Foot Soldiers

all hail to ye, deceased, forgotten heroes

whose lifeblood nurtures soil on nations built

once watered it with sweat and toil and seeds sowed

to reap but only death for all life spilt

all hail to mothers, fathers, generations

who set foundation stones, the bedrock laid

whose transitory lives persist in permanence

by paying of the price that must be paid

the living and the being and the doing

the dying unto self as years unfold

the sacrifice, the giving, life unravelling

as youth claims future, naturally, from old

all hail to ye, the vanguard, on whose shoulders

we build, it shall not pass in vain, that life you give

in honour and remembrance of foot soldiers

heroic, every day, in life well-lived

as once you were the present, still the future

your stake, the building blocks, that stand time’s test

as examples, living ever, in the nurture

of the relay, bearing batons, while you rest

all hail to ye, the immortal, timeless heroes

you have not passed while life holds firm the hands

of those who fill formation and then follow

no, never shall there be a final stand

your blood belongs and runs in endless heartbeats

you did not die, you live till time stands still

all hail to ye, we hear, salute your footsteps

foot soldiers, marching onwards, always will

Being The Word

His artistry in action serves notice on the word

For what are words without the follow-through

Receptacles for empty lest they do what they have said

And he does it all with minimum ado

From the carving of the wood to designing of the plot

Nurturing, as on he willing goes

From the service to all others, giving all he’s got

Actions speak with volume, we all know

From the being to the doing, negating passive voice

A willing man who gives and then gives more

An alphabet of loving, minus all the noise

He balances and then exceeds the score

To the doers who are doing while the thinkers think their thoughts

Vague luxury impressed when time stands still

While the hands sweep round the clocks, incessant in their tocks

He’s living life with effort and with will

While the words are taking wing in a vacuum lost in space

His actions fly and fill the greater void

Lending love around in the ways of active grace

Being usefully and truly well employed

Artistry in action serves notice on the word

For what are words without the follow-through

Receptacles for empty lest they do what they have said

We must be the words and do what doers do

Lucifer’s Lucre

Diable-Argent

(source)

Lucre’s lost to Lucifer

He’s stored it in a drawer

Stuffed his mattress full of it

And he’s collecting more

He’s buying gold and silver

In bullion bars and coins

Out of circulation

Poor pennies all purloined

Millions moved in secret

Bankers in a tiff

Widows wonder, well they might

Why they are being stiffed

Interest rates are falling

Money still rotates

Spins and disappears, presto

Coinage used as bait

Buying, buying, selling

Systemic, soiled by greed

Bring back barter, fair and square

Recycle what you need

The devil’s in the detail

The detail doesn’t work

Debt and dollars, yen or pence

Well-oiled and soiled, corrupt

Funding war and weapons

Conflict prints the notes

The devil’s shitting dross embossed

Demonising other folks

Billions there for Trident

While pension pennies must be saved

People are expendable

Cost nothing in their graves

Value, values, Values

Money’s lost the plot

In the abstract, in the round

Does it work? Or not?

Lucre’s lost to Lucifer

There’s more and more and less

Tried and failed, the tainted truth

Satan’s capital is cursed

If you want an NHS, save it yourself

Hands off our NHS! The medical profession needs us. We need them. Please let this doctor know he has our support.

juniordoctorblog.com

It was July last year that something changed- Jeremy Hunt took to the podium and started a fight, claiming doctors had a 9-5 attitude, attacking our professionalism. But that fight was just a scuffle in a longer battle for a free at the point of access healthcare system, and it’s a battle that’s over. We lost.

This time last year I was on the street, on my own, staging a one man protest against a government dismantling the NHS and getting away with it. On my birthday a month later I organised a group protest, a Crash Call for the NHS, to raise awareness. Since then we’ve been on the streets, on your televisions, in your newspapers. The NHS is going under, we said, it isn’t safe, we said, people are dying.

But the government spin machine is immense, and effective, and perceptions have barely changed.

I was going to…

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One Song

How then to mend the circle once it’s broken

Fragments of the arc lie scattered, ruined

Sensed circumnavigation of the planet, observation

Detecting dissonance in chords in every tune

 

How then to close the gaps, the cracks, the fissures

The depths disparate, destitute, wartorn

One voice, survival, compromise, under pressure

For the weak, the strong, the willing, for newborn

 

How to prioritise the issues pending

The global, national, each local scene

One love, one voice, one purpose, life unending

Humanity dependent on one song

 

How then to sing a song that may unite us

Which strings to strum, whose fingers must we trust

Whose voice to listen to that won’t divide us

Compassion’s rises strong for what is just

 

Compassion’s song is gentle, seeks solutions

Forgives repentance, swallows hardships whole

Her song is crying listen, I am waiting

One world, survival, love, one song, the goal

 

How then to hear her voice within the tumult

Discordant notes that cry please look at me

Amid the monotone of, ‘I’m alright’, we must intuit

How to detect the raft upon high seas

 

No less than we would do for our own children

With selflessness through eyes that see for miles

By beginning with one chord, accord, a chorus

With empathy, attenuating lies

 

One voice, one world, one chance, one song, one option

To see what must be seen through keener lens

One humanity, there’s only one, one choice then

Compassion’s song must be our truest friend

 

“O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion.”  Robert Burns

 

Orwellian

When doublespeak becomes communication

When what was writ’s unwritten, lies are truth

When options few are really just the same ones

And those who should do better are uncouth

When people are the pawns and power the endgame

And news reported dwells on virtual facts

When 101’s a room we all must live in

And noble’s executed in dark arts

When Napoleon takes the credit for our efforts

And homage is considered his just due

When one would rise among us to refute this

The porcine clique, combined, know what to do

Rewrite our history and offer soundbites

Report what must be said in ways it must

The trough must not be shattered nor the dark lit

The face should honour boot and in it trust

When zombies tear at brains and then reshape them

When two and two is five in bankers’ math

When economic power’s the only saviour

And war is profit, gamblers scoff and laugh

When George’s past is now our glowing present

And Big Brother’s just a guy like all the rest

We’re living in a novel ’till we notice

That few among them work for what is best

When thirteen’s on the clock and we accept that

And still applaud the hand that strikes false hour

When destruction of the word is deemed a good thing

Gravity and science exist no more

When happiness is valued more than freedom

But only ours, not theirs, we’ve lost the plot

When isolation’s cult breeds more of ignorance

We have a world that’s free from reason; doublethought

When history reflects, some time, in the future

On what was what, and what was not, let’s pray

Our children can forgive us our trespasses

For the legacy of Orwell on that day

Boxes To Go

custom-box-styles_11

(source)

I’ll make a net of cardboard, determine all the sides

Measure edges, long or short, how high, how deep, how wide

I’ll fold along the seam lines and straighten them just so

Insert the die-cut tags in slots for boxes fit to go

 

I’ll work the booth at drivethru’ on a wage that’s minimum

And do the job that I’ve been told with directions to keep schtum

I’ll scan the lists of orders determined in the past

Pack them in and label them and do it all so fast

 

I’ll never look at menu, I’ll never get it wrong

I’ll wear their hat upon my head, work zero hours or long

I’ll never question motives, I’ll never notice flaws

I’ll fold myself in pre-made box and follow unjust laws

 

I’ll keep my glue gun handy to fix up little holes

Take no risks that contents leak or spill out captured souls

I’ll fit all folk in boxes and hope that I am right

And even when I’m wrong I’ll cope with boxes out of sight

 

I’ll make my little boxes, red, yellow, black and white

One for you and one for you and maybe I just might

Make new boxes as I go with nets of different moulds

I’ll never look within myself, I could not be so bold

 

I like my little boxes, spent years on making them

Religious ones and foreign ones, some bashed, some straight, some bent

I’m living in a carton with cardboard cutout brains

Could you repeat that order so I can get it wrong again

S & M Games

I was taking a well-earned rest that extended a bit beyond what I intended. Thoroughly enjoying it too. Been to Spain and back again. Been over the border and back again. Trying desperately not to comment on the farce of British politics…I’ll say this and then I’m going back to R&R. I need it.  Sorry I’ve not been into anyone’s sites – never thought I’d be so long absent from blogland. I daresay once I’ve replenished my oomph I’ll be back. Just had to let you know that we’re not all arses.

Thigh-high boots, leather corset

Whip hand cracks and snaps near ear

Ricochets, reverberations

Dominate, try to measure fear

Public school boys, petted puppies

Petulance, moral poverty

Bankrupt conscience, fixed agendas

Ambitious failures shed no tears

Tricks and lies that colour pages

Carrots, sticks and donkey rides

Asinine with self-absorption

Peek-a-boo, expose then hide

Decisions based on fear and fortunes

Games they play, monopoly

Snakes with ladders, swings and sliders

Risk and run mid jeers and cheers

Children all, without exception

Raised with silver spoons in arse

Rhetoric undemocratic

Bully boys, elected farce

Run the countries like a brothel

Prostitute the populace

Whip to frenzy, S&M games

Governance of world disgrace

Rules we live by

They dismiss

Changed mid-game

Really take the piss

House of cards

With loaded dice

None virtuous

We’re held by vice

Tokens, tickets

Buy your pass

Swallow mouthfuls

While they laugh

Independence, vows they promised

All exposed as project fear

Truth lay shackled, cuffed, spreadeagled

Cats with nine tails cost us dear

Domination detrimental

Determination, never more

Sneering snobs, robotic gargoyles

Time to even up the score

Keep your mind games, carnival

The whole shebang, corrupt cabal

I’ll take freedom with vanilla

Straight talking Scots with evidence

Let the whorehouse knaves all tumble

While they scrap and flaunt and flounce

In disarray and deep division

Casting lots to ferment hate

Queuing up to take the whip hand

Welcome to Westminstergate

Masochists, sadistic pleasures

Name your game, they’re all for sale

Ignore the world that heaves in turmoil

Pimp your ride while people wail

What we’ve come to, what a mess

But, hey ho, folks, it’s all illusion

Games they play while they undress

 

Buddha Knows Best

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waiting for first coat to dry

pegging out clothes on the line

ivory tint in ponytailed hair

clotted cream scones tasting fine

 

pen and a coffee at hand

doodling flowers in the sun

soda and lime and ink on a page

ecstatic that summer has come

 

music chosen by kids

buddha sat under tree

lotused repose in semi-closed eyes

replete and contented like me

 

windows of soul opened wide

faint breeze to filter on through

leaves of green gratitude canopies all

wishing the same for all you

The Grandmother

she doesn’t know what happened to the life she planned and hoped for

but somewhere on the route she lost her way

somewhere, over time, years voided girlhood and her reasons

while she watched and waited for those better days

those halcyon of yore that she was promised

by the fairy tales she’d heard and read, imbibed

where the prince is true and saves deserving maiden

and the perfect ending meets the perfect bride

instead she is the tarnished, disillusioned

more imprisoned now than then and saviours few

passed her way or loitered with intention

she was trapped inside and still the briars grew

confined inside a castle of contention

sojourner in a land that sees unveiled

every yarn that once began with once upon

nullifying happy ever after tales

a cinderella always, now grandmother

no fairy guardian to relieve the mess

pumpkins flourished, rats were rats and lizards reclined

there was no transformation, no new dress

surrogate to another willing victim

still the stories spun like threaded silk to bind

while she wondered what had happened, where salvation

where relief for careworn, worried mind

she fretted now and quite forgot to hope for

a future since her past had cast its spell

as she meditated where had all that time gone

then promises no more fables will she tell

she’ll let the child run ragged, even barefoot

oblivious to vows and promises that fail

she’s the mother of the son of errant daughter

and the child, though wild, is carefree, this tale tells