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.