Gord

2016-11-15 12:00 am

Classical antiquity in his eyes,
In the future he sees nothing.
No hummus made of pain,
No main containing animal.
How will his likeness continue,
With same vein, similar virtues?
In the mind propaganda becomes true.

Selling Kerchiefs with his likeness,
The future becomes today,
Yesterday's pathway impassable,
Except for by train.
A smile in the rain.

Gord

2016-05-04 12:00 am

Tomorrow is a forever away,
Lifelong insinuations of lame,
Necessary arterial plague,
Eventually he dies of it.
If he asked for the sauce,
Not just brought up on it,
Did asked for the judgement?
Or just to live?

Justan Mitchell

2016-05-03 12:00 am

Blue Beyond The Grey

I sit and wander as I wonder what will the rest of the gloomy, yet blue beyond the grey may bring my way. 
I hope to be like the eagle with fully spread wings. 
And with rain, hail, snow or earth quake I'm ready to challenge what challenges the day brings. 
And I think she might like me today. 
And tomorrows mystery will be the adventure of it's time. 
The things I must endure others have endured by my many mishaps for over 30 years. 
So I'll be patient as I sit here and wander, 
wondering what the rest of today's gloomy, 
yet blue beyond the grey, will bring my way.

Justan Mitchell
Dangerous Soul Life

The Sophist

2016-03-30 12:00 am

I can see her;
kissing now.
My Melita;
buzzing round.
In the country,
In the town,
In the streets,
And on the ground.
On the subway,
In the suburbs.
Skipping supper;
Back street clubber.
Just a number.
Body of stats,
Sizes,
Dimensions,
Hobbies.
Pride;
Absentia.
Lies she said,
And I believed them.
Yeah?
Did I believed them?
Yeah.
She did too;
Watching me receive them.
Not well.
She buzzed away,
Asked if I could leave her.
Not today,
I chased,
Now I still can't see her.
Now I'm still left waiting.
Thoughts of honey,
And my Melita.

Gord

2016-02-19 12:00 am

Today is but a fragile future,
Flying high above our own wisdom,
Too humble to nurture our own lambs,
Ouroborous of the past come from within.
We would smile upon our cattle truth,
Passing as the horses coming through.
Alexander of the trade has gone forever,
Accordingly should we also become nothing?
It seems apt for our most static people.
Hopefully to procure funds for a sequel.

Gord

2016-01-18 12:00 am

Ever could I see the sun again, 
I would follow the sunset forever,
Galloping on white horse in vain.
Perhaps no trial is worth such fervor,
Even if it passes as entertainment.

The Paraffin One

2014-09-18 12:00 am

Classlessly the entire generation asks,
Perchance who is to breathe this air?
Perhaps they know not of gasses,
How easy they are to acquire, wherever.
Why not just call someone a thief?
Why not a liar, or simple cheat?
For selling someone a leaf,
Calling gold that found among peat.
Couldn't ignorance be but a plea?
With no common ground to stand,
Everything you see marketing fleas,
Ticks suddenly drop in market demand.
Concept, is a concept if you understand conception.
The epitome of tomorrow claim they never got the lesson.

Gord

2014-03-13 12:00 am

A clasp of green.
A feel alive again today.
My high is here to stay,
No Evergreen, Nor pine mine is.
EUCALYPTUS 
I found the fabled forest,
Large enough to raise my kin in.

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Spoilt for choice - Sainsbury’s Saga

I think I'll have fish today.

Fillet of fish.
Served in a dish.

Probably be nice
With a portion of peas;
Don't want that one, though,
Too many E's.

Beluga caviar,
Cor, isn't that taking
Housewife’s choice
A smidgen too far?

Tuna in tomato sauce
Or shall I have
Sunflower Oil?
Here's one in brine
That'll do just fine.

Now, do I want it,
In chunks?
Shall I have it in steak?
Maybe I should just settle
For a nice piece of Hake.

Have it fresh, shall I?
I could have a packet,
But then again,
Maybe a pie.
But then will it be,
John West, Findus or Ross,
Or just plain Bird's-Eye?

There are mussels and cockles
Scallops and whelks
Sardines, mackerels
Oysters and squid.
Pilchards, salmon,
Haddock and plaice,
Cod, coley, sole and skate;
There's even a fish called slid.

Look at the lobster,
The prawns and the shrimps,
Kippers, herrings
Dover sole, lemon sole
Brown and rainbow trouts
Shark steaks, swordfish
With very long snouts.
Jamaican snappers,
Whitebait and sprats.
Not much on them,
Even for cats!

Then on its own
Or sometime in sticks;
Even professionally dressed;
Comes the regal crab.
Making the dour monkfish
Sound positively drab!

Thinking of medieval monasteries,
Is Friar,
Latin, for Fish-cook?
And was Friday named for fish?
Has it always been spelt
With an I,
Or should it be Fryday,
Spelt with a Y?

Sod it,
I'll just have pasta!


Dusti Rodes (2003)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

A Week Away

A week away
A cottage in the Cotswolds
Solitary single socks
All in a line
On parade

Hands like hooks
Feet that throb
Barms and breezes
In Blackpool

Fortunes found and told
Tramlines
Scarring the seascape
Soaring seagulls
Hawk-like hands
Flaying feet

Seagulls that screech
Mayhem in Mablethorpe
Being Stumped in Boston
As to which way to go
Kiss me quick
Squeeze me slow hats

For edible orifices
Wonka's Willies
Trams travelling
Towards the Tower
And down the Golden Mile
From Fleetwood

North and South Piers
Sandcastles
Big and small
Towards Town
Postcard pictures
Picture postcards

Pencil drawings
By computer
The Mere at Marton
Limousines
And lycra-clad mirth-makers

Mobster's metal machine
Made from a Mini
National Savings & Investments building
Blocking the breeze
And the light
Standing in it's shadow
Comfortable caravans

Laughter from Leighton
Jokes from Jamie
Sparkling grape juice
All the way from Grimsby
Via the M18

Panoramic views 
From the highest motorway
In Britain
Deep dales
High Pennine peaks
In Yorkshire

Rain and sunshine
Traffic build-ups
In Blackburn
Blues in Burnley
Families fighting

Four-pint pitchers
Of foaming ale
Mussels and whelks
Oysters and orange squash
Cockles and crabs

People driving
Dangerously long miles
Without falling faint
Of fatigue
Passion in the Pennines
The castle moat

Golden sands
Tilting telegraph poles
Going up
And coming down
Steep steps
To silver sand

Shorelines stretching
As far as the eye
Can see
Whirling wind turbines
Whitewashed windmills
Scattered over the Northwest frontier

Unfurled flags
Flying furiously
In a westerly wind
Cod and curry sauce
Pen'orth o'scraps
And pots of mushy peas
Wrapped in writing

Mablethorpe Messenger
Blackpool Gazette
Cotswold Courier
Yesterday's news
Today's chip wrappers
Tomorrow's waste.


Dusti Rodes (2006)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

Postcard from Spain

The deep blue Med,
Bleeding red,
With green seaweed.

Ten thousand immigrant flies,
Travelling in on the wings
Of the Sirocco;
From north Morocco.

The power of the Siesta Sun,
Making the sand in my shoe hot.

Luscious lips, not bruised
Neither battered nor burnt,
Grappling with grapefruits.

Paradise Beach,
Paraded with parasol palms;
Waves breaking
On a wind-kissed shore.

I may be bathing later,
I am still not sure.

A lone bathing beauty,
From the Lone Star state,
Ear to the phone.
Southern Belle;
Listening to Western Bell.

Had to go and see
My mountain,
Standing stark
In darkest Dakota.

Aqui,Casas de Lujo.
Here, Luxury Houses.
Cornish Cream,
Mandarin Palace.

Urban graffiti
In an idyllic setting.
Perfect paradox.
Jet plane trucking
Leaving tyre tracks
In the bright blue sky.

Sun-kissed shingle.
Sitting on a man-made rock,
The sea has shaped
To blend in with the shoreline.
Concrete clusters;
Indistinguishable,
From indigenous icons

Seaweed green, but yesterday,
Bleached red,
By the unforgiving sun today.
Granite granules,
Marble monolinths.
Sculptured saline symbols.

Yellow bouys bobbing,
Effortlessly.
Looking like a line of sweet corn,
Positioned precariously
On a willow patterned plate.

To my right,
A multitude of people,
To my left,
A hundred more.
But I sit here,
Surrounded by the solitude of silence.

Alone, with only my thoughts,
For company.
'Cept for the gentle breeze,
Whispering words of untold wisdom.
Gleaned from eons of eavesdropping,
On its many invisible travels
Around the globe.

The unseen listener of many conversations,
Keeper of Confidences,
Storer or Secrets,
Librarian of Lies,
Treasurer of Truths.
Spreading the gospel of God,
By the Mediterranean Sea.

I went away
And wrote.

Warm winds,
Helicopter hovering,
Gentle gyrations.
Drenched dog,
Bedraggled by brine.
Dappled writing,
Caused by the sun
Through the brim
Of my hat.

Beach-combing bum,
Scouring the shoreline,
With a plastic bag,
because of the hole
In my pocket.

Gone is the moment
For forced photography,
A thousand photos,
But only one picture.

Stranger on a foreign shore,
Leaving only footprints
In the sands;
Taking nothing
But memories.

Beached rowboats;
Wooden rafts,
Made from discarded
Wine crates.

Dusti Rodes (2002)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-05 12:00 am

' Act of Faith '
 The Weaving of the Web

 The Poet's Perception

 Caladbolg

 One Sword.
 Taking two hands to wield.
 Rainbow ruler of all others.
 Smiter of mountains and of hills.
 Made with molten faerie gold.
 Fashioned on the forge
 Of Fir Bolg giant, Balor of the Evil Eye,
 Defeated at Moytura,
 By the wiles of Tuatha de Dannan
 Magical warriors.
 In reprisal for the death of
 Lu of the Longhand,
 Son of their King.

 ' By this Sign, so shall you know me! '

 "Remember this, Sire,
 And use the information well;
 For they plan to kill my Liege"

 So spoke the Lady of the Lake.

 " 'Twas the Vessel with the Pestle,
 That bore the potion that was Poison.
 And it was the Flagon emblazoned with his Dragon,
 They did fill with the brew that is True.

 But the serving-wench did slip,
 The platter fell to the floor
 And did crash on the flagstones there.
 The Vessel with the Pestle was smashed.
 Shattered into a thousand shards.

 Now the Flagon with the Dragon,
 Contains the potion that is Poison;
 And the Crystal Chalice,
 That was procured from the Palace
 Holds the brew that be True."

 Act of Faith

 I feel very vulnerable.
 I haven't put this much trust
 In Anyone or Anything,
 For longer than I can remember.
 Only time will tell
 If this act of faith is justified.

 The Artist's Explanation

 I have always been a fan of Arthurian legend, and in the end decided the ultimate act of faith, was the search for the grail.
 I have mixed up lots of ideas within my painting though, here is the official explanation.

 The hill on which she has reached the pinnacle, is Glastonbury Tor, but a thousand years ago the glow of what is now Glastonbury shines below her. In the sky there is the constellation Orion, this symbolises the king of the fairies, Gwyn ap Nudd, who legend has it lived on the Tor before being insulted by St Collumb, and in doing so left the Tor to forever hunt his hounds across the winter sky.

 Instead of the ruined church that is on the Tor now, I thought a small standing stone might suffice, and embedded within the stone in a similar way to the sword Excalibur was embedded in a rock, I have placed a wooden chalice, the moss on the rock and the shamrocks, also give the chalice a bed on which to lay.
 Shamrocks being symbolic not only of Ireland, but also the holy trinity. It is also a trefoil, which is the symbolic of Awen, which is the druid symbol for inspiration.

 On her wrist is a bracelet, which has fallen from the chalice and magically clings to her, the bracelet is silver like the moon with a fleur de lis (another symbol of the grail, and Mary mother of Jesus, coupled with the holy trinity). The lady is wearing nothing more than a simple white jacket and is naked below. She is also blindfolded, and therefore has to accept trust and her faith to protect her from this vulnerable position.
 She has come to the end of her quest and has found her grail, purely by way of faith, and is now tired and weary but still proud and undefeated , she is genuflecting to its wonder.

 The sword has two symbolisms, the first being that it was once broken and has been repaired. (This relates to the story of Galahad, repairing the magical broken sword, from the Fisher King stories, near the end of the grail quest) and the design of the sword I am using is unique in such that it is a copy of the original sword used by the genuine most famous knight in English History, Sir William Marshall.

 The long grass has various dandelion clocks settled within it, one has burst its seeds, sending them cascading across the painting, the dandelion means many things, including flirtatiousness ... 
 However it is also in gypsy lore the symbol of transition and ascendancy from physical to spiritual.

 One last thing is that I have signed the painting twice, once in my usual way in the bottom right hand corner, and the other being the symbol of Rowan cut in Ogham on the standing stone. (My name of Ro being short actually for Rowanswood which is my bardic name.) - John Ogden (August 2010)

 The Druid's Interpretation

 The story of Bride or Brigid is close to so many people and there is a longing, especially from women today, to return to the balance there once was between men and women. The main story in these parts, and sort of on Beara too, is that all life somehow came from a womb and this once upon a time brought about the reverence of the goddess.
 The first two trees of the Ogham alphabet seem to guide this with Beith the Birch being the first life on earth and eventually the protector of women, and Luis the Rowan being the dragon's fire in all men who would burn rowan to bring the spirit of the goddess into them. For guidance, confidence, passion,bravery and focus especially when in council for trade, treaties, and sometimes preparation for war.
 Bride's symbol was the sword, in the story of the creation of the four Celle's of instruction, the first symbol, the symbol of imbolc,the first fire festival of the year, first quadrant of the Chaldean astrology chart. A tree of life, as above, so below.

 The sword created from fire, extraction of metals from ore, fires that were fuelled by the labours of men.

 The sword created by virgins, virgins by not yet having child, and not through no having sex, that would once one day be given to their mate. A founding of the tradition of the dowry today.

 If the male mate was slain and together they had no sons as heirs, the woman would take back the sword to be head of the household until another mate was found.

 In comes Patrick, a name so close to Patriarch, the incoming of the domination of the male hierarchy. The call to revere the male deity.

 When the man of the family was slain and there were no heirs; the woman, and any daughters, were the property of the chieftain. To serve as slaves or be appointed new mates, often in treaty.The sword was thrown into the lake or river to be passed on no more.

 The tradition of Bride, or Brigid, was eventually slain, and the tradition of Patrick took over.

 It is said that the legendary race of Formori never had women. They were men of the sea who knew how to extract gold and make rings.They would lure the Dannan or other land caring women with rings but for the sole purpose of breeding, not relationships, and any sons born would join the Formori.
 The legend is that Bride married Bres to try to return to the balance, that may be an example to the Formori, but it was not to be.

 In your picture this comes across as a woman either by the Formori or the Patriach demands of the ruling male deities ... but nobody could take that sword of balance away from her. It was not going to the lake !!!

 The standing stone to me is symbolic of the 2nd Cille of Instruction, who Bride is said to have taught Cian, son of Anu. The origin of Salmaine, that became Beltaine.
 Beltaine, one of the two times of the year the salmon swim up river, the second quadrant of the astrological cycle, the partnership and mating. The finding of the new true mate to pass the sword to. .... and the choice of blessed water to bring back life and fertility to make that possible.

 Oh, the blindfold?

 Another legend is that before Beltaine, women would approach the pool of Lasir blindfolded. And then after a blessing with water from the pool, were allowed to take off their blindfolds to have a vision of the man that would be their mate on Beltaine day.

 Lasir's legends are like Bride, except where Bride and Brigid led a herd of cows; Lasir led a flock of sheep. So when sheep are sheared at Beltaine time, there is a honoury toast to Lasir to ensue another blessed year ahead.

 Interestingly today, by the pool / well of Lasir ,there is no longer a standing stone, but a tall stump of an Ash tree that was felled there.
 Also in Lake Meelagh nearby, Bronze and Iron-Age swords have been found, by folks who were looking for the legendary Dagda's cauldron which is said to be in there somewhere.

 Not legends that are well known away from Co. Silgo, yet have travelled to be made into other stories. Of course , people of Co.Silgo made their own stories from what travellers told them too.

 Another insight?

 Dusti Rodes (2010)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

When you go down to the theatre today

 (To the tune of Teddy Bears Picnic)

 When you go down to the theatre today,
 You'd better go in disguise.
 When you go down to the theatre today,
 You're sure to get a surprise.
 'Cos every fear that ever there was,
 Is gathered there because,
 Today is the day that Dusti
 Has his heart operation.

 Big ones, little ones,
 scary ones.
 Oh what fun there'll be.
 Spiders, rats and ghoulies
 Thing that are not really there,
 You'll be sure to see.
 Walls walking, bed bottles talking,
 Through cavern-like mouths.

 When you're back on the ward tonight,
 They'd better not turn on the light.
 When you're back on the ward tonight,
 You're likely to have a fright.
 'Cos every fear that ever there was,
 Are gathered here tonight.
 'Cos today's the day that Dusti
 Had his heart operation.

 Dusti Rodes (2008)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

In the Wind

The lonely nights. They were the worst part. The long hours spent building the bike. Burning the midnight oil until the cold light of dawn took over the illuminations.
He sat, oil-stained mug in his grease-decked ham of a fist. Java's best, steaming, burning his throat raw with every lug. Was this his thirteenth or fourteenth today? He couldn't remember now. The massive doses of caffeine failing in their allotted task of feigning off fatigue; the accumulated grounds covering the mug bottom in a remnant of Mississippi mud, deep, from down in the Deltas. The first finger and thumb of his free hand were deftly putting the finishing touches to the joint he was rolling. It was a little art he'd picked up during his frequent stays at Her Majesty's Pleasure at various establishments around the country. His makings lay strewn over the old table that served as totem-factotum to his needs. Diner, workbench, even pillow on multiple occasions over recent months. He raised the cigarette to his lips, and with a single action that comes with years of practise, sealed it with his saliva. With it now ensconced in his mouth, he reached for the lighter, lit it, and took a deep toke. The sweet smell permeated his flaring nostrils, while he drew down the smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhaled, his heavy eyelids closed momentarily. The necessary effort required to open them again proving too much in his tired state, he allowed his mind to wander.
Where had it all started? When was it now? Pour quoi? The combination of drugs and fatigue was fast inducing sleep, which only served to confuse the thought processes he was desperately trying to assimilate to no avail it seemed.
The auto-jumble sale in Birmingham, that was it!
That's where he'd first seen the bike, and realised its potential. An ex-WD combo. A 1948 six hundred cc, single cylindered side valve, from the Birmingham Small Arms company. With a camouflage green paint job. 'Distinctive', the vendor had called it. Hardly Milwaukee Iron, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? He'd only paid two hundred quid for the lot. And the seller had thrown in set of front suspension springer forks from a 1949, M20. The 500cc model that the dispatch riders normally used in the wartime. They were standard equipment on both the combination and solo set-ups. And they were chromed already! Save him a fortune that would. He'd altered the rake on the steering to an inch and three quarters over stock. That'll give him that low-rider effect he wanted. Just like Peter Fonda's in the film.


Dusti Rodes (2007)

Dusti Rodes

2014-03-04 12:00 am

Strange Times

Yesterday, while painting the south-facing picket fence in the searing heat of the afternoon sun, my back was burnt to blisters. My hair took on the texture of dry matted straw and was bleached a further two shades of blonde through the holes in my faithful ol' hat.
Today, I'm waiting for the water in the kettle to come to the boil in order to make myself a cup of skinny latte and the heat from the two bars of the toaster doing the bread seems to be warming the whole scullery. The rain, driven by a whistling wind, continues to batter itself against the panes that yesterday shone with the reflections of rippling sunlight.
We are indeed living in strange times!

Dusti Rodes (2007)