The Wasp

Words spawned
from the mouth
of a hungry zeitgeist
and delivered
to the fallen and forlorn
Clothed and fed
by the living dead
in a reality torn
by the infernal zealot
A creature most anthropomorphic
Give us this day our daily tablet
and bleach us like forified bread
with words amplified, rarified,
and delectably catalytic
floating upon the cosmic
with yesterdays plastic
whilst stinging like a hornet
I am the white anglo-saxon poet

Deep and easy
the shallow spoken
with words undone
like shadows formed
only to be broken
by the rising sun

Poets all . . .
reaching for
that Seventh Heaven
Poets embedded
in the trenches
of battleground Armageddon
Poets lined up at Club 27
Poets in it for the long run
Bards of the boudoir
Purveyors of despair
and merchants of glum
Poets who just want to have fun

Poets in the back alley
lighting torches in the night
Scribes of propaganda
as if many words
maketh right
Wordsmiths of entitlement
Artists of enlightenment
Poets with words heaven sent
offering a holy sacrement
Weavers and deceivers
of words hell rent and bent

Poets of the surreal
Poets scratching for a meal
with sonnets of seduction
Stories of gracious mercy
and rehabilitation
Tales of injustice and tragedy
Writers hungry for a deal
“Publish, or face damnation!”
Programmers
of the Great Disruption
No, you won’t fool
the children
of the IT Revolution

At the Last Chance Saloon
where rock spiders
wear robes of silk
and tiger mums
purchase cockroach milk
from the darker side
of a Pink Floyd Moon
I await the Picasso deconstruction
with all the poetic Portnoys
of the complaints industry
… Heaven help me!
Wholley driven to distraction
by a passion that never rests
Lost in a terminal burst
whilst learning to fly
the sweet by and by

Blessed by the tempest
Cursed by the Temptress
upon a kiss of eternal bliss
as I blew the smoke
till my lungs were broke
Death
within a frozen breath
came seeking a shirt
so I gave him my coat
But he wore it out
with more than enough rope
while I ran this race
like a walk in space
But with a gleeful shout
I now have a new jacket
Lined with love
and pockets full of hope
Politically corrected
and poetically redacted
I am
now and again
the white anglo-saxon poet

~ david redpath © 2018

PhotoArt: david redpath
Photography:
D. & L. Redpath © 2018

91 thoughts on “The Wasp”

      1. I do appreciate your
        insightful perspective on the many issues you’ve been covering. Being an alien 👽
        I’m usually reluctant to
        comment on affairs foreign.
        But we do hold many values
        in common.

        Liked by 3 people

      1. A Caliph, being a religious
        patriarchal leader, is beyond
        reproach. But a Sultan, these days, must have the popular support. Better to do without all that messy democratic stuff.

        Like

    1. Thank you, Aruna.
      They say rage is at the
      hear of Rock ‘n’ Roll.
      Poetry is an expression
      of the restless soul.
      Words lit by the Spirit searching. Without it, just empty sounds clanging.

      Like

  1. I like how you start with the wasp topic and end up talking about the poets and their difficulties to live in a hostile world. This poem is a magnificent defense of all poets even though you mainly refer to the white anglo-saxon poet. Love these lines for their flow and musicality:

    “Deep and easy
    the shallow spoken
    with words undone
    like shadows formed
    only to be broken
    by the rising sun”

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thanks for your insight, Marta.
      I try to stick to my own
      realm of existence, and
      experience. I try, but can not truly imagine life marginalized and downtrodden.
      So, all I can really do
      is count my blessings,
      as a guilt ridden … wasp.

      Liked by 2 people

  2. Wasp = white anglo-Saxon poet
    As opposed to the African-American who flies like a butterfly and stings like a bee…
    As Simon and Garfunkel might put it filling in for a laryngitis stricken Howard Cosell, “In the corner stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade. ..”

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Yes Chris, Muhammad Ali’s
      immortal words were indeed
      floating through my brain
      at the time of writing.
      When it comes to a throw
      down with the Louisville Lip
      I fear he would win by a
      knockout. For I’m no great
      white hope. Only a poetic
      dope hanging off the rope.
       

      Liked by 3 people

    1. Just drove past Brisbane,
      Australia’s largest country
      town.
      Apologies for my tardiness,
      Chris. Been driving full tilt,
      the 3000 miles through the
      Tropic of Capricorn, down
      to the shores of Antarctica.
      In my all terrain car 🚗.
      I can blog on the run 🏃,
      but I like to take the time
      to savour the mayhem of
      Van Helsings eclectic writings.

      FYI; Some idiot down under
      was just found guilty of
      poisoning hundreds of eagles!
      Here, they are a protected species.

      Like

    1. Thanks muchly Victoria
      . . . for appreciating.
      Yes, the sleek little
      De Tomaso Pantera
      (Italian for Panther).
      It’s was up for sale,
      but I gave it a miss
      for it’s only a 4 cylinder.
      I find my need for speed
      requires more power.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you very much, Wulf.
      I’ve been tracking
      your manifold writing
      since the Carvan Park,
      along the Silk Road, whilst
      sifting “sand grains trickling”.
      Poetry lost and found
      in the midst of a glorious oasis.
      With Nirvana looming large,
      “through the grey folds”
      of a desert mirage.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. So gloriously diverse,
        and multi various,
        I couldn’t resist playing
        with some of your own
        enigmatic words
        in my comment reply.
        And your Sunday lyrics
        are a real treat,
        when those Moody
        Blues are hard to beat.
        Thanks Wulf.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Very powerful…deconstructing Picasso…and other phrases so grabbed me, shook me up, startled me into thinking, stretching my thinking…and the WASP certainly is busy throughout history…I’m concerned about using the word “poet” now…thanks so much for your writing, my dear friend!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Joan.
      Your feedback very much
      appreciated.
      Poetry, through the prism
      of free expression, is pure
      democracy.
      A door for spiritual inspiration,
      and the occasional revolution.
      Personal, and otherwise.
      Yes, tyrants should be wary
      … whenever the WASP flies!

      Liked by 1 person

    1. That makes two of us.
      But then solid truth can be
      stranger than flash fiction.
      The search for meaning
      is never ending, but eternal
      truth is there for the taking.
      I do believe the Spirit True
      accompanies us in our journey,
      just for the asking. In our
      daily walk, even in our writing.
      Thank you for persevering
      with the reading

      Like

    1. Thank you very much, S M.
      As an ambiguous alliterator
      of anachronisms and allusion,
      I find your exploration of
      various poetic techniques
      gloriously inspiring.
      I fear I have not the literary
      discipline to achieve what
      you do so well with
      your sublime writing.

      Like

  4. Fantastic composition. Once upon a time I played with the idea of myself as the Handyman Poet, but more recently I was obliquely dubbed El Providor, and I must admit I like that one even better. It’s tough to find one’s colloquial niche as a poet, but it’s quite a rewarding journey.

    Liked by 1 person

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