Anthony Di'anno Poems
Ode To A Blade Of Grass
Oh! whispering blade, ever hath your kin,
Swung and danced over grabbled graves of mine,
Where nightingales are oft enticed to sing,
To those mown down in regimented line,
Who once as barefoot lovers trod you well,
Then swore allegiance to a sovereign lie,
To fall in foreign fields where poppies swell,
Coffers in answer to a bankers cry,
'Tis true the sons of man can ill afford,
The blood they spill upon your verdant sword,
Still you embrace them all both friend and foe,
Line the verges that mark their pathways home,
From mist strewn glens ...
England Twenty Twelve
In this England twenty twelve.
We shuffle in hypnotic hachures.
Spiraling eternally in winding, woven wistful debt.
We hurt from blinkered splintered fractures,
never to forget to drink to forget.