Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Reality Mask

Reality Mask

Awareness arrives by first breath heard…
eyes open, imbued with confined realities,
choices offered from a box of masks,
one that I must choose.

Consciousness diminished, I’m awake,
reality plane unfolds in a world shared with others,
where patterned movements repeat in rhythm,
by occupied masks, and choices made.

Beings surround me,
clothed in white flannel,
cautiously walking invisible tight ropes,
confiding in their manuals.

Do not disturb signs around their necks,
they walk silent in all directions,
lost in sequential patterns,
as operational programs.

A mask,
I do not choose,
but instead sit down
watching wasted time,
by a thousand mimes on aimless paths,
all working to feed the machine god,
that gives them light to do so…

They have chosen,
as have I,
who gets up,

and looks for the door.

About this Poem: We are born into a World that expects us to choose from a limited set of choices that serves only the machine of Industry and its master.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Erdogan: The Judas Sultan

Erdogan: The Judas Sultan

He proclaimed to be on Palestine’s side,
Promised an escort with Turkish pride.
Yet freedom flotilla set sail alone,
no Erdogan, or Navy ever shown.

Strange the Israeli’s had the passenger list,
Hit men with photos strapped to their wrist.
Yes it was betrayal by Erdogan’s sort,
Before the Flotilla set sail from port.

Ten people murdered, nine on the spot,
by Israeli criminals who took over the yacht.
Global waters were stained with blood,
the day our rights were trampled to mud.

Erdogan proclaims, “I’ll take them to Court”,
While buying Israeli weapons in support.
Several years later the court case ends,
charges dropped, and back as friends?

While Palestine burns yet another day,
set by butchers in western pay.
The fake messiah and Ottoman king,
Erdogan reaches for the Sultans ring.

One by one Arab nations go down,
Each one a jewel in Erdogan’s crown.
The Judas sultan betrayed them all,
And down he’ll go when evil falls.

The war on Syria proved Erdogan mad,
Shooting down planes of Putin and Assad.
With NATO approval, and missile shield,
Erdogan eyed all Syria’s yield.

He benefits from crime and Syrian spoils,
A nation to loot and strip of oil.
Tanker convoys miles long,
this criminal leader runs the throng.

Turkey turned into Satan’s bane,
with terror camps built, in his name.
From the world over, came terrorist thugs,
That raped and pillaged and ran the drugs.

Turkish Military transport the scum,
to Syria and back, to and from.
Caught on tape by Serena Shim,
her death then ordered by Erdogan.

A Crime not covered by mainstream news,
Unless the stories were Erdogan’s views.
All that criticize are thrown in jail,
Freedom of expression does not prevail.

At war with his own, there's many who’ve died,
And still he wont admit to that Genocide.
Now the Kurds have very much to fear,
As the Sultan targets them in smear

Bloody dictator on a murder spree,
Sending millions to panic and millions to flee.
Over the border, into the E.U.
his extortion plans are waiting for you.

He expels his victims to EU shores,
Extortion paid with promise of more.
Western nations still arm the Turks,
Who butcher the Syrians for EU perks.

Poets express, condemning the Jerk,
Germany arrests, obeying the Turk.
Freedom of speech is against the law,
for the German people, the final straw.

It’s time to hang Erdogan's ass,
the dictator, the monster, the piece of trash.
Here’s a middle finger for the Ottoman Turk,
and a poem of truth about the fucken jerk.

About this Poem: Jan Boehmermann, Bruno Kramm were recently arrested in Germany for reciting a poem about Turkish leader Recep Tayip Erdogan. At the Turkish presidents insistence, Angela Merkel the leader of Germany obeyed her fuhrers command…thus eliminating free speech in Germany…this poem is in celebration of free speech and in solidarity with both Jan Boehmermann, Bruno Kramm who were arrested in Germany for expressing their opinion. Time to repeal that fascist law! AND deal with Fascist leaders…

Monday, April 11, 2016



Life evolves by the planting of a idea...
resonating into light, to become a sea of profound changes.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Truth and Lies

Truth and Lies

Brought up to be truthful, honest and fair,
and told that the answer to life was in prayer,
we made our start with endless giving,
and when assailed, we were forgiving.

The promise in life would come down the road,
but things got strange when the economy slowed.
Oil costs went up and inflation appeared,
the tale of life became very weird.

Things didn’t make sense as I grew,
the more I questioned, the less I knew.
All we had was what we were told,
and no internet for minds so bold.

The bully emerged, then came nine eleven,
criminality surged, and released building seven.
we watched it all unfold on our TV’s,
collusion of media, government, insanity.

The systems governance and media cries,
expect you to believe their pernicious lies.
While society bubbles around the World,
begin to pop as their sovereignty unfurls.

People the World over, awakened by events,
research the internet till their energy is spent.
Building seven fell, in its own footprint,
takes months to wire, should give a hint.

War was launched from that moment on,
economy is worse and the jobs are gone.
Fifteen years later, ignorance resumes,
criminals still free in corporate boardrooms.

Architects and Engineers: Solving the Mystery of Building 7 - w/ Ed Asner

Video Source: ae911Truth

About this Poem: We want a REAL independent investigation into 911…! Millions of people around the World have paid with their lives because of a story that was covered up and continues to be unresolved. The evidence against the “official story” is overwhelming and so we owe it to our future generations to conduct an impartial independent investigation into 911.  

If this investigation is not conducted, the direct result of 911 will lead us to World War III…that path is already in motion…

Match Day’s End

Photo Credit: Artist Bob Barker Painting “Secret Messages”

Match Day’s End

Winter furnace, row on row,
chase away the evening’s cold,
lights are out, day’s at end,
half past twelve, as quiet descends.

Match day fest has come 'n gone,
derby, cup and the song,
all is quiet, village asleep,
save two boy’s on their feet.

Backyard friends, elated,
connected by cup and wire,
sending message to the other,
no signs that they do tire.

Brimming joy and happiness,
excitement fills the air,
game replayed by voices,
in detail ‘n great care.

All seemed lost and over,
biting moments in the game,
seconds remain with corner,
last chance for glory 'n fame.

In a moment, disbelief,
prayers of hope relieved,
last minute goal by Teddy,
our chances now retrieved.

Jubilation of a nation,
and two boys barely nine,
electrified emotions,
ecstatic and divine.

Stadium’s roar still lingers,
match resumes again,
red rush down the sideline,
our captained side of ten.

Official checks his watch,
as our team gains the area,
a forty yarder tally,
sending all into hysteria.

The Bench and stands do empty,
onto pitch at Wembley way,
players aloft, paraded,
by emotions, carried away.

Delighted minds replay the game,
well into the night,
reliving glorious moments,
two friends in red and white.

Visit: Artist Bob BarkerOfficial Website
Bob Barker Art on: Facebook

Monday, March 21, 2016



I live by society’s grace,
and in disgrace by their revulsion of me.
No one hires my kind, an experienced person in life.
“Get a minimum wage job, or live on the street…”

It’s not for the lack of trying,
that emails remain unanswered, phone stays silent.
If only someone took a chance,
I might not die of embarrassment,
when asked what I do.

I have all the skills required,
except the language of choice,
I’m in my mid fifties,
Am I too old to?

I paid for my own training,
when recession took the jobs away.
Electrical engineering, technologist,
in a lean manufacturing boom.

I paid to get ahead,
but soon those jobs left too,
and took my first marriage,
my family, my sanity, my health.

Ostracized by siblings,
frowned upon by acquaintance,
they’re no friends,
their chorus of condemnation parades me.

“Look at him, he doesn’t work.”
“I don’t like his lifestyle” they say.
when all I want is to support my family.
I’m not asking for much…

Maybe I can create my own work,
try to evolve once again to build that damn dream,
maybe help out other’s, so they don’t have to go through hell,
when asked, “what do you do?”

Hard work never pays off when all the avenues are blocked,
…and that endless condemnation…

I don’t like this world,
they would prefer I leave,
well just wait a little longer,
while I try to give my family a fighting chance.

My little girl understands, she’s learning French.
Though she need not defend me from emotional scars,
her battles lay ahead, when ignorance again, rears its head,
and people say, “Look at her, she doesn’t work.”

About this Poem: What it feels like, to be an unemployed Anglophone in Montreal Quebec.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Western Blindness

Western Blindness

For we who see beyond TV’s noise,
the broken Gaza girls and boys.

The Syrian children screaming far away,
the bombs on Yemen by the Saudi’s today.

Israeli prisons full of children, concrete bed,
Palestine’s suffering, empathy dead.

Of children’s torture, rights abuse, and death,
the silence, their sentence, their last breath.

I who speak out unlike western leaders,
demonized, by misguided readers.

To those who wish my mortal end,
my judge and jury, your message send.

The pain has overwhelmed me today,
I guess you just need to have your say.

But God will judge me, and you too,
What’s important, humanity or you?

Caesar Incorporated

Caesar Incorporated

When Caesar Incorporated won the war,
their vets came home to mind the store,
while Patricians, ever busy,
put American’s in a tizzy,
and made the nation their whore.

All seems right, until economy begins sliding,
then age-old monsters come out of hiding.

Decisions cast by suits in costume,
ship the jobs to Chinese stockroom,
unemployed, now so restless,
vets in rags became the crestless,
and poverty the sonic boom.

Tempestuous exit, jobs down the drain,
economic tailspin, communities in pain.

Monetary cards now all played,
new world autocrat plans are made,
with proxies picked, monsters slated,
foreign dictatorships are created,
backed up by Military aid.

Plans in action, red lines drawn,
both sides supplied before the dawn.

War unfurls, fought by fools,
recruitment made by broadcast tools,
while bets are hedged,
new private banks pledged,
Patricians still create the rules.

Tempestuous exit, life down the drain,
economic slavery comes around again.

Two nations engage in conflict appalling
one in growth the other falling,
new economic powers rise,
with propaganda battle cries,
war becomes their calling.

When Caesar incorporated wins the war,
The cycle will begin on another shore…

About this Poem: The United States and its OECD friends are controlled by an international economic crime syndicate that has come full circle since the end of World War II. The empire has now been hollowed out by those in control who are well on their way to establishing their final phase of ruling the World from a new and final economic empire…but before that can happen, they need to take the World to World War III…

Monday, March 7, 2016

Cardinal Spirit

Cardinal Spirit

Cherry red, in snow covered tree,
Cardinal spirit visits me.

Social bird, sadly alone,
Perched in tree behind my home.

Winters mourning, with twilight’s birth,
In cold he sings, all puffed in girth.

Throughout the day, he bides his time,
expectant wait, for song in rhyme.

Conscious whispers, find my ears,
from father gone, so many years.

Visit your mother, was his plea,
Empathic feelings, whispered to me.

Never knowing what life brings,
I visit mother, with heartfelt things.

Arriving early, mid afternoon,
surprised to find emotions strewn.

Her spirit appeared so far away,
Though a pleasant time we had that day.

With tears in eyes, yet very caring,
though why she cried, she was not sharing.

Ninety years old, tired and alone,
All she wanted, was to go back home.

Empathic nod, I understood,
as memories flood from childhood.

Our visit ended, we said goodbye,
She smiled at me with tear in eye.

Arriving home, deep in thought,
I watch the birds, and Cardinals spot.

He flies to me, on window’s bay,
The song he sings, soothes my day.

The evening reigns, his vibrant sound,
Chasing blues and sorrows crowned.

When sunset casts its evening shroud,
Cardinal sings, return is vowed.

Night brings sleep to weary eyes,
Old dreams pass, with greying skies.

At three AM, I’m suddenly roused,
It’s chateau place, where mum is housed.

The news is sad…mum passed away.
I reflect on time we spent that day.

Pain and sorrow bites with grief,
My systems flush with no relief.

Mourning gathers, Cardinals return,
on window sill, emotions churn.

Eyes meet mine, understanding fate,
for there behind, his new found mate.

She hops to window, looks inside,
Chirping brightly, old soul and bride.

Together they sing a hopeful song,
bestowing strength, to keep me strong.

At that moment, memory recalls,
the story she told me at Twin Falls.

The spirits of loved ones will visit you,
and appear as Cardinals, to see you through.

About this Poem:

It is said that the spirit of a loved one comes to visit through the guise of a Cardinal. The Poem “Cardinal Spirit” is dedicated to my late mother and father.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

A Mid Night’s Walk

Photo: Wet Feet Warm HeartBob Barker

Poem by: Stewart Brennan

A Mid Night’s Walk

The blue grey flicker of theatre’s twilight,
pales and recedes to red velvet curtains and end credits.
Fright night is over, and just begun,
for worried faces with no way home.

Movie house ushers left behind,
two boys barely nine,
unattended left in mid nights darkness, alone,
walking empty streets, they plan their journey.

A mile to go,
roads devoid of life, dead,
young audacious intellect no longer composed,
agree upon the shortest distance to sanctuary.

Autumn fog floods the air over cobbled streets,
leaving atmosphere crisp with biting chill, swelling panic,
and two young boys attentive to surroundings,
ready to bolt on the faintest sound.

Evenings haze billows on nights breeze,
absorbing lamp light, voice and vision,
to mirror strange reflections in pools of water,
on stone roads and imagination.

Shadows lurk on silent streets, trailing,
provoking image, form and being,
by young omnipotent minds,
creators of tales, myths and legends.

Dragons breath emerges from sewers and moorish fields,
ringing alarms heard by two quickening hearts.
Foul stench and fires steam,
shed the weight of cumbrous legs.

Eyes of the beast zigzags the nebulous fog behind,
Spreading panic in the marrow of its prey, fearfully running.

The screech of the dragon is upon them,
Enticing one last blood curdling shrill of life before their fall,
Adrenalin pumping, blood flowing, lungs inflate larger,
Speed and pace faster in guarded rhythm, accelerating…

The glaring whites of the beasts eyes close in,
Nooooooo! Therrrrrrrlll…

“Who you running from? Get in the car ya dumb kids!”
Arriving at the right moment, our champion slays the beast,
and drives us home with much relief.

About this Poem: Two young boys walk home after a late night horror show.

Photo Credit: Bob Barker Official Website
Bob Barker Art on - Facebook

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

The Barnsley Boat

Photo "Joy Riders" Credit: Artist Bob Barker 

Short Story By: Stewart Brennan

The Barnsley Boat

Stonefield, the home of my precious guarded memories and immortal youth; its been so long since I was home, so the first sight of the long row of tenements today, gave me a warm feeling with a little shiver as if I had gone back in time.

All my youthful memories came flooding back as I passed by the homes of friends and families I once knew, calling out the original owners by name as I drove by. They’re still there in my mind as sure as it was yesterday.

Down a small side street within our little village of row houses, was my destination and the place I called home, Barnsley Street.

Barnsley was on the outskirts of town and descended into a marsh that served as a young child’s hunting grounds for frogs and pollywogs but also for our tree forts and games of hide and seek.

The voices of children’s laughter and merriment echo back to memory and paint the scenes of a street I grew up on in the mid 1960’s as I emerge from the car and look down the road.

The long row houses on either side of the cobblestone street had small yards just big enough to hang the laundry to dry so most of our time was spent playing on the back street that declined into the marsh. When it rained, the water would pool at the bottom of the road, which is where the undefeated Barnsley Boat was. An old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile that was our unsinkable ship, a boat that won every battle it faced.

The old steel and aluminium garbage cans across the road served as the enemy ships and sounded lifelike when we made a direct hit with a rock. Many times the old Barnsley boat was hit by subs that silently snuck up on us with their torpedoes, but we always stayed afloat by the brilliant and magical engineering of our crew.

We played outdoors, morning, noon, and night and never came inside until family would call us in for supper.

August would bring the fireflies, an alien invasion by night that we and old Barnsley held off to eventually save the world…and at wars end, we decorated ole Barnsley for the victory parade that passed by an endless row of people on either side of the street and waved until our little arms grew tired.

The old boat belonged to Peters father, Mr Wing, who left it parked outside his gate after it broke down for good. That is, until one day, Peter who had just been in the marsh with his rubber Billy boots jumped onto the hood of the car and slipped off hitting his head on the road. I saw it all unfold as I had just closed the gate to my front yard when Petey called to me and slipped.

I quickly ran towards Pete but was beaten by the lightning quick strides of Mr Wing who scooped Peter up and brought him inside his house.

I stayed outside on his back steps worrying about my friend when a lime green station wagon ambulance pulled up, followed by all the neighbourhood kids running behind it. Concern was shared by everyone as I relayed the story to them…we all stayed there in Pete’s yard waiting for word…

Within fifteen minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the ambulance attendants and stretcher came out of the house with concerned expressions and a reply to our questioning faces, “Don’t worry boys, Peter will be alright, he just has a slight concussion.”

Relief ensued then as the group of us waited for the ambulance to pull away, and as it did, we all ran behind it to give Pete a protective send off as any good Barnsley crew would for their shipmate.

A week later Mr Wing had ole Barnsley towed away to a junkyard, a sad ending for our old boat and stalwart champion…

Old memories give way to the grey skies above and drizzle falling on Barnsley road. Our marshland now turned into a cemetery holding stones with the names of people I once knew, including Mr Wing and Petey, who sadly passed away last year in a car wreck.

Here now, a crowd gathers with black umbrellas in the cemetery, with a priest waiting for the last few of us to arrive. Tom Fisk, Dave Fallen, his brother Mike, and Sylvain de Bruit, whom I hadn’t seen in years till today…no one had changed, it was like we never parted, the spirit within each of them remained so recognizable…as if it was yesterday.

A melancholy atmosphere pervades the murmur of voices gathering as another soul from Barnsley Street is laid to rest. Ashes to Ashes dust to dust, we will all meet again here, to revisit our guarded memories.

The mourners slowly dissipate and walk from the graveyard onto Barnsley Street and pass by two young saluting boys standing on top of an old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile…”another successful burial at sea captain!” “Eye first engineer, prepare to take the ship into battle!”
Story Summary: A Man revisits his childhood home with vivid memories.

Please Visit the extraordinary Artist "Bob Barker" @ the Following Links:

Artist Bob BarkerOfficial Website

Bob Barker Art on Facebook

Saturday, February 20, 2016

Forty Below

Forty Below

Oh my goodness, it’s forty below,
Winds are high, cars covered in snow.

I put on my boots, coat, and hat,
Walk to the car, feeling flat.

Come on baby, the sky is clear,
Please start for me and quiet my fear.

Frozen checklist, runs through my head,
Oh God, I hope the batteries not dead.

Key in ignition, I’m crossing my fingers,
Reciting my prayers, but worry still lingers.

I turn the key; the car begins talking,

Face turns white, and drops like stone,
Reality kicks in; I don’t like this tone.

I remove the key, slunk back in the seat,
wish there was a way to generate heat.

New round of prayers, eyes in the air,
Turn the ignition and begin to swear.

Car repeats position; oh this cannot be,
Show starts in an hour, please start for me.

Come now baby, I’ll take care of you,
Just turn the engine, for good ole Stew?

Yes, yes, yes, concerts on today!

Car engine running, heater on max,
Vows made, to preserve my pax.

I step out of vehicle, scraper in hand,
Slam the door shut, smiling grande.

As the door closes, I hear that clop,
Oh my god, my spirits then drop.

I realize quickly, it was the locks,
And spare car keys, are in the glovebox.

World United Productions

Folk & Acoustic Music - 2010 to 2019

Progressive Rock - 2000 to 2016

Art & Expressions of SF Brennan

Poetry & Prose

Great music not found anywhere else! – The Minstral Show