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Badger Poetry

Alan Zimbabwe
John Dillinger
Others
Clarence Peabody
Summer Fauve
Nick Green

Deep within the dew-laden darkness of the trees,
Cobwebs slowly shifting in the calm arboreal breeze,
Over rock and under eavesdrop, through the grabbed green shag-pile moss,
There, amid the shadows and the secrets folk have lost,
Up the overhung fiesta, by the crooked creek that moans,
As it gurgles over hurdles of Burrow-grubs and bones,
Many are the pathways and the pad tracks in each clearing,
Distant noises become voices in the hub-hub we are hearing,
And whisp-lights float uncannily to light the eerie way
To the heart of that deep hollow, in the deepest loss of day.

There, within that clearing the very rustle of the trees,
Seemed to mop my fevered furrows, and to pause my pale unease,
And eyes high in the darkness did welcome me and wink
The forest floor arose to meet my urgent need to sink,
Then the sound of wild wings whirring in the silver-speckled sky
Grew to my weary wood bound ears a witching lullabye,
So I laid my lids to weary rest and shut the world away,
Wrapped warm in the woodland, a world away from day
Till the veil of sleep descended, all was as it seemed,
But all rules are to be broken, and doubly so in dreams.

Rippling through the whirlpool wormhole, into another space,
A pair of eyes, a gleaming smile , but no frame for a face
Is grinning most ungainly, and mouthing things unsaid
Paying little to no heed to the absence of his head!
"Now's the time between your worries, Now's the absence of all hurries!
Forget your feeble frame a-waiting! Come rise up, come starlight skating!
Leave your snoring shape behind, and come, climb mountains in your mind!
There's only one route to tomorrow, where I lead you now must follow!
And Fantasy's a fine old land, so for Adventures take my hand!

A groaning gasp whipped past me fast and poked the mask of mist,
My headless friend cursed and dispersed with a crooked headless kiss,
And then the clouds were clearing, and again I saw my feet
But no Trees or rocks would shade me from the overbearing heat.
Atop a chiseled pinnacle, high among the clouds,
And down upon the valley floor, a thronging tattered crowd,
Elbow now to elbow, turning this way, straining that,
Grandma's got the kitchen sink, and Juniors got the cat,
And bags and sacks and boxes, rags and ropes that bind,
A Million Whirling Dervishes with a terrible knotted mind.
 
 

Deciding on descending, I fly upon my feet,
Dropping down the distance to where our paths will meet,
Yet wriggling, tied and tugged upon, I fancy there's a frame
Without a hope, all bound with rope, enwrapped without a name.
The maddened masses milling cause the callused ropes to burn,
This gives the tides direction as they struggle tied to turn,
His cries are mad and muffled as he shouts the way to go
Quite what his madness mumbles only close rope mates can know,
Down, down, I dropped to comfort him, and snag the ropes that hold
But in that throng, before too long, a different tale was told.

The prisoners perspective differed deftly from my own,.
What I perceived a prison he envisioned as his throne
"My subjects grew subversive, secret fires in their eyes
And my moral law pronouncements were openly defied,
I shouted `we move leftwards now', and many moved a-right,
I woke with fear and worry in the clammy mammy night,
So then I chose to bind them all, each woman and each man,
I wove a wiry bracelet for each and every hand,
Beneath the veil of slumber, I called upon each one,
And tied it to my tunic, before stealing swiftly on.

Far throughout the City, till my steps became a maze,
So all the Men and Women wondered wildly dawn the day,
Quickstep they came, upon the thread, upon the line of fate
To where I watched and waited at the market by the gate.
Already knots were building as the chain became a gang,
"Pray free us Honest Ruler!" as a multitude they sang,
So I smiled the smile of sufferance and patted nearby heads,
"You are mine to guide and govern, good my subjects, now" I said,
"So good and quick, get used to it, the ropes remaining tied!"
"Down with the Dictator, Death to tyranny!", they cried.

Milling en-masse on me, the knots and lesions grew,
And weaved themselves about me as they struggled to get through,
Threads became a string , then rope, then thicker ever still...
The most skilled of our seamstresses have no yet greater skill,
Until by `ere they reached for me, I was all abound,
Their grasping grubby hatred felt no depot to be found.
A perfect woven palace, people tied up tight,
But recent rope additions have now robbed me of my sight,
Yet wrapped up warm in iron law, in majesty I dwell,
It's the safest form of government, if you can only stand the smell.
 
 
 

But goodly king of suffering, your throne is now your tomb,
Your state and sovereign subjects now enwrap you like a womb,
Your proud princely pronouncements simply drop to deafened ears,
Your throne and chain of office is wrapped and disappeared,
If this is your great victory, then your throne ensnares a fool,
And no-one heeds a head of state enwrapped in it's own rule.
You cannot heat their hearts and hopes, their hurts and their despair,
Your eyes behold no subject and henceforth, you cannot care,
In truth I see no Nation here, but a madman tied up tight,
 His eyes are blind, he cannot find the string to free the light.

Until you set your people free, no word will wild men heed,
So I urge you, ancient ensnare, now, to think of others needs.
For now your former subjects have dragged you far from home,
 And they do not know the chasms and cliffs they as a tied mass roam,
Like a line of linked lemmings, the lurch towards the ledge,
If you could only see it Lord, you walk the razors-edge.
And time is surely ticking for your tangled population,
Any moment now maybe they'll choose a downwards destination.
So rend your Royal tunic, release your ragged throne,
If you'll agree to do this, then your wish shall be my own.

"I have other hopes and wishes I should like to see fulfilled,
And I don not seek to see my subjects fall, or hurt, or killed,
Perhaps your proposition should be carefully considered,
If you fain would do my bidding, then seek me and deliver,
The one thing from my window I would wait to watch below,
Each rising I would hear her song, but never came to know,
The colour of her plumage, the words her warbling wept,
Straining, unexplaining, every secret that she kept...
Long years have I listened for her lost and lilting words,
I'd renounce my throne if I could own the long-lost Penny Bird.
 

"The Penny Bird!" I blustered, a-taken back with fright,
For it's said that lonely crier makes her bed in deepest night,
Atop a shattered pinnacle, high upon the sky,
And all those who would seek for her are doomed to hear her cry
As the tolling bell that tells in truth when time is finally through...
"Is there no yet other equal task I can undertake for you?"
The Penny Bird or Kingdom!" said the despot desperately,
"Freedom for my subjects now, but first you must agree,
To seek my sound of solace right unto the bitter end,
Even to your own undoing, do we have a deal, my Friend?"
 
 

What else could I do or say, I'd chose my fate myself,
A nation now looked unto me, and History itself.
"I'll take this trip although I know it is bound to be one way,
As the words were out the nation shouts "Freedom! Joy! Hurrah!"
And I heard the rip of raiment's in a fury now of rending,
For the despots dark confinement was now torn and finally ending,
So from his lattice chrysalis, a pale thin king emerged,
And cried "Be free my people! And mark my final words!
The hearts and minds of Men and Women are not mine to lead,
Upon the song of the rarest one, and only that I'll feed.

So they stripped their wrists, unbound their bonds, and bid me to a bed,
Where the soft and lilting singing of some songbird soothed my head,
And prepared a share of all their wares to wax me on my way,
That they folded in a five point sheet, presented come the day
Six sea shoes, that swam and flew, in situations tight,
Seven soapstone flares, that when prepared would banish back the night,
A scrying stone that one alone could weirdly gaze within,
And a talking Turtle, titled Myrtle, to help hold up my chin,
Then one and all, they bowed down low , and bid me salutations,
With tear in eye, I waved good-bye, to the families of this nation.

Away across the plateau's plain, I plodded ponderously,
Thinking of my future fate, and those I had set free,
Verdant Valleys overthrown by green gregarious vines,
Countless cracks and chasms, that may have once been mines,
And all along my lonesome lope I looked unto the sky,
Eyes trained in vain upon the clouds to catch her lullabye,
But the only noise that knocked my drums was the Turtle softly sighing,
As the land arose in seamless rows, the sky began a-crying.
So I sought a shade or shelter while she sobbed away her sorrow,
Within a crack, all shadowed black, We sheltered till the morrow.
 As low suns sank behind sheer stone, I built a little fire,
That wafted woolly smoky rings that winged their way up higher,
The Turtle sang a sad slow song, of Sea-spray long ago
I inquired where he learnt laments, he answered "I don't know...
My mind is old and soggy now, with old songs of Sea-spray,
Where and when is lost to me, It could be yesterday...
The Oceans know no calendar, nay, none save mother moon,
Perhaps her perfect pulling face it was taught me this tune,
He sighed and sagged his hoary head, withdrew into his shell.
I knocked upon his hoary back, but no more would he tell.
 
 
 
 

So low rose Mother Moon's repose, meandering through the sky,
Flickering firebrands burned and danced a death-deep final fly,
Through fiery flowers, fading hours, heavy hung my head,
By the burning kindling, I sank in Quicksand beds,
Within a dream, or so it seemed, foot pads fell approaching
In the maw of Inky night, Embers still a-smoking,
I woke to wonder through the smoke, what watched beyond it's glare,
Shadows clung upon the cleft, and rippled through the air,
And stealing through the firelight, a body bent and broken,
A flaming fervour in his eyes of madness yet unspoken.

"Think me not rude, whatever food we've left I'd gladly share,
His eyes replied, deep down inside, I knew it through his stare,
The food and drink, I plainly think was ravenously welcome,
That recomposed, I then proposed to utter my first question,
"Good eve my thin and fragile friend, a tongue to match your hunger!
I toil to find a tiny bird, for a nation torn asunder!
Wherefore come you to wilds and caves in witching parts of time?"
He paused to think, then grinned and winked, and drew an earthy line.
His tattered hand drew diagrams and maps with many meanings
The Implications of his Art were Infinitely revealing.

All-night ember-lit I watched him draw the truth in lines,
The shapes and sketches that contained creative grand designs,
I strived and tried to memorise these shapes and mysteries,
The lines of fate, so thick and fast, the coil of histories,
Dawn broke through smoke, and like a joke, he swept across his hand,
What once explained, now naught remained, a-written in the sand,
Earth hit the embers, I could not remember aught I had been shown,
Try as I might, with no lines in sight, all's again unknown.
I harangued the Hobo, "Now tell me what you know", begging on bended knee,
So soft and so low, "you already know", is all that he said unto me.

The Sun dove for the sky, without a good-bye, he winked and was suddenly gone,
With no new information, I assessed the situation, and opted for moving along,
What use can you find for infinite knowledge that fades with the coming of day?
Or terrible truths that tremble the tower, but no tongue has yet learned to say?
I doused damp the embers, still could not remember, the wonders I saw 'ere the sun,
I tapped on the turtle, together we hurtled, time we were gathered and gone,
Around to a river, silvery sliver, that wriggled away under willows,
That whispered and wept, yet stealthily kept , their wisdom tucked under their pillows,
And down on a log, we saw a great frog, a-dining on dust clouds of flies,
The Turtle did venture to seek his nomenclature, and several speedy replies.
 
 
 

The frog leapt from the log like a noonday-sun dog, and flicked out his tongue as a greeting,
"Hail and well met, my amphibious friend", said the Turtle upon our paths meeting
"Perhaps you can help our sad and soiled selves, for in truth we are true to a quest?"
The frog winked wise, snatched several flies, and replied "Well, now I'll do my best."
"Maybe you have heard of the lost Penny Bird, perchance you have heard her hearts song?"
The frog heaved a sigh, and started to cry, as he sobbed, "Oh no, not for so long...
When I sat in frog spawn, on those very first morns, she'd sit near my soup just to sing
I grew me a tail to the sound of her wail, and her tune was a beautiful thing,
But as my legs grew, she sat in the dew, and ended her last lost refrain,
All the flies in the world I would gladly supply, just to hear her sad sweet song again.

"We have no use for flies", was the Turtle's reply, and he tutted and shrugged in his shell,
"Where did she go, when you saw that last show, can you offer up naught else to tell?"
The frog arched his furrows, "Did she fly, did she burrow? In truth I just cannot recall.
I was just a wee tadpole with tail and two legs, when the weeds were so terribly tall.
Yet my Brothers and Sisters may yet remember, which way she last did wing...
For we'd all stop and listen, frog spawn a-glisten whenever she flew down to sing,
But where they now croak, in which waters they soak, of that knowledge I'm sadly bereft,
For all that I know, through the long winters snow, I maybe the only one left,
Now I've floated my spawn on this silvery morn, so I'm off to a comfortable pad,
Where thick swarm the flies, every Summer reprised, To the lily so green and so sad.

We bid him good morrow, and stole to a hollow, a-tangled with tickberry fruit,
Along the moist basin we urgently hastened, and over head Sun followed suit.
The water plunged suddenly into a cliff, cleft in twain, and was suddenly gone,
A precarious path picked it's way up a cliff, to the angled eleventh hour sun,
So I teetered with Turtle, and tied down tat-ratters, up the great flint-flecked grain,
And so, bye and bye, as the sun peaked the sky, it seemed as though we did the same.
A ragged ridge ribbon, sharp as a razor, and straddled by straggly trees,
And the breath of the air, once as high as up there, is more of a howl than a breeze,
We cowered and climbed up the teetering tower, teeth gritted tightly with terror,
Daring ne'er to look elsewhere, for fear to fate some error.

So close to the sky, we saw clouds clutching by, heavy great ghosts full of tears,
Thunder that clapped us square on the back, freezing our bones full of fears,
The sun fought to thwart backwards the weather she'd wrought, searingly stared at the rain,
But the clouds low reply was to shudder and cry, pour out their hearts to the plain,
Yet drenched in the downpour, we saw a great Tor, gratefully sank in it's shade,
As the lightning sang songs of a world long since gone, when only the weather was made.
Soon, in the gloom, I spied a strange Rune, a-riven atop the Tor's stone,
I wondered which mason did chip or emblazen this sign from some dusty old tome,
The Turtle just paddled around in a puddle, and arched up one eye to the sign,
"It's all Greek to me..." He chirped cheerfully "At least the weather is fine!"
 
 
 

At last the storm passed, damp and downcast we picked up our bags to move on,
But I wondered again about the sign that remained, while the Turtle said "Time to be gone!"
I traced out the lines that ensnared the design, and the roots of the rock slipped and shook,
And I muttered some words, some wise, some absurd, from my favourite beddy-time book,
Then down crashed the Tor, torn in twain, and before I could rub the surprise from my eyes,
A Rainbow sprang forth, a sign for our course, and skipped in an arch across the sky.
"Well lo and behold, there's a crock of some Gold, I'd wager my firstly laid egg,
Said the Turtle so wisely, I replied quite dryly, "You have to be pulling my leg."
What lay at the vast other side of that slide throught the spectrum we'd no way to know,
But the Turtle was certain, the Sea-shoes essential, "Forget all your fears and let's go..."

With the sea green shoes in fours and twos, we stealthily stole to it's edge,
"Hold tight to my paws" said the Turtle, "Of course." As we teetered on crumbling ledge,
Then with one eye clenched leap over drop dark and deep, we were whisked by the Rainbow away,
Slowly ascending it's cascade unending, through colours that shifted and swayed,
As we reached it's arched peak, the Turtle did squeak "I suspect that we're in for some ride!"
Then we swept like a larch down the multi-hewed arch, to the secret upon the far side,
I hurtled with Turtle along for the ride, hoping we'd soon be a-slowing,
But where we would land, in which time or which land, we'd unfortunately no way of knowing.
But in for a penny, in for a pound, in for the ride of our lives,
Riding the Rainbow to unknown belows, scraping the paint from the skies.

As fast as the light, the end in our sight, we slid down a shaft to a field,
And sitting at the Rainbows end, a crock was there revealed,
We shook off the clouds and the Rainbow dust, kicked Sea-shoes off our soles,
And quickly to the silent pot, we wobbled and we rolled,
Peering in it's ochre rim we couldn't see a thing,
So we rolled and we rocked the crock till it dropped, then the Turtle went searching within,
It felt oily and wet, and no Gold did we get, all that we found was a feather,
"Are you thinking like me?" said the Turtle "Surely...", This amphibian was awfully clever,
It sang in the sun, glistening colours to come, then, caught on the breath of the breeze,
It twisted away, on the draft of the day, while we hobbled behind hopefully.

It swirled on the streams of the air like a dream, dancing it's way ever higher,
But the turns of it's dance were not merely blind chance, but the lonely laments of lost criers,
Thin we caught the fragile song, shimmering muse in the mist,
I thought it told of long-lost loves, and perfect lips to kiss,
Of stolen evenings, arm-wrapped dreamings, passions that long and let go,
Though we ne'er saw the Bird, or uttered a word, for the song told us all we should know.
So Turtle and I sat tired to cry, though we knew not why our eyes wept,
The song swept high to finish, the landscape diminished, on ether light they slept,
And where we were whisked, to know I've no wish, for it seemed we were swept clean away,
When next we awoke, through tongues of ash smoke, in a bed by a fire we lay.
 
 
 

Robbed of his raiment and rent of his crown, the old tattered King cracked a smile,
"I thought never you'd wake" Softly she spake "You've both slept so sound such a while."
"Pray drink deep a draught" He gurgled and laughed "Long are the years I have spent
To greet your return, with a hunger I burn, awaiting some news since you went,
Did you find the sad songstress? Did you hear her hearts heaving?
Did you honour your promise and Quest?
I sighed sad and low and whispered out "No...We were true but no match to this test."
All that we ever found was a feather, and somewhere beside us she flew,
The King nodded wisely, which slightly surprised me, the Turtle looked quite shell-shocked too,
"in the time since you left, I had learned, more or less, what your quests outcome would be,
In a song from above, that told me all Love, is not a possession but free.

We looked and again we could see true and plain, real majesty glowed in his eyes,
And he bowed low and humble, embaressdly mumbled a thank you and solemn goodbye.
We left a great city, awash with such pretty citizens, hearts full of song,
And came to a cross road, the Turtle's quick pace slowed, he sighed "I'll be moving along.
Take care my old friend, we may yet meet again, in some other ridiculous ode."
Then he tottered away, down the beach to the bay, shouldering his humble abode.
I waved him one long last good-bye, then turned to walk away,
The face without a frame appeared and said "We cannot stay...
Time is ticking fast away the fingers of this dream,
You sleep still in the forest glade, and now awake, it seems..."

Deep within the dew-laden darkness of the trees,
Cobwebs slowly shifting in the calm arboreal breeze,
Over root and under eavesdrop, through the grabbed green shag pile moss,
There, amidst the shadows and the secrets folk have lost,
Up the overhung fiesta, by the crooked creek that groans,
As it gurgles over hurdles of burrow-grubs and bones,
Many are the pathways and the pad tracks in each clearing,
Distant noises become voices in the hub-hub we are hearing,
And whisp lights float uncannily to light the eerie way,
From the heart of that dark hollow, into another day.