Tag Archives: politics

The Man Who Had Not Heard Of Brexit

The Man Who Had Not Heard Of Brexit

See that man in the high backed chair.
He will be there when we’ve all come and gone.
No one dare ask him a question,
though he’s the only one who knows what’s going on.
He’s not baffled by the universe.
Calmly he sits with his tea and scone,
him as a riddle he thinks upon.

I met a man who’d never heard of Brexit.
I said, have you been living on the moon?
He said, no, I just couldn’t take it.
I’ve been listening to a different tune.
I said, what does it sound like?
Is it one you can sing or hum?
He said, no, the only way you can hear it
is to listen to another drum.
I said, if you want to know about Brexit,
just watch the news and it will be on.
He shook his head and climbed on board his rocket,
and in the blink of an eye he was gone.

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Utopia

Utopia

We shouldn’t have to live here,
we all deserve better,
but we’re all part of this tale
till the final letter.

We can find Utopia,
but only in the mind,
a paradise on the page,
a vision left behind.

You can read Utopia,
writ by Sir Thomas More.
The perfect society
is one that needs no cure.

You can change your government,
you can sharpen your aim.
You can make a list of names,
claim they’re the ones to blame.

You can search for Shangri-La,
the mansions of the wise.
Study the paths of the stars,
say you see with clear eyes.

You can pity refugees,
saved from the drowning sea.
Fear for the burnt out cities,
wonder when peace will be.

A circle of politicians,
diplomats in a row.
You hoped they’d take you higher,
instead they brought you low.

Ask why did they want to be
the people they became,
and why would they want to earn
that kind of filthy fame.

We shouldn’t have to live here,
but there’s nowhere to go.
Can we build Utopia?
The answer must be no.

Timon of Menapaws

Timon of Menapaws

Now find the splinter that our parchment rent.
I, Timon of Menapaws, to mix not my metaphors,
on my death bed lie, that is, in accordance with my fish fusion.
Sorry, forgive my deaf head, my wit hovers low,
dimly dawdles slow, here comes the correction inclusion,
I mean my physician.
The medicine I must sup from my spoon
with its prescription as undecipherable as a faded Viking rune,
tastes like Druid broth gone sour,
but I will linger yet an hour.
But less of my pork heath or poor health,
as I should say, I wish to speak more
of this vote they demand of me in June,
to leave or not the European Union.
Would that from my right big toe they could with pincers cleave
the moss green and black growth that is my bunion.
In truth, it has been there with no throb of pain
since my increasingly vague but vagabond youth.
But to return to my vote in the merry month of June,
and whenever has June or any other month been merry,
unless one holds to the heart love’s sweet cherry?
What would the fifth king who bore the name of Henry,
his commands bawled out among the falling flights of arrows
at Agincourt, think of those two words combined, European Union?
Would he not say that it was but a monk man’s ideal
that could not and never would be real?
Would not Wellington and Napoleon at Waterloo
mock such a notion, too?
So, too, Nelson at Trafalgar?
Ah, but by the wasp that bit my arm, it is but about politics,
as regards trade and immigration, which is to most dust dull,
and to which they give less than half a mull.
O, shield my thin laugh when in my tin bath,
I muse on those among those who vote Labour
who vote truly not for them but an idealised
Left Wing version of them that never was or could be,
having sympathy for the fox, in fury against
the horns and hounds of all to do with Tory.
That they cannot see, and with my verdict would not agree.
Some say he who holds the prime silver pistol
of the united mates should not comment on the debate,
but is this not even a demi-democracy?
Strange that I may be dead before June,
and therefore not in a fit state to cast my vote.
I die an old grey coughing goat,
visited by the most unwelcome Tim Weeper or Grim Reaper,
however you wish the shadow that casts no shadow named.
Methinks, maybe I like the sound of European Union,
like Arthur did  the Round Table,
that which Mordred broke in the last battle.
I leave the stage for the fool with his bells and broken rattle.
In this, my final act, let me take up my lute.
Ballad for the Bard, I will try to play.
It is only hard if you have naught to say.
Who can say what looms on the line?
It may be drab drizzle, it may turn out fine.

 

Keys Keeper

Keys Keeper

I was in Moscow
with my Bible and my cross,
to say beneath icons
the Lord’s prayer for Russia’s loss,
loss of her freedom,
loss of the right of her faithful
to praise their Lord,
loss of her soul fire,
to pray for the cross to be restored.
With your Iron Curtain
and your missiles and your pain,
freed yourselves from serfdom,
only to find you are slaves again.
Your politics have changed now.
To him they worship,
the faithful ones can bow.
I pray for the Jews,
exiles from their holy land.
Remember their old ways,
their coloured tents upon the sand.
Give them their freedom,
give them their right to praise their Lord,
release their soul fire,
all souls that knew loss will be restored.

I was in Cairo,
somehow lost in a bazaar.
I was looking for something,
in the land of Isis and of Ra.
Over sand I stepped,
to stand inside the Great Pyramid in awe.
“To know its secrets,
you must first go through the maze,”
the keys keeper told me.
“And you must do this alone.”
So on my hands and knees I crawled,
along low, narrow shafts,
the darkness solid as the silence.
I could only breathe brokenly.
I can still smell that sand and stone.
A square hole in a wall
I found and fell through.
On the floor of the inner temple I sprawled.
A young priest in a white tunic stood over me.
“It is you,” he said.
“The stranger from the desert.
How did you come through?”
Then my vision faded.
I woke in the early morning,
knowing not what I knew.