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

 

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You Know The Way…

…your husband’s gone to bed before you and you’ve stayed up

for hours

writing

or whatever

and now you have the issue

of trying to figure a way into bed

without disturbing him

round the obstacles

or

like tonight

you’ve both watched Michael McIntyre together with a wee

Drambuie

or two

and pissed yourselves laughing

and ideas come for a blog post

and he’s already brushed his teeth

and you’re still writing

so you take your kindle

and your fag

to the bathroom

to have a quick wizz

a toothbrush

and maybe

jot down

that wee idea

because you’ll surely not remember it

in the morning

and do you know the way

sometimes

one of your kids comes out of their room

just as you’re

fag in mouth

kindle in hand

heading to the ladies’

and the fag drops

out of your mouth

onto the floor

and you laugh

because hubs

who’d

already put the feckin’ light out

bastard

says

by light of son’s room

you’re away to write

aren’t you

and I go

yeah

pick my fag up

laugh at my son

with a wink

who laughs back

because

youth

remember my idea

and write

this

thinking

I’m gonna do more

of humour

it’s a laugh

think I might

entitle it

you know the way

‘cos most of us do

Is Not Broken

“And what is good, Phaedrus,

And what is not good…

Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?”

 

tap drips cropped

(source)

that which is good –

which has always been good –

drips still –

is not broken

Without A Kiss

May we still remember tender moments

Though shattered fragments lie like broken glass

Reflecting willful spent, patent torment,

Decried the future as denied the past.

Might there be a time when softer feelings

Arise to surface, no need to protect,

Shall there be a union, desired healing,

Hopeful, if undetected as of yet.

When the pride and pain have both subsided

Could neutral ground be found where meeting claims,

After we have shared and each confided,

Hearts and souls, truce sincere in all loves named.

Love there was and nothing can forsake this,

Though world of love betrayed without a kiss.

Letter’d Lives

Though we don’t write the endings to our stories,

We’re bound to tell the passages between,

Letters written, words too oft confounding,

On life’s parchment, scripted scene by scene.

Underlying themes and sub-plots merging,

Combined, refined, relate the years we’ve seen,

Central characters all pulled together,

Writing book of life and where we’ve been.

Sometimes story plot becomes confusing,

Characters won’t say and do all that they mean,

Deletions happen often though they hurt you,

No one likes to lose the plan they’ve weaned.

Conflict often rises though unplanned for,

Resolutions too, when hope it seemed

Had fled the prose and left an empty page there,

Tale renews and onward goes as schemed.

Standing back and viewing sometimes helps here,

Perspective on a scale too rarely seen,

Judgements made, a brand new tack is taken,

Weaving all perceptions that we’ve gleaned.

No, we don’t write the endings to our stories

But try to polish them to worthy sheen,

Chapters running, coming all together,

Life lines written, speaking volumes in between.

 

Bring Them Home

Reaching out to others is a burden I can’t half,

Though it’s laudable, it’s laughable,

As if my concern lasts

Way beyond the slightest

Of your needs,

As if I fit,

Laughable,

Truly,

Beyond, in fact,

Really,

Think of it.

That one such one

As me or you,

Such a tiny voice in all,

Should make the slightest difference.

Insignificant withal.

Yet the someone,

Maybe not me,

In fact, the chance is slim,

But someone,

Someone close or far,

Some she

Or maybe him,

Bequeaths the words,

That gust of air,

That treasured little drop,

That tiny, teensy something

That urges, do not stop.

Be the voice,

The shouting one,

The silent, but for tone,

The something

Just for someone

That may bring that someone home.

Words of Another

I wonder, sometimes,

if the words of another

reveal me to me

better than mine,

If, in sharing

their thoughts on the page,

cosmic held hands

raise ridiculous to sublime.

It’s not that I think

that I cannot convey

most visions

that whirl in my mind

But I wonder

if inhaling

words from another,

some truths are easier to find.

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.

 

By Grace And Understanding

In peril cast they on the shores of deserts,

In buoyant form but stranded in surrounds,

In self-belief and blind by knightly errand,

In cavalerie, air to hostile ground.

 

On many fronts battles being waged,

On lines at home, in civic buildings wide,

On streets and minds, in military promise,

On internet, fighting side or side.

 

With truth and lie, many weapons wielded,

With might and strength and cunning subterfuge,

With media encased, pursuing agenda,

With tortured souls, pain raining as deluge.

 

In time the message alters, takes on meanings,

In hearts of those united in the frame,

In all of history, same brothers form, united

In common cause and called by blood and name.

 

By change of minds and people centric action,

By understanding why these ways embraced,

By dealing with the core of propaganda,

By altering the way the race is graced.