Tuesday, 30 April 2019

When



When

When public cuts are reversed in outrage
And care’s guaranteed for all in old age,
When schools are run by the wise and sage
And pupils aren’t judged at primary stage,
When prejudiced police are not on the beat,
The weapons have gone and the streets are sound,
When prisoners, freed, no longer repeat,
Reformed, enlightened and peaceably bound.

When girls can walk late and not be in danger
And partner’s spouses no longer abuse,
When kids can play safely, talk to a stranger
And not be a plaything for evil misuse,
When drunks no longer get violent with drink
And nobody turns to drugs in despair,
When desperate souls are pulled from the brink,
And shown compassion with lasting care.

When the destitute will never be driven
Away from their homes to sleep in doorways,
When food and shelter is seen as a given
And welfare claims aren’t met with delays,
When all can afford recourse to the law
And paupers are born with a king’s birth right,
When hate’s recognised as a human flaw,
Not a rallying call or a reason to fight.

When no one is judged by race or creed
Or colour or sexual orientation,
When people consider and lastly concede,
Nobody’s above or below their station,
When here, where we live, is equal and fair
And the wealth is shared between everyone,
Then I’ll stand before you and loudly declare;
You’re right to be British and proud my son.


Sunday, 28 April 2019

Jerusalem precinct




Jerusalem precinct

And did your feet in recent time
Walk upon fields past streams and trees?
And have those pastures now been sold
As deeds to building companies?

Is this estate of grand design
A town or city’s overspill?
And is pollution then yielded here?
Is England scheming more landfill?

Bring me a wad from my bankroll
Bring me my assets I desire
Bring me off-shore accounts abroad
Bring me my every whim entire

I will not cease to seek delight
Nor will my phone sleep in my hand
Till we have built condominiums
On England’s green expended land

Sunday, 21 April 2019

Vonnegut



Vonnegut

If people are what they pretend to be
And should therefore be wary in pretence,
Then surely some actors, unwittingly
Acquire a place of fearful permanence.
If via pretence you appear much more
Than was originally intended,
You may find yourself entering a door,
(Condemned by actions misapprehended),
To a hellish place, and once you’re in there,
The way out requires a different act;
One less rehearsed and requiring more care,
Whilst all the while acknowledging the fact;
Sometimes, it’s too late to strike a new pose,
When the old one’s established; so it goes.

Wednesday, 17 April 2019

Scotty



Scotty

Captain Kirk, horizontal in sickbay,
Frowned in confusion as Bones’ attended
The broken bones, that with a cosmic ray
Of Vulcan origin, soon were mended.
The captain drowsily opened his eyes,
And asked of the doctor how could it be;
That he, via Scotty, could energise
And waken here lacking in memory?
Bones glanced at Spock; he of long pointed ears,
And Spock, with raised eye brows and tilted head,
Laid blame on the chief of the engineers;
He told how Scotty had thought Jim had said;
“Beat me up Scotty”, then Scotty replied;
“Aye aye Captain”, and merrily complied.  




Thursday, 11 April 2019

April 10th 3019


“EU 3029

The year is 3029. It is the time for the UK leader to attend the EU council and ask for an extension... no one knows how this Tradition started but rumours and myths are rife that this was cyber related involving a bot called May, a red London bus and Boris the Spider.” 

Rob Harvmann Guardian commenter.

The following is adapted from Rob's comment:



April 10th 3019

It’s the year of our lord; 3019
And the time has come around once again
For the UK leader to stand serene
Before the council and beg to remain
An EU member for a while longer,
A plea for an extension if you will;
More time to come up with something stronger
Than the mythical so-called Brexit deal.
No one knows how this tradition began;
Legend has it as cyber related,
A bot called May who could dance the cancan
A clown called Boris, a kipper fĂȘted,
A red London bus, a populace willed,
A unicorn and a pledge unfulfilled.

Sunday, 7 April 2019

Lovely Spring


Lovely Spring

Relish the spring
It passes in a flash
Its beauty serene
Is a wondrous sight
Trees blossoming
With nature’s splash
Of yellow green  
Pink violet and white

Cherish the spring
It’s gone too soon
At winter’s doom
The songbirds trill
As if celebrating
The seasonal boon
Announced by the bloom
Of a daffodil

Feel the spring
Its moderate appeal
Begs a debate
With winter’s harm
Springs’ offering
Quells winters’ chill
Summer lies waiting
Beyond its charm

Lovely spring
Wondrous season
For all its beauty
Far too fleeting
But everything
Is natures’ reason
Life in unity
Flowers in greeting
                                                            


Thursday, 4 April 2019

The (ERG) Thing




The (ERG) Thing

I had a strange dream that I want to share,
Inspired by an eighties sci fi feature;
Carpenter’s; “The Thing” was very much there,
Though this one was a different creature:
It was pale and gaunt like Jacob Rees-Mogg,
Bare naked; it stood near thirty feet tall,
Many heads burst from that dread demagogue;
Rees Moggs’s at the top, thus crowning it all.
Boris Johnson’s face, from its stomach grinned,
Iain Duncan Smith’s was there by its side,
Andrea Leadsome’s stern visage appeared;
“I am a wife and a mother!” it cried,
As Mark Francois’s, with nostrils flaring,
Came forth atop the thing’s member, glaring.

The face of Michael Gove emanated,
Its thick lips and glasses splattered with gore.
The thing grew evermore agitated;
Each new birth exclaimed with a mighty roar.
Angered and fearless before it I stood,
Holding dynamite with a lighted fuse;
“Time”, said I, “to be rid of you for good,
This country’s had enough of your abuse”.
Having uttered, I hurled the dynamite;
The thing roared and I yelled back, “Fuck you too!”
There followed a most satisfying sight;
I awoke smiling, the dream being through,
And the dreams’ denouements’ familiar ring
Is why this rhyme’s called “The (ERG) Thing”.


Tuesday, 2 April 2019

The Groundlings




The Groundlings

A man of charisma manipulates;
Like a puppet master, he pulls heart strings,
Whilst baron-owned media generates 
Idiotic fables, fit for groundlings.
Everyday another story’s published,
Masquerading as truth and common sense,
Moderate opinions are rubbished,
And brushed aside with intense vehemence.
Crowds, gather in numbers ever- growing,
Drawn by a populist cause they share.
Pulled, manipulated and unknowing;
Nationalism is their call to prayer.
The man of charisma accommodates;
The feelings they harbour, he aggravates.