Tag Archives: politics

The People First Party

The People First Party

Vote for the People First Party.
The People First Party puts people first,
everything else, including money, second.
I know it is not your fault
but the way things are now
must come to a halt.
For a long time, it has been money first,
everything else, including people, second.
And a very poor second.
People sell weapons,
not thinking of the people they will kill,
but the money they will bring to the bank.
People need food, clothing, lodging,
not a bomber or a tank.
It would not be enough
for one city or country
to follow the People First Party.
All the world must,
to save us from decline and dust.

Broken By Brexit Britain

Broken By Brexit Britain

In the House of Commons in London,
here in B.B.B.B., that is, Broken By Brexit Britain,
some have gone savage, to roar like a lion,
others whine like a kitten.
After the battle of Camlann,
the Round Table was broken,
and Arthur, wounded by Mordred,
to Avalon, Isle of Apples, was taken.
It is said he will return
when Britain needs him most,
but maybe he is merry in his mythic court
with his mugs of mead
and plates of marmalade on toast.
Some who voted Remain
cannot believe so many voted Leave.
Now, after three years of tedium,
since the Referendum,
long gone is the happy medium.
There is only cold, increasing friction,
worse than in dystopian fiction.
Lost is Arthur’s island of Britain,
along with wise words in clear diction.
By Merlyn’s staff, there’s a strain in the song,
a sneer in the laugh.
Britannia herself is dusty with dirt.
To free her from hurt, she requires a good bath.
Startling events pass by, hour by hour,
and she is not even offered a shower.
O Big Ben, when will you chime
beyond this Broken By Brexit Britain time?

Rain Forest Ramble

Rain Forest Ramble

You hav’nt got the energy,
you hav’nt got the time.
You hav’nt got the wherewithal
to tell a lemon from a lime.
You seem to be the evidence
a snake can live in slime.

Now the mood is agitated.
Who do these lines address?
Single out the one they’re aimed at,
sit in the shadow and confess.
Witness the darkness grow more and more,
the light grow less and less.

There is no end to how bad it can be,
how far you can go down.
The king looked out from a balcony,
and let fall his broken crown.
The tempter had appeared to him,
his face painted like a clown.

They know the world’s divided
so they decide to divide it more.
When hatred has the upper hand
there might as well be war.
Those ships launched in high confidence
are wrecks now on the shore.

These roads and buildings built to last
while we are hardly here.
Certainly, we’re just passing through.
The more we age the more that’s clear.
I’m not sure that this was the way.
Hope I know when I’m near.

The man who rules the Amazon,
the president of Brazil,
has set fire to the rain forest,
and it is burning still,
to clear the way for cattle farms
and timber yards, what works to his will.

He wanted to be president,
he had to gain the vote.
They wanted to cross a river
so he promised them a boat.
Showed them his fist was hard and gnarled
like the horn of a goat.

What you want I will give to you,
he said in his campaign.
He bent his concentration on
the power he could gain.
And all the strength he showed to them
he promised to sustain.

The rain forest is burning still.
The monkeys shriek and choke.
The parrots have nowhere to perch.
The village tribes fear more than smoke.
The dream of the trees is over,
to red fire flames they woke.

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.

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.