.

The long row houses on either side of the cobblestone street had small yards just big enough to hang the laundry to dry so most of our time was spent playing on the back street that declined into the marsh. When it rained, the water would pool at the bottom of the road, which is where the undefeated Barnsley Boat was. An old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile that was our unsinkable ship, a boat that won every battle it faced.

The old steel and aluminium garbage cans across the road served as the enemy ships and sounded lifelike when we made a direct hit with a rock. Many times the old Barnsley boat was hit by subs that silently snuck up on us with their torpedoes, but we always stayed afloat by the brilliant and magical engineering of our crew.

We played outdoors, morning, noon, and night and never came inside until family would call us in for supper.

August would bring the fireflies, an alien invasion by night that we and old Barnsley held off to eventually save the world…and at wars end, we decorated ole Barnsley for the victory parade that passed by an endless row of people on either side of the street and waved until our little arms grew tired.

The old boat belonged to Peters father, Mr Wing, who left it parked outside his gate after it broke down for good. That is, until one day, Peter who had just been in the marsh with his rubber Billy boots jumped onto the hood of the car and slipped off hitting his head on the road. I saw it all unfold as I had just closed the gate to my front yard when Petey called to me and slipped.

I quickly ran towards Pete but was beaten by the lightning quick strides of Mr Wing who scooped Peter up and brought him inside his house.

I stayed outside on his back steps worrying about my friend when a lime green station wagon ambulance pulled up, followed by all the neighbourhood kids running behind it. Concern was shared by everyone as I relayed the story to them…we all stayed there in Pete’s yard waiting for word…

Within fifteen minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the ambulance attendants and stretcher came out of the house with concerned expressions and a reply to our questioning faces, “Don’t worry boys, Peter will be alright, he just has a slight concussion.”

Relief ensued then as the group of us waited for the ambulance to pull away, and as it did, we all ran behind it to give Pete a protective send off as any good Barnsley crew would for their shipmate.

A week later Mr Wing had ole Barnsley towed away to a junkyard, a sad ending for our old boat and stalwart champion…

Old memories give way to the grey skies above and drizzle falling on Barnsley road. Our marshland now turned into a cemetery holding stones with the names of people I once knew, including Mr Wing and Petey, who sadly passed away last year in a car wreck.

Here now, a crowd gathers with black umbrellas in the cemetery, with a priest waiting for the last few of us to arrive. Tom Fisk, Dave Fallen, his brother Mike, and Sylvain de Bruit, whom I hadn’t seen in years till today…no one had changed, it was like we never parted, the spirit within each of them remained so recognizable…as if it was yesterday.

A melancholy atmosphere pervades the murmur of voices gathering as another soul from Barnsley Street is laid to rest. Ashes to Ashes dust to dust, we will all meet again here, to revisit our guarded memories.

The mourners slowly dissipate and walk from the graveyard onto Barnsley Street and pass by two young saluting boys standing on top of an old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile…”another successful burial at sea captain!” “Eye first engineer, prepare to take the ship into battle!”
Story Summary: A Man revisits his childhood home with vivid memories.

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