Saturday, 20 August 2016

On The Joy Of A Real Fire In August

The morning air feels clean and chill
Despite the August date. So still
In cotton nightgown clad I'm bent
On gathering firewood, intent
On finding sticks, to blaze, to fill
The grate with orange heat.  I thrill,
A pyromaniac, and will
The flames up high, in merriment,
The morning air feels clean.
But here are woodlice who feel ill
And hot, as from their beds they spill
And run through smoke and flames which vent
Through crevices as I lament,
Yet sing the Confutatis, shrill:
The morning air feels clean.

Sunday, 14 August 2016

A Response To A Report Into Electoral Fraud in Ethnic Communities.

Don't judge!  It was the atmosphere that did it.
The Electoral Commission's not a racist institution.
I am not a racist, and that's to my credit.
We are only really guilty of a kind of abdication.
Ethnic communities don't need re-education, 
Respecting democracy's not a thing you can inherit,
So we decided there'd be no investigation.
Don't judge! It was the atmosphere that did it.
Cultural Marxism has much theoretical merit.
We only wanted reality to fit the dream, we used imagination.
Never the stick, only ever the carrot,
The Electoral Commission's not a racist institution.
It can't be helped that cheating's a temptation.
"All shall seem well", as someone once put it.
We only turned a blind eye, that's our mitigation.
I'm not a racist and that's to my credit.
There was no paper evidence, and I didn't shred it.
If we'd come down hard we'd have caused riot, revolution.
We weren't corrupt ourselves, where corruption occurred, we simply hid it.
We are only guilty of a kind of abdication,
All in the interests of harmonisation.
We always meant well, people often said it,
Everything we did was with the best intention.
There are cultural differences in the places crooks inhabit.
Don't judge.

Thursday, 28 July 2016

A Prayer In Memory of Father Jacques Hamel, murdered by IS While Saying Mass.


May the peace of the Lord be with you;
May the calm warmth of a July morning in church remain 
Always this sense of love, the love of an old priest for his fellow men. Let it renew,
A thousand fold, the stock of love, so we regain
Our sense of trust in each other, and the pain
And suffering and loss shall not obscure our view
Of hope.  Let us mark each hour in our minds with the refrain:
May the peace of the Lord be with you!
And give thanks for it in all the quiet moments of our lives. Let true
Wisdom and mercy govern our reactions, let us remember each grain
Of love produces a miraculous yield. The bad are but the few.
May the calm warmth of a July morning in church remain
In your heart and mind as the scent of a sweet flower when strain
And fear seem to overwhelm, may you find the clear, blue
Light of a summer day beyond the clouds and may it contain
Always this sense of love, the love of an old priest for his fellow men. Let it renew
Your spirit so that you go forth into the world with that tranquility he knew,
Born of faith and trust.  Let not contempt, disdain,
For those who dwell in blackness guide. For we must increase, in all that we do
A thousand fold, the stock of love, so we regain
Our sense of trust in each other: let him not have died in vain.
Let the pastoral peace of psalms and hymns be the warmth that lifts the settled dew
Of sorrow from your saddened soul, may the path of life be a summer lane
Ending in a quiet church wherein that balm of stillness is, which violence shall subdue:
The peace of the Lord.

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

The Women

They came from shortlists, well designed,
To fill the House with just their kind,
The lesbians with butch, cropped hair,
The Tory ladies dressed with care,
The deeply spoken, and the squeaky,
They came from Ramsgate and Auld Reekie,
Harridans and cold, hard bores,
With steely eyes, pugnacious jaws.
Their politics were much the same
They thought alike, shared every aim,
They crowded round the centre ground
And dished out dull, bland bites of sound,
Their minds were empty, speeches hollow,
Ambition led, ideas could follow,
And yet they rarely ever did.

And they would never make a bid
In favour of less government
Because they were a regiment
Of bossy sisters who loved rules
And took the demos for dumb fools.
They spat at liberty and swore 
To do away with common law,
Because they did not understand
The history of our ancient land
And thought a web of regulation
Would much enhance this once great nation.
They didn't know that less was more
And mould grows from a single spore.


 




Thursday, 30 June 2016

To Politicians, Send Not To Know...



When you hear of the peasants' revolt,
And despise the revolting peasant,
Remember 'no man is an island,
Entire of itself'.
'Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.'

And ask yourself where were you,
As each clod was washed away by the sea,
Were you concerned that Europe was the less
Or did you believe there was nothing to gain
In winning back the minds 
Of those whom you thought unpleasant,
Coarse and common men, who dared to dream of liberty?

When you read of the peasants' revolt
And despise the men who would not 'remain'
But seized their freedom with both hands,
Ask  'am I involved in mankind?'
Does each man's discontent diminish me?

When you think of the peasants' revolt
And why men prefer democracy,
Take the hint and take responsibility.
Send not to know with whom the buck stops:
It stops with thee.

Saturday, 18 June 2016

Thoughts Occurring While Looking At Portrait Of Milton As A Child.

In dreary dullness and in gloom
He gazes out, does not look down,
His essence lingers like a perfume,
English roses, warm air blown.
His doublet, once striped gold and brown,
Is black with coal dust dark as doom,
His stiff lace ruff, silly costume of a clown,
In dreary dullness and in gloom,
Is cream and grey like storm tossed spume,
But still it serves to frame his face.  No frown
Distorts his youthful brow, his cheek still sports a coral bloom.
He gazes out, does not look down.
He was not then of great renown,
Yet seems a father to the man. What an heirloom
Man inherits, in childlike clarity of thought which lights up the unknown.
His essence lingers like the perfume
Of a better kind of wisdom which survives beyond the tomb.
His face is grave, his intellectual merit, though not here fully grown,
Is obvious as he looks on. Freedom's not some foul fume
English roses, warm air blown,
Are not sweeter, breathe it in. Why doubt what you are clearly shown?
Past light of stars illume
The present darkness of the night.  Choose what is known.
You aren't children, but free men, born
In dreary dullness.

Sunday, 5 June 2016

Bronze Fennel, Hot June Day

The garden's pubes have wilted in the heat,
Flopped over, quite collapsed and flat,
They're flaccid, lying useless in defeat.
I take the turgid, phallic hose and sprinkle them
Hoping they will rise up, once again look neat.
I'm sure they will, yet now I think of them like that
My filthy mind sees stink horns lurking underneath,
The hard, white, leather balls of jellied slime,
Which burst apart and thrust their polystyrene willies in the air,
Each bell end sporting its white hat.
As a child I'd see them all the time,
In innocence thought nothing of their looks,
I never see them now, and do not care,
For they belong to childhood's beech woods and to fungus books.
And this luxuriant, deep bronze, pubic hair,
Belongs to well kept gardens and grown ups.