Daubs Deployed

Whispers echo still, enlighten’d darkness,

Linger, longing, found in cyberspace,

Heard beyond all planetary, winsome,

I hear them then I picture words and face.

Whispers rise up, somehow are converted,

Awesomely configured, rendered, changed,

I can’t conceive of how a brain invented

Ways to alter speech, so rearranged.

I guess it started with some daubs on cave walls,

Grunts to graphics, pics for history,

Some cuneiform and hieroglyphs translating

Thoughts to page awaiting you and me,

Some ink pens then, calligraphy, that beauty,

Painstaking effort, patient and adorned,

Greek, Semitic, Arabic and Chinese

Marks upon some parchment to inform.

I’m thinking then of smoke and drums and phone calls

And telegraphs that sped the process on,

Who knew that one day someone could encrypt so

And fire words to ether coded, formed.

Thinking typewriters, TV and now Skyping,

Measures that foreclose the distance, space,

So techy I can barely understand it

But glad still that the progress had its place.

I’m putting down my pen now, words on paper,

Typing from the symbols, thoughts to all,

Sending code still daubed, deployed as little pictures,

Some abstracted, etched forever on my cavern’s wall.

A Loveless Cup – hypocrisy

I couldn’t quite decide which way to go with the loving cup so you get two for the price of one. Whether you like it or not! It’s a bargain. 🙂

The Quaich – a loving cup

A bit less loving in its purpose here below………

***************************************************************

And so they lifted lips to gilded vessel,

Sips they shared, the wine a loving cup,

Drank a toast to trust and to their unions,

Fashioned fealties, supped with every drop.

Sacrificed simplicity to beggared,

Adornments guilt-edged, paths of royalty,

Fettered by encroaching ways and tethered,

Love ceded to complex hypocrisy.

 

Life Is Brave

Living on the edge, near rivers churning,

A quake away from heartbeat shocked to still,

In sight of Etnas, fleet of foot no saviour,

Threatened on all sides but stood, by will.

A bomb away from end in messy graveyard,

Bullets hailing fast as driving snow,

Yet we live, rejoice in what’s around us,

Still we love and risk as on we go, 

Belittling fear, unworthy as oppressor,

Aged in ashes fallen all through time,

Better yet, we weather all, endeavour

Unity, resilient, we’ll be fine.

Disease away from death as on time marches,

Detritus around, we veer and wave,

Hope eternal, risen from the pyres,

Onwards, ever onwards, life is brave.

Subprime Life

Youth’s energy became an old-age early,

Reminiscent of cruel winters long ago,

Hunter or be hunted as past primitive,

Weapons now quite different from long bow.

But spears still pierce and blood still flows aplenty,

Savages still scavenge, now upright,

Unvanquished beasts, unmarked by any number,

Missing link unmissing in their sight.

A broken chain, a steadfast reign of righteous,

Motion sensors marching endlessly through time,

Espy the life that seeks to live and end it,

Count its worth and value as subprime.

Count the cost of monsters who must judge life,

In pride’s self-justifying casting stone,

Wrecking, wreaking chaos. No limit. Children

Culled, guns and bombs, terror’s jaw-bone.

Never learning, never trying peace path,

Never caring but for selfish means,

Oh, hang heads, shame that’s neverending,

One child is worth more than all your dreams.

 

 

Remember

Driving on a highway where the sun shines,

Shadowed by the ghosts that haunt the light,

Veering left and right and ever onwards,

Watchful still, in rearview, that gives sight.

Stopping when in need of nourish’d succour,

Spying travell’rs haunted in the wayside posts,

Rushing to replenish, journey forward,

Avoiding spectres but communing with the ghosts.

Fleet of flight they keep apace with ease when,

Surging foot depresses on the gas,

Never overtaking but still present,

The ghosts of all the futures from the past,

Chiding gently, always so persistent, 

‘Remember all’, they call and follow on,

Repeating on the wind and on the highway,

Dead but don’t forget, their poignant song.

Spirit of History

In about three hours time I should be ensconced in OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA ready to partake of the privilege of The Men They Couldn’t Hang.

(source:-   caitlinmccuskercoursework.blogspot.com )

Hopefully, ‘cos I’m ever hopeful, :), listening to this. Spot the bit that’s just ace.

England, 1936.
The grip of the Sabbath day
In London town the only sound
Is a whisper in an alleyway
Men put on their gloves and boots
Have a smoke before they go
From the west there is a warning of
A wind about to blow

Like Caesar marching to the East
Marches Mosley with his men
Dressed in their clothes of deepest black
Like a gathering hurricane
This is the British Union
With its flag of black and red
A flag that casts a shadow in
Berlin and in Madrid

So listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

So mile by mile they come on down
To a place called Cable Street
And other men are waiting there
Preparations are complete
Mosley comes so close
They now can see his outstretched arm
A hand raised up that way
Never took the future in its palm

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

The battle broke as the fists and the batons fell
Through the barricades came the sound of the wounded yells
Jack Spot burst through with a chair leg made of lead
Brought down a crashing blow on Mosley’s head

And so we learn from history generations have to fight
And those who crave for mastery
Must be faced down on sight
And if that means by words, by fists, by stones or by the gun

Remember those who stood up for
Their daughters and their sons

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists and stones and batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

Listen to the sound of marching feet
And the voices of the ghosts of Cable Street
Fists … stones … batons and the gun
With courage we shall beat those blackshirts down

 

Funny thing,

that we get far enough away from events

we call them history.

Then we look at it

and get a new perspective.

Or more than one.

No one says we have to look at history.

Everything only happened yesterday.

Yesterday is upon us every day.

Marching.

Demanding action.

The pendulum swings

to extremes,

all sorts of extremes.

If we don’t learn, we repeat.

I’ve repeated this song a lot.

Funny thing is,

I’m a pacifist.

By choice and persuasion.

And a coward..except.

Most of us would fight – in some shape or form – for what we believe to be right.

If only we could learn from history what that is.

Separating the myths from the legends.

We’re not obliged to learn.

It’s simply desirable.

To keep the music flowing.

To keep life going.

To keep on keeping on.

Let the spirit of history live.

 

Blips, You See

It’s just a blip you observe on the radar screen of life,

Blinking near, though far off, can be gauged,

Alerting with sound – a beep – nothing more,

Present but not central to the stage.

The battle is raged from a distance, you see,

No one’s hurt for no one sees the war,

Just a signal  or two between two or a few,

Pulsating but not revealing more.

It’s a secret, you see, though poorly concealed,

It’s written in the stars and in the clouds,

It’s written on the walls, messages revealed,

Interpreted by dreamers who’re allowed

To read what is there, discerning of eye,

Of their hearts and what’s etched upon their souls,

Magnifying bleeps, words and symbols so seen,

Directing them further towads their goals.

It’s the goals, can’t you see, that present so much strife,

Distorted in hist’ry and by lies,

Content unremembered, misinterpreted for aim,

Truth garnered only by the willing spies

And some who recall the way it once was

And some who believe how it should be,

It’s just a blip, can’t you see, in the passage of our time,

A different timepiece, ticking history.

traps and trains

…g…o…t…t…a…

 keep it steamin’ on all fronts

– chugga, chugga, chugga –

engine shunts

— coasting on the flat —

/and down the slopes \

\struggling up the mountains/

how it copes

incredulous to see

although horrific

balletic in display

!!!!! so goddamned specific !!!!!

enemies around

trains on the track

no diversions here

‘we’ve got your back’

– choo-choo, choo-choo, choo-choo –

what a pain

gotta win our cause

what? fuck! again?

got…ta…got…ta…got…ta

keep right on

knowing, even while

those days are gone

knackered at the yard

rusted, forlorn

pistons straining

empire days long gone

where’s the change

 in terminology

…locomotive, train…

‘psychology’

wanton in excess

(on all the sides)

aggression wins

oh yeah? hist’ry decides

no worries, folks

Casey’s on the whistle

humming tune, new

 apostolic epistle

***shunty***shunty*** shunty ***

gasp (O) and groan 😦

passengers resigned

shrug shoulders, moan….bugger, shit, feck, fuck!

destination’s further

 down the line

worry not, guys

future’s lookin’ fine 🙂

just around next bend 🙂 🙂

a few more miles 🙂 🙂 🙂

slightly further on 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 (sweat hope!)

we’ll all have smiles 😉

at reaching place

we took the journey to

I’m getting off this train

don’t know ‘bout you.

lookin’ for the trap

by horses led

simplistic conveyance

or just lay abed.

Risk

In, through,

of time, we came,

legates from legions

by and gone,

across realms and empires

marched we, stolidly,

emblems held aloft,

heralding new dawns.


Eyes front, we stared,

saluted all

who primed

our noble task,

conquer, our mission,

advance, attack,

civilise,

plunder mask’d.


Frail force subservient,

power

to the proudest

in each land,

patrician rule,

plebeians cast

in roles,

as statues stand.


How the mighty fall,

destitute of grace

unclaimed

from distant shore,

hear our footesteps thump,  

old rules arise anew,

history repeated

evermore.


Harken

to the trumpets’ blast,

adversay

worthy of the name,

enlightened hosts

call forth conscious

liberation,

upend risk game.

‘No’ to Arrested Development

See how she sits in her high chair,

Obedient child to the last,

See how she sups up her porridge,

Flavoured with history past.

 

See how she spits out the spoonful,

Proferred by patronage hand,

See how she picks up her own now,

Infancy making a stand.

 

See how she learns from endeavour,

As natural an act as can be,

See how she grows to an adult,

Independent, self-nourished and free.

 

See how some children, retarded

By parents who will not let go,

Develop arrested behaviours,

Damaged by some who don’t know

 

That nothing is worth being stuck there,

Harnessed in chair like a child.

It breaks under pressure from fairy tales,

Sometimes we’re born to be wild.

 

Wild as the woad on our faces

When history wrote out our path,

But timing is now, and with courage,

Freedom not given, we grasp

 

The spoon from the parent who knows not

A whit of development’s way.

Our children are free as a nation, come

September 18th, ‘Yes!’, Independence Day.