Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Give yourself a good talking to....
Pull yourself together.
It can’t get any worse.
Your money’s gone to Iceland.
There’s nothing in your purse.
A mortgage made in heaven,
Ten times your earning power.
They must have seen you coming.
Too late to curse and glower.
Can’t say I didn’t warn you
You were heading for a fall.
Now it’s now use hiding
When the bailiff comes to call.
You saw the storm clouds forming,
But you hung the washing out,
So don’t complain, as you watch the rain
And your life goes down the spout.
See that fat cat grinning,
As he heads off for the sun
Who pays for his life of luxury?
You guessed it. You’re the one.
In a system based on profit/greed
Instead of meeting simple needs,
It’s folk at the bottom who bear all the pains,
Whilst the scum at the top escape with their gains.
By popular request and especially after I read about Sir Fred Goodwin, now ex Chief Executive of the Royal Bank of Scotland, who earned only £4.1 million last year, including a £2.86 million 'bonus'. He generously waived his 'right' to a £1.2 million severance payment, but for some reason he keeps his annual pension of £579,000. I can't detail all the others in the same position, because it just makes me sick!
Monday, October 13, 2008
First, they went for the asylum seekers.
Banner headlines trumpeted as one,
It was only reasonable and fair
That they should take their pitiful problems ELSEWHERE!
Then, they went for all the foreigners,
Or anyone with a suspicion of dark skin.
There was very little fuss, after all,
“They all look just like Palestinians to us.”
Then they went for the Welsh,
With that weird language
And once the miners had all gone,
A miserable race, of little use,
Save for the odd sentimental song.
Next in the firing line,
People with alien, or
Obviously made up names.
Kelly, Balls, Blunkett, Jack Straw,
Milliband, Mandelson and myriads more.
When the government finally shut down the presses,
Ex journos began to look at the world around,
Desperate for help, but totally bereft
To find, that of their former readership
There wasn’t one reader left.
OK time for some frivolity. This is my entry for the Palestine Think Tank's [ see link ] poetry competition.PS just changed the image. I have a better use for the other one and this one makes the point better.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
I found him sitting on his bench.
Overhead, a kestrel hung in the air,
Watching the limestone’s slants
Into the slate black water.
In the corners of his eyes.
Likewise the giddy choughs
Playing tag across the skies.
Yet his head was like a rock
And I wondered why
He did not turn like me
To follow every pirouette and dive.
Those unseeing eyes were hidden
Behind a hedge of bayonets.
He smelled not brine, but sour sweat.
Instead of screeching gulls
The air was full of curses,
Wrapped in sheets of steaming rain
And bound in an eternity of pain.
Here was his own space
Where his comrade, the sea, spoke not.
A friend deaf to order,
A last companion,
Lost for words.
This poem was born of a walk from Langland Bay with Paul Morgan, Alan Figg and Lou Bowyer. Not being fully recovered, I did not venture down into Caswell, thinking I could not cope with the climb back and so I made my way back slowly whilst the Musketeers completed the walk. It was then that I found a bench overlooking the sea with the above inscription.….