Poetry – John Phillips – Silence

Posted on by Opher

Another poem from Shorts and Shots

Silence

 

Stone on stone on stone, the city canyons,

Towering ramparts, stark against the sky,

Once living, vibrant, fat with city sound.

No sound to break the silence of shadows.

 

Believe! We shall prevail! The Leaders cry.

The flag, the drums, the sound of marching feet

And crowds, then cheering, now forever still.

Nothing disturbs the silence of the ghosts.

 

Silent, the end, no sirens mournful wail

To mark the passing. But  blinding, choking;

Beckoning forth, rats to graze the streets,

Leaving behind the silence of the bones.

 

No birdsong brightens empty, city streets;

No sense of summer sun or winter chill.

No eyes, no ears, no thoughts, no memories.

Only the endless silence of the stone.

Poetry – Catalyst for Division

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Catalyst for Division

 

There’s a catalyst for division

And he’s coming after us.

He’s spreading hate and racism

To throw us off the bus.

He’s gathering his army

They’re taking to the street.

Toting their assault rifles

Jackbooting their feet.

 

He’s a catalyst for hatred

Enjoying when people cower,

Wallowing in his wealth,

Loving all the power.

He’s spreading all his fake news –

A propaganda machine.

Spreading lies and put-downs,

Talking sly and mean.

 

He’s a catalyst for confusion,

Making people fear.

Spreading doubt like manure

So that nothing is quite clear.

He’s empowering the racists

And stirring the pot.

He wants to get elected

Giving it all he’s got.

 

He’s a catalyst for violence,

Orchestrating his thugs.

Treating the people

Like a bunch of mugs.

He’s building walls in minds

As well as on the ground.

Where-ever he goes

The lies they do abound.

 

We know what he’s about!

Time to boot him out!

 

Opher – 26.9.2020

Poetry – Going to War – by John Phillips

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I do like John’s poems (have a look at his book ‘Shorts and Shots’.

Going to war

 

We’re going to war, we’re going to war,

We’re going to war again.

Parliament has been recalled

And Cameron will explain.

We’re going to war, we’re going to war,

We’re going to fight the foe.

America’s President says we must,

So it’s off to war we go.

 

We’re going to war, we’re going to war,

We see the enemy’s game.

But nobody says who armed him,

Or even from where he came.

We’re going to war, were going to war,

The enemy’s plans to foil.

We’ll degrade his capabilities

And inflate the price of oil.

 

We’re going to war, we’re going to war,

Isil will be destroyed

If it takes too long we’ll change the law

And conscript the unemployed.

If it’s All in the National interest,

Will somebody please explain;

Why we knock them down just to build them up

And do it all again?

 

 

Poetry – John Phillips – Syrian Rondeau

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Syrian Rondeau

 

With veiled hypocrisy, our cries

For Syria’s agony disguise

A national interest, which demands

Licence to plunder and to stand

In judgement, as we seek the prize.

 

Our history falsely justifies

Superior worth, which testifies

That all should bow, as we command

With veiled hypocrisy.

 

By politics we legalise

Our case to feed the screaming skies,

The killing-fields and smoking sands.

Whilst tearfully wringing bloodstained hands

We pontify and moralize

With veiled hypocrisy

 

Check out his poetry book – Shorts and Shots

 

 

Poetry – The Politician

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The Politician

 

I’m a very stupid man

I’m a politician.

 

All I crave is power and wealth,

Which is exactly why I ‘m here.

If I play my cards right

They’ll make me a peer.

I do not have a mind

I vote the way I’m told.

My party’s always right

No point in being bold.

 

I’m a very stupid man

I’m a politician.

 

The whip is my friend

He tells me what to think.

Saves me the trouble

I don’t even have to blink.

Questions of morality

Don’t enter my head.

I leave that up to others

And sleep easy in my bed.

 

I’m a very stupid man

I’m a politician.

 

Opher – 24.9.2020

Poetry – The Land

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The Land

 

Once the land was free,

Without boundaries,

Flowing with trees

Alive with birds and bees.

 

The robber barons claimed the land

Using methods underhand,

With their villainous bands

And fences manned.

 

They chopped the trees and enslaved us all,

Forcing us to crawl,

Building their vast halls,

Driving us to the wall.

 

Now the land is owned by a few.

Run by the same crew,

The wealth flowing through.

Still screwing me and you.

 

Opher – 23.9.2020

 

Poetry – Mask Evolution

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Mask evolution

 

Masks are not effective.

Masks are optional.

There’s no need to wear a mask.

Masks are unBritish.

 

Put your masks on in shops

On busses and in trains

We wear them for everyone else

Masks are politeness.

 

Masks are essential.

You will all wear a mask.

We’ll fine you if you don’t!

We decree masks for everyone!

 

Opher – 24.9.2020

Poetry – Peace in the Middle East

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Peace in the Middle East

 

There will be no peace

In the Middle East

Until all sides are resolved

And past sins absolved.

 

Two thousand years of injury

Leave a bitter legacy,

A toxic history,

Requiring an end to misery

 

We should all abhor

The men of war

Who firmly shut the door

To fester the sore.

 

Not the people to blame

In this vale of shame

They are all the same

Caught in a hapless game.

 

All sides around a table –

Dispense with the fable!

 

Opher – 23.9.2020

Poetry – The Ballad Of Boris Johnson

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The Ballad Of Boris Johnson

 

I was born with a gold spoon in my gob.

Clowned through Eton like a mawkish yob.

Had my fling with the Bullingdon boys,

Using poor people like they were toys.

 

Some are born to be great

It’s my fate

I couldn’t wait.

 

Never had to work but the cash flowed in,

Writing columns and drinking pink gin.

I blustered and joked like a complete clown.

Now I’m turning the country upside down!

 

Some have connections,

Social inflections,

Paternal protections.

 

Lots of young fillies, red wine at the club,

Boozy nights and lots of good grub.

Paternity suits and a portly build

Were no obstacles for me, down at the guild.

 

Some have the confidence,

Based on no evidence,

A matter of providence.

 

A marvellous gig on Have I got News

Secured wider appeal on behalf of the blues.

Before I knew it I was mayor of the City,

Clowning it up and living quite pretty.

 

Some have the luck,

The pluck,

To make big bucks.

 

I messed up and joked my way through it.

Many were the times that I nearly blew it.

Stuck on zip wires like a shambling fool;

Blustering and buffooning like a complete tool.

 

Some are born to be great.

I couldn’t wait.

It’s my fate.

 

But the people loved me, thought I was fun

They labelled me the chosen one.

I ran the Home Office off my cuff.

Got kicked out when the going got rough.

 

Some have the confidence,

Based on no evidence,

A matter of providence.

 

When it came to Brexit I changed my mind.

Here was an opportunity for me to find.

Thanks to Cummings I pulled it off;

Lying to the top with a huff and a puff.

 

Some have the luck,

The pluck,

To make big bucks.

 

I’ve blustered my way to the top of the tree

They put me in charge of the whole country.

With all this power I’m completely free.

With all that loot just waiting for me.

 

Some are born to be great.

I couldn’t wait.

It’s my fate.

 

Then came covid, that messed me up.

I was out of my depth, all tits up.

I’m dithering around like a complete dick.

Everyone can see I’m completely thick.

 

They’ll give me the boot

But I’ll have the loot

And I can scoot.

 

Opher – 21.9.2020

Poetry – John Phillips – Cassino

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Cassino

 

They’ve taken all our tanks away

To service and renew. They say

We’ll have to fight as infantry.

The Poles have fought  without relief

For several weeks and , ours the brief

To deputise and give them leave;

Whilst, overhead the bombers fly

With total air-supremacy

To pound and smash the monastery.

 

We’re issued rifles, tommy-guns,

Hand grenades and mortar bombs;

Tools for the work that’s soon to come.

We leave our transport, shoulder packs,

With shaking legs and aching backs

In darkness climb the mountain tracks.

Still, overhead the bombers fly;

Wing to wing they fill the sky,

To pound and smash the monastery.

 

The Poles descend with shouts and cheers

To days of leave and rest, but we

In silence contemplate our fears.

Soon dawn will chase the stars away

To bring a smoking, darkling day

Of thunder and atrocity;

And overhead the bombers fly,

Their cargoes raining from the sky

To pound and smash the monastery.