‘Mankind Limited’

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This book  ⇑⇑⇑ should be a movie. Somewhere in Hollywood right now there are actors waiting for their agents to deliver this story in script format to them. The makings of all action-packed adventure films is here. I can see the film in my mind’s eye.

But this one is different.

It’s not fast-paced for the thrill of it alone. It needs to be to get the message across. Mankind could be on the threshold of just such a future. Time is racing.

This one could be us.

Maybe a few years down the line yet, maybe already almost there in some similar format. Change a few details. Replace one group for another. Look behind the motives in politics and corporations. Stretch the reality just a little. Ask ourselves questions looking through the light of a different lens.

It feels like us, it acts like us, it may very well come to be.

It could be The Secret we all hold and may one day need.

The future may be closer than we think.

It only takes a small leap of imagination to take us from where we are now to Mankind Limited.

Scott Bailey is a writer I follow here on WordPress.

I downloaded his book a few weeks ago after reading an excerpt from it on his blog. It wasn’t until this week that I finally had the chance to read the book.  I like a good action-packed adventure as much as the next one but I liked, even more, what Scott communicated in the story.

I believe there is more to follow and I’ll be waiting. If we have time and I’m still aware…

 

Scott’s book is available through Amazon.

His blog can be found here.

 

Sticky Words

Pull a little word from out your pocket,

The one that’s tucked away that you can’t say,

The sticky one, the one with fuzz bits on it,

The one you kept and snuck it well away,

The one that when you see it, on appraisal,

Looks a lot like rubbish to your mind,

Rinse it off and look again, might notice,

It’s the one you lost and tried so hard to find.

That sticky word, adrift in secret places,

Diamond in the rough, a gem concealed,

Searched for, sought and needed, once unheeded,

That’s the one that could be, should be, new revealed.

Sticky words, I know them, they spell trouble,

Trouble while they’re lost in tiny holes,

Found, they are a gift, a grace regranted,

Sticky words can unstick word-stuck souls.

Pep Talk

I believe that most people who write feel they have a purpose in doing so. Whatever that purpose may be we can, at times, be doubtful of our ability to communicate. We may doubt the words we choose, our technical capabilities, the methods we use, the subjects of which we speak. Worse, we may doubt whether any of it makes any difference to a single soul other than ourselves.

To love writing, to want to communicate something, anything, and to doubt whether it has any meaning or to find ourselves in a place when the words just won’t come is an awful place to be for any writer. Over the last few weeks, or perhaps longer, I’ve experienced some of these doubts and it has come to my attention that a number of other bloggers, of whom I’m very fond, have been experiencing some or all of the above.

I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in amazing connections, ones that sometimes blow me away by their synchronicity. Not for the first time here I find myself renewed by reading the thoughts and feelings of others and the honesty with which they share them. I also god bless email and friends across the ether. Some of the allusions in the following poem are born of reading others’ posts, comments and emails. And listening to an enlightening Ted Talk. One that makes the excellent point that I, courtesy of that beautiful synchronicity, will adhere to – I can do better. In all areas of life. I just have to try.

it’s too early to be calling me

or too late, I’m comfy

and you know that I can’t rise

your bugle pierces

no respite, it hollers

get up lassie, seek the prize

 

I bleary eye my boots on

and I splash my face

and question silently

who’re we kidding, what’s the point

battle’s over

all a waste of energy

 

but I’m trained for long haul

war and peace

and justice just the same

and tired is no excuse, you’re in the army

you’re a soldier

not a number but a name

 

and it matters that you uniform

and polish spit

and stand up ever straight

you can’t lie abed

and give up ghosts

they’re at the gate

 

there’s a battle to be fought

and in conscience

can’t object

for to not to try, surrender all

to give the field to hate

how keep respect

 

so get up soldier, silence voices

don the boots and arm yourself

and fight another day

ennui, attitude

and poor perception

out the way

 

these ruminations

round and round they go

we rue, beget

pivot points, dissatisfied with somethings

round and round, encircling, draining and despairing

in a helix of regret

 

get the little boots on

you are awesome

and you know you are

believe it soldier

you’ve a purpose, we’ve a purpose

we still orbit that same star

 

Sounds Apt

One there was that danced upon the surface

Seeking honoured place to rest and let it be

Dedicated to communication

Prepared to work alone or company

To singular intention caught in heartbeat

Rhythm born intrinsic in its sound

Worked its way along the lines of empty

Espied its niche and settled right way round

Others clambered to be party to this

Festive wake where all sounds go to lie

Rejoicing in the mini death from random

Found a better place to conjure why

Purpose to existence in their being

Favoured by the one who may not know

Whether each and every grapheme chosen

Will do their job well, meaning to bestow

Rest ye well all phonics torn from alpha

Through omega, all that serve between

Many are there waiting, be not ill-used

Repose, post work, to know that you have been

Picked before all others still awaiting

Skill by some more gifted, all must wait

Practise while you work upon the forming

Perhaps some day may praise at well-placed state

 

Characters that haunt with saddest weeping

Shadows of the words they could have been

Spectred to ill-chosen, used and destined

To roam forever dwelling might have beens

Words evasive, parted soul from symbol

Vacant shells now cast adrift to face

The artifice of empty, this their fate flawed

Selected, misappropriated waste

In phrases, chosen chasms that despoil them

How can any cast thus find in name

Any sound or timbre worth their purpose

Poor letters, never stamped but sent the same

No one ever will recall their passing

Too many of their siblings chosen best

Selected by a wisdom quite elusive

While shallow markings never etched true worth.

Still the sounds browse up and down for tempo

Seeking yet their place upon the map

Desire for destination in their searching

Union with all others for sounds apt.

 

Traffic Jam

I keep missing comments and fond familiar voices,

Apologies to all concerned,

In time-restricted choices.

Another week of trafficking in all their dirty tricks

Should see me back to normal,

Far removed from politics,

At least on board to reading other stuff but guff,

Honest to god, now passed my chin,

Nearly had enough.

Some light romance, some music, a video or two,

Some photographs, a few more jokes,

Anything would do.

One more week, well, less in fact, then, bugger, I’ve reports,

Twenty-six, my darling kids,

Progress, tricks, endeavour for six-year old cohort.

Pretty soon, as time will tell, I’ll get to browse again,

Until then, apologies

For bypassing bloggy friends.

How We Gathered

How may we gather in the valleys then,

‘neath sisters three whipped wild and crowned with snow,

How find the wilderness we lost again,

Telepathy in footsteps led below.

How, when silenced, stardust stare to heavens,

Search still sequestered truth in long gone light,

Be the canyon, rift within the riven,

Attuned receptacles of shifting night.

How, attention turned, midst highlands wakened,

Accordance cast in near and distant shores,

Elemental fabric drift, so quickened,

Beat syncopate to breathing mountain core.

Dispersed anew, that dream, the turn is dawn, 

How gathered, diaspora we, reformed.

Sipping Your Health

I’ll drink your health in coffee at the sunrise

While Nature paints with streaks of grey and blue

Shades of light appearing from the night skies

Rest and sip and think of all to do.

Slowly, as the dawn trails, fingers skyline,

Dabbing daylight daubs, alerting birds,

Listen, think and sip and feeling quite fine,

Silent plans in head, unspoken words.

Reflected glow in windows as the sun wakes,

Bright without and brighter here within,

Sip and think and write and bid your health at daybreak

Good morning, world, a brand new day begins.

Between Two Poles

Located within reach,

just catching,

t’internet halts halfway

between two poles,

can pick up

further down

but neighbours

wouldn’t like it.

Besides,

don’t know their passwords

till I’m told.

Ignore this shite,

I’m blogging ’cause I can do,

halfway ‘tween two poles,

I’ve found the line,

bleedin’ rhymes

are doing my brain in

but they’ll do in yours

before they do in mine.

Caught between prolific

and tormentin’,

trapped between

the devil and the deep,

let me finish up here

and I’ll try to

hold my schtum

with not another peep.

Caught between

the sunshine and the shady,

equidistant with

insane and not quite gone,

sitting in between

two rows of washing,

between two poles.

That’s it.

I think I’m done.

Nearly.

Feck it. I’m making no promises.  😉

 

Masked Surprise

This went waaaay off where I was going with it at the start. I fancied a romantic meeting at a masked ball. Fate took a hand. And well, she had other ideas.

Fate had planned their meeting,

How they laughed as they arrived,

Collected motley strangers,

Unsuspecting aught contrived.

Bedecked in costumed finery,

Masks upon their eyes,

Ambience electric

As all hid behind their lies,

Flattered to be asked there,

Dressed one and all as spies,

Agents, Mata Haris,

Sleuths renowned as wise,

Yet none detected counterfeit

In ticketed surprise,

Flirted, danced, now targets,

Fate held them compromised.

Twirling as they partied

They missed their own demise,

Revealed, at last, behind each mask,

Dead already in their lives.

Spied parties to eternity,

No one hears their cries,

Double lives no more concealed,

Fate held mask’d surprise.

I mean, wtf! I wanted romance, I got death. Bloody charming. I might give the romantic version another bash. What can I say? I like the idea of masked encounters.

Fate can bugger off.

If you fancy a bash at writing something based on masks, I’d be delighted if you link in comments so I can visit and read what fate does to your version. Or perhaps you have more control over her than I do. (Shh! Don’t tell her I said that. She’s soooo contrary.)