Not Here

Between the point of laying down my book

And waking, later, lying on my back,

An eternity of nothingness, obscure,

Unlike so many other times before,

Where mere sleep has intervened and I

Have known the place in which I’ve been,

The parameters of mind, behind the eyes,

The places I have visited in dreams,

Surreal worlds just dull familiar scenes,

But here’s a vacuum, how much time has passed?

It may have been no time at all, and yet

It made the greatest difference there could be,

Because on re-emerging, I came back,

And knew that I’d come back to being me.

I set about to quite recall myself,

But started with remembered colour, blue.

I felt its calm familiarity, at first without its noun

And then the word arose, or did it land?

It seemed to come from outer space at first.

But knowing it began a chain reaction in my head,

And I recalled my mother, ten years dead,
And then my father, living still, alone,
And time slowed down and then seemed to expand
And I saw my elder sister, aged just three,

Upon a tricycle, on rough, flagged, pale grey floor,

And recognised the wrinkles of the stone,

At Swinsty in the entrance corridor.

And then my younger sister reappeared,

And seconds later she too had a name,

And then a little while must have elapsed,

And time seemed stopped, suspended once again

Until the shock of recollection of a spouse

Four children of my own, a lovely house.

And here I was, beside the dog, in my old bed,

The light still on, my novel on the chair,

At peace with a contentment which felt earned,
As if I'd passed a test, had won a game,

Alive and well, reborn, and quite returned

From emptiness and vacancy and black.

Huddersfield

Up on the moors,

Among the bog cotton and heather, 

Millstone grit boulders,

Bilberries, bracken,

Lie a lad and lass together.

One is pale and shaken, 

Wretched, weak and broken.

It’s not Cathy and Heathcliffe,

Out in wind and weather,

For all he’s swarthy, black eyed, ‘other’,

It’s Mohammed and Chloe,

And she’s also had his brother,

And his best mate, Rashid, or someone or other. 

And peaty water is soaking through her jeans,

And she’s cold and shaking,

And she knows what he means 

When he promises he’ll see her tomorrow.

He’s going to leave her here,

Up on the moors,

Among the bog grass and the heather,

Under empty grey sky,

With just the lonely curlew’s cry

To remind her she’s alone,

Miles away from her mother.

Gas Light

The light, a greenish white, has yet a warmth,

One greater than itself could e’er possess,

It is not physical, this seeming heat,

It is a quality that is endowed 

By those who look upon it and feel blessed

Believing what they see has old, historic links,

And is the same kind radiance which bathed

The scene some hundred years ago. The street

May now be filled with passing cars, the crowd

Who walk the pavement might be dressed

In polyester raiment, cheap as chips,

But they are also human, are they not?

Just like their antecedents who forgot

Their fear and fought

For what they felt was right.   Such men 

Did not succumb, were not disturbed

As rugs were pulled from underneath their feet. 

And so it is that those who claim to think we should

Hold fast, each passing year to what is good,

Can practise their delusions and their tricks.

We do not see their treacherous deceit

Beneath tradition’s glow, beneath the soft

Moth pale and iridescent shine,

As every day they seek to undermine,

Those strong foundations upon which we stand

As smashing ancient truths we understood,

They hold abominations up aloft

For praise and to compel us to disown

Our silly, basic instincts.  We are banned

From speaking freely, and are shown

The error of our thoughts, derivative,

We’re told, from Fascism. For right is wrong,

There are no certainties,

Black’s white. Good, counter intuitive. 

The Archeologist

I’ve been digging all day, in search of offence,

And sweeping away the fine grains of sand,

And now I have negative evidence,

I’ll condemn you anyway, out of hand.

My role is to show that there was something here,

Be it only a tone, or an ill judged phrase,

I’ll pull you to pieces and make it quite clear

That all those who follow you, or sing your praise

Are as vile as you and worth nought but contempt.

And I shall look virtuous, clever and wise 

And will sneer at your arguments, much is at stake.

And each sad attempt that you foolishly make

To win followers by writing witty replies

Will result in more trouble, yet you’ll leave a trace,

As defeated you quit in a swirl of disgrace.

Climate Change

It’s been all pathetic fallacy, politically,

We’ve been extreme, 

Defending Corbyn speaking anti Semitically,

Or wishing him dead, instead, 

And warming to our theme,

Yet unable to think critically

We’ve been tweeting out abuse,

Letting bitchy one liners define us. 

But it’s no use,

Autumn’s nearly here, all moderate and mellow,

Turning our politicians Lib Dem yellow,

There’ll be no Brexit, just stale compromise

And the usual, temperate lies,

And the climate will be English, once more,

We’ll tell ourselves prag trumps dog matic

And constant tepid pleasant, trumps occasional ecstatic.

We might even start to put radio four on,

And listen for minutes before shouting ‘moron’,

Things will be as they were before

And we’ll find it was all just weather,

Oh well, whatever!

The Counterpoint of Birds

The Counterpoint of Birds

First light of dawn is deep hue smalt

Which fades and pales to powder blue

As background noise - M62,

Increases, never seems to halt,

Provides a pedal or a drone, 

Incessant, rushing monotone

Above whose roar, like distant sea,

An early bird, quite close at hand

Atop the neighbour’s holly tree

States his subject,starts a strand,

A timid hesitating phrase, 

And pauses, thinks he is at fault,

As none take up his shy refrain,

But keeps his nerve and tries again,

Insists on morning, takes command,

Restates the subject of his fugue.

Until another joins in,

High in pitch, short whistling,

Which harmonises nearby snoring

Contented, snorting sighs of praise.

And then a pigeon on the roof

Hoots down the chimney in disdain,

Just as the wall clock in the hall

Strikes six and its sweet ringing chime,

Is answered by a robin’s call,

And then a far off collared dove

Starts up a football chant, quite boring.

A magpie sneers and jeers to rhyme

Each scoffing shout an ill tempered rant,

Which causes counterpoint to stall,

By leaving others feeling small.

Comments Closed

The comments section underneath the line

Is closed today, you cannot have your say:

Our algorithms are on holiday.

Our bots need rest, and recreation, wine,

And walking in the Tuscan hills, fresh air,

Those things YOU crave in summer, please be fair, 

They cannot monitor your words, define

Your views as hateful, cruel, repulsive, vile,

Day in day out.  They needs must take a break

From scanning ‘right wing’ thought, for what’s at stake -

Our Socialist Utopia - requires us to file

The names and controversial arguments

Of those whose old ideas we deem wrong,

For purposes we hide.  Still, all along

We let you speak, these legal instruments

We store, condemn you to your fate, it’s true,

But every time you tapped the screen, to spell

Out nasty contradictions and repel

Your betters, up above, you condemned you.

Each time you tried to sound a caution, wrote

Of how, in your experience, the thought

Behind the narrative was wrong and fought

To change the author’s outlook, we took note,

Not in the way you wished us to, perhaps,

But as it was attention which you sought

We gave it in abundance and you ought 

To show some gratitude.  It was your lapse

From Marxism which sealed your doom, your need

To tap out sacrilege at speed, our role,

Is merely to facilitate, extol

The virtues of the system, and indeed

To trap.  So be grateful we’re not here now,

Be glad our algorithms are away,

Remember everything you wish to say

Will be held for years against you. Somehow.

Back Me Up To A Cloud.

Back me up to a cloud, lest I forget

The beauty of an English village street,

Of homes of handmade, rustic brick where yet

It’s possible to guess the date of neat

And tidy houses which  retain: a ridge

Which dips or waves, beneath an azure sky

Where a chimney sends a curl - softest smudge

Of momentary grey, and passers by

Acknowledge it as prayer, a hope sent out

Upon the English air, that all within 

Should be as if by Vesta blessed. Cream grout

Of old lime mortar well rubbed back, some thin

In well ruled staves and some slapped on to fill

The chinks which tired, idiosyncratic 

Bricks can’t help create.  Sagging softwood sill

Beneath a sash of aristocratic,

Classical design, whose strong bars, in line

Still along the upright plane, serve the role

Of temple pillars, changing light, define

The boundaries of each dark pane, control

The view through wavy, polished glass so those

Looking out onto the river see the scene

As through some older, wiser eye which knows

That mere sight is just enough to glean

The faintest understanding of the world.

Back me up to a cloud, visions fade now,

As each house has its lovely eyes gouged out,

Its soul seems to evaporate, and show

The blank, dead stare of modern man’s self doubt

In manufactured plastic, perfect glass,

In double layer, which makes the poor, cheap mask,

Yet more repulsive.  Now I cannot pass

Without a hopeless sigh, so huge the task -

Nigh on impossible, of stopping those

Who wish to flash new wealth at others, who

As ignorant as they themselves, dispose

Of every vestige of what’s passed.  The new,

The mass produced, the thing that shouts its price,

Is held as almost sacred, save that those

Who would eradicate each, last, sweet trace

Of our shared history, one must suppose,

Can’t comprehend what sacred means.  The dumb,

Who desecrate in ignorance each place

Which they pass through are mindless, numb,

To conservation’s call, unmoved by grace,

Without the faintest understanding of the world. 

I Passed The Devil On The Stairs

The Devil passed me on the stairs, 

As I was coming up them,

He looked down on my childish thoughts,

Decided to corrupt them.

He stopped to talk and blocked my way,

I could not pass, nor could I stem

The flow of strange, polluting words,

He poured and spat like yellow phlegm,

He simply, coarsely had his say. 

He did not seek to be let in,

He did not tempt me with ideas,

This was not Milton’s man,

To pour foul ‘truths’ into my ears

Was this vile creatures plan.

And they were truths, to the extent

They honestly described

The goings on of fellow men,

Unlimited, he spoke to span

The whole range of human sin. 

Now men and agents of the state,

It seems have recently imbibed,

His poison makes them mad, intent,

Fanatical, resolved, hellbent,

On ‘educating’ children then,

Disguising their black deeds as good,

Destroying what has been for years

A pledge, a contract understood.

I Walked Behind An Agéd Tart

I walked behind an agéd tart,

Along a glorious country lane,

I did not see from whence she came,

She just appeared and passed in front,

And neither of us smiled or talked.

Her tired legs set wide apart,

Her gait unbalanced, slightly lame,

She toddled on yet seemed to gain

A deal of ground in not much time,

Her mouth, a gash, also askew,

Was painted in some pale red hue.

Her clothes were polyester, black,

Part see through chiffon at the back,

Perhaps no longer on the game,

Yet somehow she still had the knack,

Of advertising as she walked,

Her former trade, to men of slime -

The pleasures of her withered cunt.

After The Wedding

The dog, having worn herself out,

In catching toys, thrown by bored boys,

Lies by the front door, 

Exhausted and stiff, as never before,

Half dozing and twitching, detached from reality,

Patiently awaiting the return of normality. 

The Chairs For The Wedding

The chairs for the wedding, vary, greatly,

Some stand tall, “serene and stately”,

Ready for some, more grand, occasion,

Firm of joint, and sound of rail, 

Their polish sparkling, like their conversation,

Too loud, beside their country cousins,

Slightly wormed, and rather frail,

Trying to mingle, look the part,

Beside the well used, everyday dozens,

Clean and neat and sound of seat,

Straight forward, useful, stout of heart. 

Some are split about the splat,

With no desire to stand and chat

And others, lumpy round the springs,

Make conversation based on things,

Competing to impress their fellows,

Regency, in golds and yellows,

Rosewood dense and strong, unyielding

Imagining the power they’re wielding

Arises from some greater merit

Than their ash made peers inherit

Forgetting ash made Piers’s plough

And fired the arrows from Robin’s bow.

On Tony Benn’s Five Questions

Speak plainly, say what power you have got?

And next tell where you got it from? Be clear,

You act as if you prize your power a lot,

And yet you barely ever seem sincere.

And in whose interests do you use it most?

Your own, we all suspect, but do reply,

Though don’t say ‘for man’s good’, you should not boast

In such vague terms, for we’ll find out your lie. 

And say to whom you are accountable?

You act as if accountable to none,

Leave havoc, problems insurmountable,

Insoluble, behind you when you’ve gone

To try out mad ideas in pastures new,
So last, say how we might get rid of you?

“We are fast approaching the stage of the ultimate inversion: the stage where the government is free to do anything it pleases, while the citizens may act only by permission; which is the stage of the darkest periods of human history, the stage of rule by brute force.“

On A Quotation From Ayn Rand

We’re almost living in that age,

Approaching now the final stage

Of ultimate inversion, when

Permission is required by men,

From government, who’ve placed a cage

About them.  How will they assuage

Their guilt, speak out and thus engage

In bolst’ring freedom’s cause, again?

Almost living,

Caged, can we measure, gauge

The distance left, can any sage

Predict the time, when in the pen

The bolt will drop?  And God, what then?

Too late to cry and scream and rage:

Almost living.