Wild feral goats
From Neolithic times
The bleakest passes
Steep cliffs rocky outcrops
RuggeD landscapes where
These shaggy souls are feeding
In the Snowdonia air
Disused slate those quarries
Hard to spot they be
The stench of wildness follows them
The ancients doth agree
Large horns adept to climbing
Landscape vegetation
They do the vital grazing
But Not always a salvation
They can clash with agriculture
And human gardens may
Feel the massive damage
They inflict
In just a day
The birds and bees
Are more sensitive
That’s our human population
5G 6g
Precautionary
Measures, the sensation
Of electromagnetic fields
To navigate and communicate
Seemingly it wields
A vulnerability on migrations
And orientation
We are dumb nuts tragically
As for the birds and bees
They are far more sensitive
And it seems SCIENCE now agrees
Locked up in cages
And everyday
Experiments play out
It is the way
We dissect we remove
We stay in the groove
Torturing souls
Tearing away
Their skin and their fur
Soak their eyes with an array
Of toxics and nasties
Blind them at will
Experimentation
Humanities bill
Is ultra expensive
Bloodletting goons
Eating babies has to be
Infanticide and terribly
Who dares do this
Evil sin
A mothers sobbing
Will underpin
Humanity will pay the price
Boiled in curry with golden rice
Honestly what doth suffice
Totally wrong
Is it real
The most disgusting
Christmas meal
The starkest of lies
Turkeys in cages
Beautiful spectacular
Eaten for ages
Roasted for Xmas
Basted with oil
Death and destruction
For their lives of toil
Plucked throats torn awfully
Legs pulled we hear
Gobbling sentinels
Swollen with fear
Stuffed up their arses
Sage so they say
Imagine the
agony
On Christmas Day
Ofcourse crabs are sentient
That we can see
These human workers
They be
Vile and indecent torturing scum
Violence personified
Leaving me numb
Out of the sea bed
Scooped life appears
Barbarous and brutal
Sea loads of tears
Imagine their agony
Collectively we feel the vehement violence
Done so angrily
A cow that’s a female
A mother whose child
May have been kidnapped
The bodies are piled up
In the slaughterhouse
Sandwiches veal
Milk for your cream
What a sick deal it is
Pudding and cake
Death is so final
No give just take
Gather round Hare babies
All ears aloft
The Winter Solstice
When the woods appear soft
We can hear Mrs Owl
Hooting pure lullaby’s
When Badgers in Setts
Relax, when the guys
The foxes fix earths
When snow flutters free
When we all fill our beds
With the leaves from the tree
A time to hold fire
On our laurels to rest
And wait for the light
That will once again test
Us all
Killers of wildlife
Camouflage kings
Ambushing wild wolves
Which actually brings
The lifeless contempt out
Of those of us who
Respect the wild life
As so many do
The vicious the cruel
Who enter and kill
Insignificant others
Who just live to spill
The guts of proud wolves
It’s those hunters who should
Be locked up for Christmas
For that would be good.
Feel that impassioned ritual
As Anglesey’s Druids
on a grassy hillock
With a cauldron below
Steaming it’s message
A Mistletoe
calling
The great sky above them
Their words
overhauling
The shortest of days
And the longest night
All sharing the wisdom
Of what is the light
A stirring account
A Ritual most high
The players committed
And we knew why
Robed participation
Moving along
Poetic embraces
Richly decked with song
Respect of the elders
Formerly they
With the winds off the sea
Not so far away
Beholden to the goddess
And to the Mari Lwyd
A wassailing spirit
No one doth avoid
Participants sparkle
All in good time
A ritual where spirit
And worship entwine
A Capricorn Solstice
Formidably
To the scent of the forests
And the call of the sea
Impassioned creatively
Hearts came to be
Beating together
In situ the free
Druidic brethren
Seemingly they
Drew down celestial
Moments today
Christmas is coming
A celestial time
An ethereal subsequence
To peacefully climb
To a place where
The tears of the Gods will appear
And Sporadic meteors
bringing us cheer
Ears sticking up
Being shunted along
The slaughterhouse beckons
The distance not long
Babies with good minds
Able to be
Thoughtful and caring
They’d love to be free
Instead soon throats cut
They will bleed on the floor
Farming for Pork
Is like going to war.
Cruelty to animals for margin and for profit
May seem very absolute
New tractors and the rest
But karma is delving deeper
And out there the dark reaper
May catch up and cause you I’ll
Even in the summer sun
People feel a chill
Smiles all around
As the lobsters bound
For a furnace fest will cook
All the true life from his soul
Not a second look
His body blue like oceans
Suddenly turns red
Hell is for the eating
Our Dear friend he is dead
A soup for a paying customer
Dressed with Yuletide fair
Bad karma’s going to envelop
All the humans there
Of all the sexes a women
A feminine a mother possibly
Takes a beautiful Lobster
And drops him tragically
Into a pot of boiling broth
Hear that old soul scream
She thinks it’s a sizzle
The most a dreadful dream
As his life is ending
Boiled alive he be
Malicious and diabolical
Stolen from the sea
Blood lust absolute agony
A lobster naturally
Has an extensive lineage
Fish farming
self harming
arrogance does
create a vile image
an organised buzz
On expectancy issues
,Let’s vaccinate
salmon in Scotland
its something
I hate
The sad proposition
of unnatural life
of undoing strategy
by creating strife
evil intention
Few prophets alas
dwelling on profit
they create a morass
of sickly ambition
they film it they show
a future where balance sheets
ultimately glow
in a soup of regret
in a unnatural stew
and compensate badly
for thats what they do.
The duck is applying its communication
It’s telling it’s flock with a gentle oration
Stay stay away humanity stinks
They imprison my body but the tiniest chinks
In the armour are purposefully
Seen now and heard
For many appreciate
Just how absurd humanity is
Here
Murder by arrogance
Torture and pain
The birds wish to chortle
Expressing true pain
Being force fed
They choke as their poor throats become
So sore and inflamed
And their bodies just numb
To the evil around them
The ugly the pain
Internal damage
With little to gain
Tears at a constancy
Terror the plight
To create a sick substance
Foie gras
More like shite
For groaners to scoff
A horrid disease
Created with violence
they suffer and wheeze
Watch them fall on their knees .
as shadows of ugliness
purposefully tease.
There is never an excuse
For such cruelty
Torturing the angels
It just can never be
An answer these dear mothers
Are forcefully raped and they
Have those babies
That are then kidnapped
What is there to say
News reports of evil
Why is it a shock?
It’s been happening for years
It’s standard
Killing animals to celebrate Christmas
Is sad I have to say
Turkeys proud young beings
Pigs they have a way
Of so loving their families
Underneath the sky
We have to ask the question
Why should so many die
Be dragged off to the slaughterhouse
Screaming in their soul
Little lambs and Pheasants
Reverse his age
And thats almost me
A couple of years off
Me seemingly
Finland a happy place
Lots of deep snow
Happy birthday Dear David
From Rex yea you know
Met you in Glasto
Poems and all
Close to the abbey
Looking over the wall
I saw not a pussy cat but a white bear
If you believe that
Hi Rex. I love your poems, and I honestly could not wish for a better living testament. William Burges, the great Gothic Revival architect who devoted his life to medieval fantasy and excess, would have loved your comment about the regal white bear stealthily walking through the abbey. Thank goodness nobody else noticed but you, otherwise there might have been mass panic.
It’s funny you mention that. The forests here really do hold thousands of bears, lynx, and other creatures that feel almost mythical. Mind you, the elk here are even bigger than the brown bears, which feels excessive and slightly threatening.
Burges would absolutely have approved of a spectral bear wandering through sacred architecture. He designed half of Britain as if he expected that sort of thing anyway.
This is a female animal
Chained and tortured by
A male whose got it in for her
As vegans we ask why
Such spitefulness such malice
On a female who
Was made by god to mother calves
Such rancour it is true
Sadism and savageness called farming kin to true callousness above all else
It’s pure torture that’s on view
Rex Tyler is a Poet, Campaigner, former owner of an organic shop of 30 years, and Public Speaker living in Berkhamsted, UK.
