Saturday, November 27, 2010

The Tide has Turned

Tyrants fear the sea,
watch its silent swell with dread,
scan the horizon for the smallest sails,
boats laden only, it is said, with hope.

Tyrants fear the sky, cannot cope
with thoughts of birds’ free flight,
keep their eyes wide open,
long into a blacked out night,
knowing that come the dawn,
wings will stretch out for the light.

Tyrants fear the land.
The toe-curling sand is not theirs
to hold. The deepest roots mature,
hidden from sight of their towers,
safe from the assassin’s blade,
nurtured by our own blood,
an infinite future of flowers.

The idea for this poem was suggested by 'The Tide has Changed' Gilad Atzmon and the Orient House Ensemble's latest CD, so thanks to Gilad, Tali, Frank, Yaron and Bill. Those of you who are interested in such things may have noticed a surge in interest in this blog ( averaging 50+ hits a day ) which is not bad for an obscure poet from Wales ( it doesn't bear comparison with Gilad's 7000+ hits a day that he gets for his writing ) so thanks to all my readers. Keep spreading the word. I've got a lot of catching up to do!!!

Sunday, November 21, 2010

The Wasteland

You heard it here first -
The South Sea Gherkin’s burst!
Blackberries jam up the Underground
And everywhere you hear the sound
Or nervous, corporate farting,
Squeaking rats departing.
There’s a warrant out for the Cocaine Kid.
They’re desperate to know where he hid
The loot. His cousin, Cam the Sham, wears
A mournful, honest face, swears
We’re all in it together. It’s only fair
That each and every one of us should share
The pain. His Old Lady’s tucked her skirts tight in.
Her charity is wearing awfully thin,
But you can tell she really cares
For all the struggling millionaires,
Gathered round the Cabinet table,
Doing the level best that they are able
To line the pockets of their kith and kin,
Without be found guilty of that capital sin,
Being caught with one’s fingers in the till.
Rob the blind! Do what you will.
Loot and ravage with impunity.
The next lot of thieves are sure to grant immunity.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Promises, promises

Promise to set the world on fire.
Promise to add jazz and blues to the pyre.
Promise more Chernobyls.
Promise free suicide pills.
Promise more education for the rich.
Promise the homeless a ditch.
Promise to reward all tax evaders.
Promise to welcome US invaders.
Promise to kill off the sick and old.
Promise to leave the unemployed in the cold.
Promise to worship all arms dealers.
Promise to exile helpers and healers.
Promise to fund more law and order.
Promise to build bigger walls at the border.
Promise better bonuses for bankers.
Promise free passage for all toxic tankers.
Promise fewer trains in every station.
Promise panic and consternation.

Do all of this and you’ll have my vote
Without reservation, or precautionary note,
Because I know I can rely on you.
I’m quite certain exactly what you’ll do.
As surely as night changes into day,
You’ll do the opposite of all that you say.

Oxfam sent me the following message:
‘This month the UK Climate Change Minister, Chris Huhne will go the UN Climate Conference in Cancun. He will have and incredibly important part to play there.

We’ve been wondering “how we should wish him good luck?” And we want your suggestions for ways to grab his attention  just before he goes.

Dear Oxfam, I hope the above will be of some assistance…

Friday, November 12, 2010

Good riddance to Phil Woolas

Politics, they explain, is a contact sport,
so gouge and stamp without a thought.
All's fair in electioneering or war.
All that counts is the final score
and should you win, you get to write
the history, avoiding everything that might
embarrass, or cast doubt
on the part you played throughout.

Unfortunate that racist defamation,
though, for a while, it served to keep you at your station,
when the lies fluttered home to roost,
you found your own neck in the noose.
It was you who ruined your own reputation.
The lies you printed were your own creation.
If politics is a contact sport,
then you've been K.O'd. as you ought.

The honour for landing the first blow has to go to Joanna Lumley and it obviously scrambled Woolas's head, because he thought he was standing for the BNP in the last election. Harriet Harman was quite right to dump him. There should be no place for anyone like him in the Labour Party and as for those who are 'rallying' to support their 'friend', they'd be better off joining him on the dole where they can all spend some time litter picking ( gathering up spent election leaflets for a start! )

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Last Supper

Oh how I wish the sun could shine
upon this war scarred face of mine.
Instead, all day, I wait in line
attendant on the bullets' whine.
The sky's expression, always grim,
confesses as the light grows dim.
There's blood, not wine, around the rim.
The cup is empty now. The hymn
dies on my lips. The bitter cloud
flays raw my skin and as allowed
the flesh of all my comrades, cowed
where once they marched erect and proud.

When they carry us from the 'plane,
draped in the flag, to hide the pain,
ask if our youths were spent in vain.
Keep on asking. Again! Again!

Completed at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

Monday, November 08, 2010

Behind the Masks

All Hallow's Eve
is for those who can believe
in ghosts and ghouls
and celebrate the simple fools
in motley, going from home to home.
Here's one in the guise of a louring giant,
his partner a vicious shambling gnome.

Have a bag of toxic sweets
left over from last year's treats.
or perhaps a tube of super glue,
the one a reward for honest virtue,
the other justice for a miser.

Behind the witch-gnome's visor
the vicar's crabbie wife
chortles at her new and secret life,
whilst grinning like a demented goon
the vicar himself can only just refrain
from howling at the moon.

Blood Money

Unusually a preamble to the poem. Our writing group was set the task of telling the story of a five pound note as it passed from
one person to the next and this is what popped into my head ....

Clean, unlaundered, quite pristine
straight from the jaws of the cash machine,
folded safely into the recesses of my purse,
money may be a sin, but want of it is worse.

The plumber wanted cash in hand,
finished the work three weeks later than planned.
Won't find a cheaper job, he promised with a wink.
By Friday I stood cursing the same old blocked up sink.

One of many, in a brown envelope, safely out of sight,
tucked in the planning officer's back pocket, snug and tight.
He felt it with every buttock clench,
the next day, sat in judgement, on the magistrates' bench

She took the money up front with a smile,
tucked it provocatively into her bra while
he started to remove his shoes and socks
and she made ready her chains and locks.

In an evidence bag smeared with dark stains
and in one corner a splinter of her brains.
She could not understand her pimp would never agree
that there are any circumstances when love is truly free.

Monday, November 01, 2010

Stick it where The Sun can't shine!

Rape, murder, torture
celebrated with outrageous pun,
hallmark of the tabloid,
zenith of The Sun.

Foreigners, scroungers, wasters
each and every one,
unless they are Australian and
owners of The Sun.

Raghead, Chink, Spic,
Frog, Mick, Ivan, Hun
all fair game when you name and shame
on the front page of The Sun.

Sadism, perversion, depravity,
all bodice ripping fun
doing wonders for the circulation
of the ever probing Sun.

A hamster and a minister
in flagrante with a nun
sure fire banner headline
in tomorrow's Super Sun.

WMD, poison gas
nuclear warheads by the megaton,
we found them all hidden
behind page 3 of The Sun.

Fear, hate, greed,
when all is said on done,
these are the needs that drive us on,
by commandment of The Sun.

No scrap of human decency,
morals have I none,
perfect qualifications
for editor of The Sun.

A world groaning with refugees
who cares? WE WON
shareholders of The Sun.

You'll never find the truth
in the webs that we have spun
pointless even searching
through the columns of The Sun.