Artist's Jug

I am her jug , her brushes rest in me
I hear her sing while mixing paint today
And feel the cold water, wet and icy
I wish she would listen and hear me say

Warm hands grip my handle, my sexy curve
Her nudes often have the very same pose
I wish it was fine wine that I could serve
As she paints the scene her mind has now froze

Instead its poison mixed with flailing brush
Sharp, bitter essence like lime tree’s fruit
When will the artist empty the foul mush
And savour a cool sweetness that I suit

Anger burns my glaze as I sit and seethe
Then with her tender care comes her touch
My bath, lavender scented warmth I breathe
The stench lifts and I know her need is such

Soft muslin cloth wipes away the dark stains
By a new creation I stand with pride
She couldn’t do it alone, hence my pains
Just a jug, its me she keeps by her side.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Peaceful Poverty

Walking the streets of this city at night
Cast your eyes to the reality, the plight.
In dark corners, sleeping under boxes,
Lies and old man living wild like foxes.

Trapped in the terrifying honesty
Just left in the world with no amnesty.
His working life as someone's property
Now we look on at peaceful poverty.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Aftermath

After the war lands list lifeless and grey
The men return like melodic zombies.
Battle weary and beaten like dulled clay
All victims of conflicts between the Tshombes.

The women have no hope in their soulless eyes
Devoid of emotion, no will to care.
The cruel loyalty of endless sighs
As loved ones fail to appear, none will share.

A child in confusion is war's toll.
Father slain by a bullet, left to die.
Mother raped by grief, it's taken her soul.
Such anger breeds inside, the next war cry.

When will the lessons of peace be given
As anger for vengeance remains in mind.
The rage for war is endlessly driven.
Are we destined to remain always blind.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.