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Phil Charters

Rookie (11/05/1958 / Australia)

Beautiful, Tragic, Runnymede


Softly: Softly: morning creeps, o’er a
meadow green;
A pall of mist, the air is crisp;
A sign says ‘Runnymede.’
Conjured, from the mist surreal, gallows
ghostly dawn;
Dappled light, an oxen cart,
Trampled luscious grass.
Gathered Barons, an English King, fealty
on the breeze;
A royal hand, a royal seal,
Put now to a deed;
And centuries seven tainted, by peoples,
libertine.
Historic turns, a warp in time,
A king from ages past,
A royal seal erased, a charta, set to flame;
Restored a Kingly character;
The future to redeem.
Heave, hove, the oxen cart; rumbles
wooded wheels,
Rhythmic, medieval,
A sombre human load;
Behold a gibbet, be in their eyes
condemned;
O beautiful, beautiful meadow;
O tragic Runnymede.
A voice ersatz, speaks through no-ones lips:
“Delete now, yes or no? ”
Replies a voice, “affirmative”
“Be done with this thing here” says
America’s C.E.O
“Now deleting, ” A spoken voice;
A voice that has no person.




Softly, softly, belts conveyance drive, no
hand upon the pike,
Rhythmic age, computers, wretched
beings rise
Toward the scaffolds deathly call, the
noose be in their sight;
Damned, by God, those libertine:
Nay! By the strong historic tide.
Shouts the King, from ages past,
“Profound the moment this; ”
Hugs America’s C.E.O.
And vanishes in the mist.
Upon the grizzly platform first,
comes females office dress;
Next in line, are overalls,
Factory work no less.
Then condemned, amongst the damned,
the storemans coat of blue;
Checkout chicks and tellers,
Yes, every workers hue.
Now upon the platform, a young lass comes
in last,
Dressed is she, in students garb;
Her father cannot pay;
So here among the rest, society, is done with her
this day.
“Your souls! Your souls!
I’m here to save.”
Shouts a man in priestly dress. Before
the wretched stands;
He checks his notebook screen.
“Your names are here, not seen.”
No moneys, given to my church! Indeed your
souls are damned.




Silent, turns the gibbet arm,
A noose around each neck;
Ones civil rights to strangle, a social
throat to stretch.
Gathered Barons, solemn mood;
A legacy, theirs, now lies,
At rest within a casket, at rest,
society lies.
“Deletion now complete, relieved is
excess stock.”
All is automatic;
No need for democratic.
“Repaired this day, are centuries seven, ”
says America’s C.E.O,
Kings of commerce rule,
It always should be so.
O liberty! O liberty! Executed: on gallows
ghostly dawn.
This place where you were born;
O beautiful, beautiful, meadow;
O tragic Runnymede

Submitted: Monday, June 15, 2009

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