The Stonemason

My Lady’s eyes are blind with smoke
And I must stand and watch her burn
I made her out of stone and oak
My Lady’s eyes are blind with smoke
And flames are catching on her cloak
I pray to God the wind will turn
My Lady’s eyes are blind with smoke
And I must stand and watch her burn

I made her out of oak and stone
And blue and red and light and glass
My Lady mine and mine alone
I made her out of oak and stone
Of blood and sweat and broken bone
But God has spoken ~ all things pass
I made her out of oak and stone
And blue and red and light and glass

Her smoking beauty burns my eyes
But I will raise her up again
Her ashes fill the Paris skies
Her smoking beauty burns my eyes
Behold the Phoenix! See her rise!
What mysteries God speaks to men
Her smoking beauty burns my eyes
But I will raise her up again

© Gail Foster 16th April 2019

 

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The Chemistry Of Lucre Is Not Strange

On Radio 4 this morning, plastic fivers…

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So, money doesn’t grow on trees no more

For some of us it never really did

The rich grow ever richer, and the poor

Still grovel for a poxy flippin’ quid

The launderers shall rub their hands with glee

‘Tis easy now to wipe clean, and to wash

The dirty money in the treasury

The grime of crime from shiny plastic dosh

Old money will still glint of ancient gold

New money will still boast itself and flash

And diamonds shine, and lead be dark and cold

As ever was, the alchemy of cash

The chemistry of lucre is not strange

The rich stay rich, and for the poor, no change

*

© Gail Foster 13th September 2016

 

Potatoes

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We shall have to eat potatoes with our meagre humble pie

Sit chilly in our garrets writing verse until we die

Sacrifice our sanity, relationships, and health

Forego all thoughts of kudos, recognition, comfort, wealth

To draw the light from darkness, and to write upon the page

Words of painful beauty, words of love, and myth, and rage

To be alchemical, polemical; be vulnerable, be bold

Make magic from mundanity, and turn the dross to gold

To be poor, but to be Poets, who shall ever blessed be

For we possess potatoes and the power of poetry

© Gail Foster 2016