Hid behind some cob webbed cracks - 
Apocalyptic home 
Cold autumn’s airy touch on hand - 
unrepentant portent 
Phantoms stirring cross the way - 
Invisibility 
Scraped broken plate and crumpled tin - 
End time’s sustenance 
Not a banquet, not so bad - 
Subjectivity 
Then darkness, dreams of happiness - 
fond remembrance 
She and I, in fondling clasp - 
Illicit dalliance 
Now rust and dust and long decay - 
Inevitable end 
Shadows lengthening cross the day 
Terrible progression 
Just one of millions in this plight - 
Sympathetic comfort 
Though poorly armed for end time’s host - 
very little comfort 
So hid behind this cob webbed crack - 
Sensible precaution 
Surviving with just one true friend - 
Invisibility 
-- 
                D E Austin 
 

I cannot laud the wondrous butterfly, 
nor ant, nor swan, nor owl’s lone, haunting cry. 
The spider and its web’s most sure another 
done to death by this world and his brother. 

Actually, there’s really nothing left; 
they took it all, and now we’re left bereft. 
Why bother lifting pen in hand at all? 
Might just as well stare stupid at the well. 

And lo, I spy a subject I might broach, 
as down the wall climbs Harry, the cockroach. 

O inspiration, I do cry, my roach crawls on the floor, 
then turn in dread, and bow my head, as opens up the door. 
My wife steps in, I wince and grin, as inspiration’s lost, 
O bitter world, a horrid fate, my Harry has been squashed. 
-- 
                      D E Austin 

A Mouth roars long and loud across the airwaves 
exhorting tired old notions o’er the land. 
And from their countless, polished, pompous enclaves, 
a flock of bleating sheep laud his command. 
How can, the Mouth roars on, we keep our neighbor, 
a costly and unwarranted New Deal? 
It’s time the lazy louts got fruitful labor, 
those sluggards who demand a prepaid meal. 
There’s naught that’s wrong, the Mouth to all its minions, 
proclaims while praising its own excellence, 
with hoarding wealth and gains, the noble fruit of 
one’s striving for another pound or pence. 
   Though Tory times are long since past, 
   more webs are being spun, 
   by wriggling, venomous creatures, 
   the Mouth’s Republicans. 
It’s true a shame, the Mouth roars on and loud, 
that only some of this land’s teaming mass 
can decently in brick and stone be housed. 
But let us not rush quickly, sounding brash, 
by crying that there’s any nagging problem, 
or numbers marked greater than of old; 
and even if the mob grows loud and fearsome, 
with just and righteous force they’ll be controlled. 
It’s true, it said, in every street and lane, 
when in unruly haste the mob’s been caught; 
we can no longer pity for the pain, 
must send instead a gift of grape and shot. 
   Though Tory times are long since dead 
   I shudder at the words, 
   I’ve heard the Mouth speak all so loud 
   to its malignant heard. 
There was a time, before the Mouth burst forth, 
when matters of such high significance 
could be the average man and in due course 
be spoken wanting not intelligence. 
But greatest sorrow’s for the drooling host, 
those legions awed and dazzled by the Mouth. 
Will they and it in chanting roar soon boast 
of carnage others view with scorn and loath, 
of paupers laying spread across the street, 
the soldier prone and peering at his gun? 
Don’t doubt a lurid, potent new elite, 
if one and same are Mouth - Republican. 
   Though Tory times are long since done 
   comes now another trial, 
   the Mouth roars on across the land 
   and ‘heils’ another mile. 

   Just one precaution I might add, 
   to end this simple letter, 
   the other party now about 
   ain’t a whole lot better. 
-- 
            D E Austin