These Pancake Days

Had never known the pancake days

Her contribution to that sweetest feast

The land she worked

Had never seen a coffee house

Nor taste inhaled

Fast food a crust too quick consumed

While toil prevailed

 

Had never heard of internet

Her contribution down across the years

A lonesome sound

Had never seen a telephone

Imagined wireless

Her conversations few and far between

In language under stress

 

Had never wanted more than home

Her contribution all that any woman wants

Or man could need

Had never thought that there could be

Another way

Nor wished it so

Until that day

 

Had never once believed that she might find

Her contribution nullified by greed’s desire

And dark intent

Had simply held to land and work

To family and friends

Believed that that would always be

Until her end

 

Had never plotted, planned or killed

Her contribution life-affirming

Always so

Had shunned all retribution

Though bereft

Held fast to memories in death

While history slept

 

Had never thought that there would come a time

Her contribution could arise again

And she might live

That one would come from other days

With plan in tow

Would know what she had not

Right wrongs of long ago

 

Had never thought she might be pivotal

Her contribution wending down through time

A story lives

Had never known, how could she then

That space remembers and relays

Fills in the blanks and notices

Appreciates her ways

 

Had never known of pancake days

Her contribution to that sweetest feast

Eviction’s hand

Had never once confessed allegiance to a distant throne

Misfortune’s twist

A feudal lord, a flock of sheep

The tethered wrist

 

Had never once inhaled the bean nor tasted sweet by artifice

Her contribution to that cause

Too distant past in other age

Had never once known circumstance

That changed her ways as that day did

While haunted she her highland home

To simmer there till duty bid

 

Had never known such vengeance in her heart

Her contribution now a bloodlet thing

A howling cry

Had thrown her past into the present

Outwith all time unto this place

The peat is prepped, the griddle hot

These pancake days

Pending

Vague world she lives within, and outwith, distance

Abstraction’s silhouette is lost to all

In body, mind and soul, without existence

Suspending rumoured life with no recoil

Her vantage is exterior, objective

Surveyor, with a click, her irised eyes

Scan in black and white, a negative

Unequalled glimpses caught devoid of lies

Approval pending passionless perusal

Time, motionless, postponed, at strange command

Impassively, she views without arousal

No finger lifted by immobile hands

She’s frigid in a zone bereft of features

Motility awaits what other thinks

Canopied reflection while viewed creature

Intuits fate, her future indistinct

Her patience ponders choices until certain

A settled will determines when she moves

Eternal present fleeting while one person

Verifies inaction and approves

Legging It

I’m not pregnant

I’ll never be again (just so’s you know)

Then why’s my belly so distended

(Like I’m three months gone

And my secret’s starting, now, to show)

 

It could be constipation

But I don’t think that’s it

If you’re at your dinner, please excuse,

For the first thing that I did, on returning home from work,

Was to take my kindle for a sit

 

It might be all the Revels that I ate last night

Why, oh why, I did, I do not know

Except perhaps for comfort

(That all chocolate brings)

We women ( and some men) know this is so

 

It could be from the BLT that I ate for lunch

Sitting in my gut and festering

Wondering why I did

(When I did not enjoy)

Exponential indigestion and thinking

 

It could be from the second glass of wine consumed

Unused, this while back, to tasting grape

Gurgling in my gut, with too little food,

Objecting, as tums do

And going ape

 

I’m thinking that it could be from the seven weans

Who’ve stretched my belly out of sync

And, as soon as I relax,

It all goes to pot

No wonder mums and dads need stronger drink

 

I’m tempted to suggest that I’ve been too lax

In yoga exercises and the rest

Delaying till tomorrow (what needs done today)

Of all excuses,

This one sounds the best

 

My tablet’s resting on a little mound

(It’s handy and I think I’m doing well)

Slurping on the red stuff

(With too little food)

Relaxing while my tummy grows and swells

 

Maybe I am windy, (hadn’t thought of that)

It’s never on my mind (swear on my heart)

Maybe if I squeeze

(And groan a little bit)

I’ll get a flatter tummy and new start

 

I’m not troubled by the swelling

(Well, maybe just a bit)

It’s awkward, as hell, in too-tight jeans

Bugger all the effort, (I paused to hunt them out)

I understand why people wear leggings

 

The comfort that they bring (never mind the bulge)

Explodes the myth of uncool (all that guff)

It’s either that or jammies

(And it’s way too early)

And too many folk here to go in the buff

 

I’m tranquil in my leggings with my pregnant pause

(Revels are waiting in the drawer)

The working week is over

(Thank god for it)

Why would any working woman want more

 

Yoga on the morrow

(With my fingers crossed)

(It’s not my fault, she cancelled every class)

Not worried ’bout the belly (I can cope with that)

But don’t get me started on my arse!

Hope Sings And Dances

Hope_1

(source)

Hope springs eternal in the fields where freedom grows

Gushes forth forever and, with liberty, it flows

It dances and it frolics while it buds and builds anew

Pleasures in the pastures where the words are strong and true

It glories in a garden that will always foster fair

Edifying, magnifying, everyone who’s there

It weaves and wanders wondrously, pervading every dream

Paves the way with petals that are always what they seem

It does not lie to have its way, though despairing may accuse

For it’s allied with the future and a world it won’t abuse

Hope springs and dances for the right to live again

In the hearts of all who seek it and feel its longing pain

Hope smiles and witnesses, will not abandon you

But dances still because of life and dreams it won’t eschew

Remember, in that garden, there is room for all who see

That winter cedes to spring that blooms each and every year

We nurture it and take it with us everywhere we go

And tag the dancers, one and all, so hope its seeds may sow

With hope that never dies a death, for eternally it springs

We build a world that starts, right here, where hope will dance and sing

Give hope a voice that reaches far and fills the hills and glens

A voice that touches one and all, transforms their lives and then

Let hope be in the notes of every song it can conceive

From island homes to city streets for, with hope, we may believe

So when hope asks for permission, for it never will impose

Let all who hear the voice of hope sing all the songs hope knows

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