Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

Take care


Take care not fall
Under the Sirens’ call
Bound by their spell not
Live but by your dreams to tell

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 10 May, 2016

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Filed under: poetry

T E Lawarence said


All men dream: but not equally.
Those who
dream by night
in the dusty recesses of their minds

wake up in the day to find
it was vanity, but the
dreamers of the day
are dangerous men, for they may

act their dreams with open eyes,
to make it possible.

We who
making reality of our dreams

women too, equally
And not may
we are not dangerous
but sublime.

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 10 May, 2016

Filed under: poetry

The Black Swan


The Black Swan on the lake
Reminds me that I am not at home
The kangaroo, too
With its peculiar pouch

The interior vast
Ayers Rock
A land without life
Except on the coast

I am lost here down
Under
And long for
Home at the top.

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 10 May 2016

Filed under: poetry

The Trees in the Glass


The trees in the glass staring out
The ducks in the pond gliding about

The thrill, the thrill, coursing through
The mindless, soundless thoughts mull

A dream real
This is how we can feel

Released, released
From the prison of ourselves.

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 10 May 2016

Filed under: poetry

The Eye Tongue


The Eye Tongue speaks
No words to hear
Not for the ear

The mouth opens
Lips pout
Their language understood

The gesture, posture
Both bring their vocabulary
To otherwise the inexpressible

The Eye Word, untranslatable
The vocal impossible
Cannot explain

What is sent, exchanges
Dear deep profound
Life changing without a sound.

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 10 May, 2016

Filed under: poetry

The Eye


The eyes meet exchange
Cacophony of conversation
Expressed
Silence through

The pregnant pause
The birth between
The meaning look
Volumes wrote

The understanding
Pierces through no words
Spoken
A lifetime lived
In a moment

The volts that run
Through the invisible
Wire
The current connects
The field eclect

The gaze met
With the gaze back
A language in no book
Syntax dense
The wordless spoke

Glory of the hour
In time well spent
Life lived full
Moment to moment.

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 10 May 2016

Filed under: poetry

Artist as wound


Let us count how many suicides
which country do we chose
which era, what art form
brush, pen, chisel, stage
which genre.

And mental asylums, how many
alcoholism
what else should we add to the list
misanthropy, misogyny, misandry
abuse of the many forms it takes.

Who should we name,  there are so many
almost too many, what criteria do we use
their works are sometimes great, held
high in esteem, some good. Those
poor don’t make the map.

How does one reduce this psychic
battleground, littered with the corpses
with the distraught minds
of artists living and dead
do we take a stretcher bearer approach
discuss single examples to make the point.

Francis Bacon and Virginia Wolf, two well
Known examples.

Yet, curiously, if we go back in time
Jane Austen, Ben Johnson, Vermeer
Van Dyke
further back? Roman and Greek

one does not hear of this
battlefield of wounded and dead
producing art work.

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 10 May, 2016

Filed under: poetry

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