I passed through
the wracking bowels
of a black city,
shrouded in scrap metal,
remnants of man's redundancy.
A dead city
forever Man displaced in
can only plot his own destruction.
Yet Man's industry
can be humanising,
miles of canal
this brittle babel
looked strangely soothing
Man copying Nature's
In Brislington I saw
from a dormer window
green fields irridescent
in a kind sun.
Olive green of cypress hedges
and grand trees,
leaves a tapestry
of greenest lace,
black green of horizoned woods,
and I could only see the earth
only a sea of green.
(Poem number not known, © Estate Pat Mohen 2013- Published in Omega 1981 Special Edition p18, composed 1979 in England)
The earth is always ever kind to us
It has a passive acceptance of our abuses
We have abused so many earthly gifts
over the ages and onwards into the future
could we even try to offer a recompense
small gifts of charity in return for rich bounty
what small returning could we offer in return
even a simple lifestyle is an attempt
if it appears ungrateful at times, who is to blame?
we plant vast crops on land drying to desert
we settle populations in the path of wild cyclones
we cut down forests, destroy the land, who is to blame
what can be done to repair past sins, prevent future ones?
I know this appeal sounds like poetic pedantry
but I write from a long life time of suffering
I have watched the earth suffer, I can but appeal
(Poem number not known, © Estate Pat Mohen 2013- Published in Omega 2008 and was also part of the Vigil and Burial Service for Pat Mohen)
I was sitting in the mall
watching people walk by
and because I am useless
it's about all I can do
Suddenly two young boys
burst onto the scene
instantly the people sensed
they were something different.
One came over to me
rubbing his small hands
over my smooth coat
he was obviously so spastic.
He couldn't speak at all
he didn't need to really
his beautiful twisted face
spoke words not known.
Their guardians were aware
of this rare situation
they need not have feared
God was visiting his people.
All poems copyright © Estate Patrick Mohen Poem: 563
In the misery of winter
I always leave
the radiator on
when I leave my room
for the evening meal,
so that there will be
one warm space
in a multitude
of damp worlds
awaiting my return.
I switch on the light
to remove the blanket
of early darkness,
and there behold
are rows of crickets
sitting in front of
the glowing redness,
so harmlessly cute,
absorbing the heat
provided by my absence.
'Tis a small feeling
of some satisfaction
to know that I,
who am most useless
to my fellow man,
am in an accidental way,
providing a social service
without charge or fee
to these quaint singing
creatures of the fields.
[Published in Omega '81 page 81]
All poems copyright © Estate Pat Mohen
The rains have finally fallen
after endless months of drought
and years of water restrictions,
rich moisture falling from clouds,
that beneficial blanket of the skies
showers are continuous not isolated
its a long time since a similar display
graced us with such a sky-ballet,
we give thanks for a meteorological
miracle of the wild clouded skies
may the winds blow and the clouds
continue to bless with abundant rain,
the showers fall and a wonderment
fills our collective sad- parched soul,
we are reborn into a rich abundance.
Poems 2, 2003-2006, page 68 All poems copyright © Estate Pat Mohen
The essence of all love
is pouring out of the sky
with the late-afternoon rain.
Today we slugged it out,
planting long lines of coffee,
sweat pouring from our bodies,
always fighting the tall grass
as we slashed a circle of earth
to liberate each precious bush,
creating its domain of existence,
hundreds upon hundreds planted
in precisely disciplined rows.
And now it is pouring rain,
a blessing baptising the puniness
of all our human strivings,
and we stand in silent prayer,
letting it purify our dull bodies,
in streams of great Godness.
(Poem 198, New Guinea © Estate Pat Mohen 2013)