Miranda

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Miranda

I think of the world,
The sudden violence and the angry mobs
The despots and the samurai, the warlords and armies
Edifices of skulls, fortresses of twisted metal
The shadows of children left  smeared on walls and ramparts
I thought of all this
As if it were the story of somewhere else
Not here where I fashion a necklace of shells
Taking each lustred  vortex
Threading them close so they may speak
Through the thin paper of time
As a lover speaks to his other
In low  tender ministrations
Tempering all that is  unimaginable.

 

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2017

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Show your Wound

I am re blogging this in memory of Gustav Metzger  who tried to show us what we are and asked us  ‘Can we change?’
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artwork by Veronica Aldous copyright 2017 not to be reproduced. Silkscreen and digital print on silk with neon stitch and mica

Show your Wound

 

Show your Wound

It’s a hat you can wear, felt and fat
Swivel and you miss it, if you know a colour
Is turquoise – not blue
The litmus paper test for if you are a screaming
This or that. What they call you is what you are
But not. I punk it out and sometimes
Take a swing, but why?
When the sea is in my coffee
And birds are just plain happy?
This is simple;
We live
We die
And in between

If you leak like trash in a backyard bin
All over other people’s gardens
Puking up pulpy ghostfear
In a trench of gnashing teeth
Just like a machine head
Just like a wasp caught in a hungry jar –

You won’t be haunted
It won’t prevent you sleeping

But then again,
You never really know.

All rights reserved Veronica Aldous 2015

Refugee

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We made many guns and arms and warplanes. The instruments of war.
We armed the world to its teeth and made billions.
Nation fought nation bringing horror and famine and waves of lost children
We turned the refugees aside as they ‘don’t belong here’.
A child drowning in an ocean didn’t matter once we said
‘we need to look after our own.’

We created this situation.
We voted for it

Until we are all refugees

Our voices lost in a rising sea.

 

Veronica Aldous 2017

The photograph is called ‘The Missing Guest’ Veronica Aldous

feel free to share.

War Baby

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War Baby

There is so much sadness in this dusty child
Not enough skin to wrap around, protect us
From such sights as these
To which god shall we pray?
They say, inevitability, casualty
Not ours, so why should we care?

Because his eyes are blear shell shocked holes
Where mirth should play and smiles flicker
Nothing grows or moves…
An unholiness in the broken bleeding baby
That breaks the soul in two.
But he is material fact statistically,
So, nothing new,he’s old.

Like a warrior fresh from combat sees nothing
He is not here, but somewhere out there
With the burning flesh of accursed rain
A mortar  ends all pain, arms and legs and feet
In piles, blocking gullies and drains
Use them as a barricade, these passive staring things
Useful commodities like weaponry or toys.

No child should know how rank we are
How ill disposed to sweet small trusting things
Beneath a sky that rains fire in hellish measure
The ornaments of war are children
Blown to bloody smithereens
As everybody knows.

 

Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved