The Last Summer [poem]
This long last Summer’s brevity
conspires with Sun’s intensity
to make it even brighter still
than all before; therefore, I will,
with passion, burn myself to dust
This August’s ashes scattered all
around my castle’s broken wall
(a brokenness I welcomed long
ago as if it was a song)
is representative of rust
Logical Fallacy [sonnet]
When rationality has walked the plank
(a sailor with no sea-legs to her name)
and walked it voluntarily [then sank]
the dark of night draws closer, I exclaim.
Dysbrexia Syndrome: Manipulation & Mayhem in the EU Referendum
Prologue
On the eve of the recent United Kingdom/European Union referendum, I received a number of communications from friends and relatives asking what I thought was going to happen the next day. My response was simply to say that the UK would never be allowed to leave the EU. It’s a “Hotel California” situation: You can check out any time you like… but you can never leave! As you can imagine, after the vote had taken place, they asked me if I was surprised, now that the vote had been a majority to leave the EU. My response was “Yes and no.” Yes, because initially I was surprised that the power-elite had not managed to swing the vote to ensure that it went the way of the “Remain” camp. But I also know that NOTHING happens without the consent of that elite. As Michailo Sczerbiak, the disillusioned CIA sniper (played by Croatian actor, Rade Šerbedžija) in the brilliantly insightful film “Shooter”, rightly said: “Nothing, no matter how horrible, ever really happens without the approval of the government, over there and here”. He didn’t only mean the phoney “government” made up of MPs or representatives in parliament chambers and congresses, as they are just puppets for the real (and unelected) government — what I call “the power-elite” — which lies BEHIND the phoney government.
Theatre of War [poem]
Bent-shapen blows of every blasted gun
I curse you to your face!
Not one of you is worth the smelter’s sweat
which fell like cold unsmiling beads of death
on hot iron’s semi-shining overdress.
Someday you’ll all backfire and then be found
without a trace — as obsolete as rusty bayonets.
Domestic Violence [poem]
Fists are made for kneading dough when baking bread,
not pummelling another’s face into a gory pulp.
What sickly minds take pleasure in a fistful fight?
To watch two men (or, worse still, women, who are
channels for the gift of life) contuse each other senseless
(though there is no sense in contests from the start)
so that punters will be satisfied, The Mob gets paid
and people think they’ve viewed a thing of worth,
is malady of soul and signals sunset times are here.
Jackdaw
It isn’t often one can get close up to a Jackdaw (Swedish: Kaja) in the wild. But this fledgling, who can barely fly, allowed me to approach him/her and posed politely for a photoshoot! Beautiful bird (smart too). Look at the gorgeous eye colour! ❤ Click it into full size on your screen and see the feathery detail!
A Tale for our Time: The Market Trader’s Stones ♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪[prose poem and song]♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪
ONCE-UPON-A-TYME, in an insignificant town of little renown, there was a commotion caused by heaven-knows-what. Like a whirlygigsome wind, it came and went and ruffled feathers, blew some fences down, turned some stuck things round, brought some haughty faces down, set some wheels in motion all around. But let me start at the beginning…
It all began at the market which, in that small place, was every day and every stall had been the way it was from further back than any could recall. Until a stranger came to town, dressed in clothes which made folks look askance (he was no stranger, though, to this reactionary dance). Before he’d even made a move or opened up his mouth, alarm bells jingled in their minds with peals of fear — his very presence near them seemed disturbing, made them miffed. Feeling undermined, they primed themselves defensively and clenched their gnarlsome fists.
A Remarkable Revelation
This is a remarkable revelation! George Orwell’s “Animal Farm” — a gloriously graphic satire on the inevitable political hypocrisy which occurs in communist/socialist settings (or virtually any situation where “equality” is claimed) — was rejected by publishers many times. Such rejection is always a problem when sending a magic manuscript to dull publishers with an agenda. Orwell had a remarkable way of communicating complex ideas in a manner that anyone can understand. Hardly surprising then that this allegorically lucid novel was rejected by such an uptight, obscurantist poet as T.S. Eliot! 😀 (It is also always encouraging for struggling authors to know that even brilliant writers receive numerous rejection slips for great novels from publishers!).
To my Unborn Grandchildren [poem]
Please never call me Grandpa!
I don’t deserve that ageist slur.
(Although I realise your wrath
may be incurred because of my
refusal to be placed inside that box).
Please never call me Grandpa!
That label you won’t pin on me;
We’re just conditioned socially to use
this word. It’s more a form of cosiness
to check you’ve lined up all the dots.
Doors Unlimited [sonnet]
If everything we think and do and say
was not designed to fight against the core
of who we are (we baulk in every way
our soul’s intent) we’d stumble through a door.
The Naked Troubadour 