Poetry – We are cattle in a field.

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Prose Cons and poetry cover

We are cattle in a field

I wrote this piece on ISIS and my good brother Plato sent in his comment –

‘I just think of them as “on purpose” more than mistakes or failures. I think the world is run by psychopaths who profit and feed on chaos destruction and death. Those folks exist in the East as well. Their business model is called socialism or communism or something else. I believe those in the East and West have similar goals and see us common folks as weeds or cattle to be managed and used for their purposes.’

I agree.

The world is run by psychopaths. They do feed off death and misery. They profit from it. They sow chaos so that they can reap the benefits. They are ghouls who have no hearts. Whether it’s capitalism, communism or ISIS, the name is different but the game’s the same.

We are the cattle to be herded and sacrificed, fed off and used. They want us ignorant and dumb.

We are the weeds who they despise and want to rip up.
We are cattle in a field

We are cattle in a field

Assessed for our yield.

East and West – chaos is best.

As the psychopaths feed on profit and greed,

Licking their lips on grisley statistics.

Destruction and death is the song on their breath.

We are the cattle in the field

Chewing our cud.

They farm us and keep us

To suck on our blood.

Psychopaths elected without fail;

All black and white and plausible

They speak it so well.

They see us as weeds

As despicable scum,

Plebs and numbers

To work and be dumb.

They use us as soldiers

To fight all their wars

To behead and burn

And settle old scores.

Cattle and weeds

Cattle and weeds

The business model is clear.

They keep us

And feed us

And control us with fear.

Cattle and weeds

Cattle and weeds

They feed us the lies;

The politics of hate,

The gods in the skies.

Their game is power

And they’re calling the shots.

A brand name of Islam,

Capitalism or Trots.

It’s all just the same

All just a sham.

When it comes to a new brand

They’re giving it lots.

The psychopaths are still in control –

They are laughing with glee.

The tanks still roll

Through country after country.

Munitions and arms

Are great for the economy.

Great for the power of the ruthless

Leaders in charge

Of the abattoir.

Not so good for the cattle

Who thoughtless feeds,

Or the future of all of us weeds,

Or those in the rebellious choir.

Where’s the gate?

Opher 12.9.2015

Poetry – I don’t promise you forever – a love poem of sorts.

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Prose Cons and poetry cover

I don’t promise you forever

All this romantic talk of forever is just a farce. We haven’t got forever; not even a mere hundred years.

Love is an emotion, an endorphin rush, a surge of brain chemistry. It comes out of attraction and serves a purpose. That purpose is to match our genes and produce children that transcend us or to create a bond with someone that is deep enough to see us through life’s hurdles.

I don’t hold with this romantic talk.

I’ll love you while the endorphins last and then we’ll see if we can still get along on friendship, trust, habit and mutual respect.

On the other hand I might just tell you that it’s forever. That sometimes helps.


I don’t promise you forever

I won’t promise you forever

That is much too long.

After the first billion years

We might not get along.

 

I won’t be loving you

When the stars all blink out.

You wouldn’t like it then

With just hydrogen about.

 

No, I’ll love you for a while

And then I’ll stop.

Even a thousand years

Would be over the top.

 

I won’t even promise you

A measly hundred more.

Long before then

I’d be heading out the door.

 

Ten more might reasonably

See us through.

I have a feeling that

Will just about do.

 

So I’ll love you while

The feelings last.

Probably until the end

And we’re both in the past.

 

Opher 11.9.2015

Poetry – My Mountains – A love song.

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DSCF1549

My Mountains

We cannot live without a heart, without recognition of something worth more than ourselves.

Love gives purpose to existence. It makes us strong, bolsters us when weak and generates power.

In an infinite universe it is not good to be alone.

To share a tea, a sunset or a quiet moment is transcendental. It is enough.

There is nothing more important than love. It is the antidote to the hatred and cruelty that destroys the world.


My Mountains

You are my mountains, hazed with blue mist

My sky

My sun

You are my forests, seas and wind

My stars

My rain

You are my volcanoes and hills

My soil

My trees

You are the ground underneath my feet

My air

My wind

You are my moon serene in the heavens

My clouds

My flowers

You are the touch that wakens me

My morning

My day

You are all the time I hold in my heart

My streams

My shore

You are in me beating with life

My blood

My guts

Without you there is only silence, darkness and perpetual night

For you are my light, my beauty and my truth.

Nothing can exist without you.

 

Opher 10.9.2015

Poetry – One Mother Many Sons – a poem about the overpopulation crisis, migration and the rape of the natural world.

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One Mother Many Sons

Sometimes I despair of what we are doing. The overpopulation continues – producing huge numbers sweeping all before it in a mad rush for space, food, water and shelter.

Mass migration, deforestation, desertification, desecration, fanaticism, desperation, slaughter of life, butchery and death. The mantra is for more growth, more expansion. The rich get richer. The poor starve in the midst of plenty. The numbers increase by the minute. A mad hurtling forward. Everyone looking after their own

Mad belief that it will all work out.

What can we do?

Get on with our lives.

While those at the top scheme and cream from their yachts and penthouse suites. And those at the bottom dream of pent-house suites and yachts.


One Mother Many Sons

One mother in the bush

Under the sun

Holding her child

In the wild,

Her only one.

Passing down her line

To roam and redefine

The changes

Strong and true

As her family grew.

Through many threats

And chance

They came through.

 

A mere two hundred thousand

Years flew

As the eyes peered

And minds grew

Flint to steel

And spaceship crew

Conquering all before

In rabid mode

Into space

To explode

With a mantra of ‘mine’

And bombs to

Unload.

 

Now seven billion on the shore

Chopping, slaying

For ever more

With nothing left

To remain

Of the wonders around

That we disdain.

Heading for ten billion

Without a care

As we settle every score

With seething brain

And madness as our pillion.

 

Twenty billion on a sterile ball

Of plastic joy

And concrete and steel alloy

Still heading on

Is the best we can do.

Thinking a hundred thousand

Years more

Is our due.

Yet the next fifty

May well see us through.

Adieu, Adieu…… Adieu

They’ll be nothing left

To miss you.

 

Opher 10.9.2015

 

Poetry – A Flash in the Pan – A poem about the reign of Mankind.

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A Flash in the Pan

We insanely think that everything will go on for ever as it is despite the lessons of history that tell us nothing ever does.

Our lives continue slowly down their path until a sudden event, a decision, a disease, a death, and they change forever.

Likewise it is with the history of the world.

Despite all the fossil record tells us we think we are here forever. We are not. We will one day be a seam of fossils in the rock strata. The thickness of the debris we leave behind will be determined by our own actions. That is the difference between us and all that has gone before.

We have the ability, through our innate intelligence, to determine our own fate.

The saddest thing is that despite that we seem intent on engineering our own demise. We steadfastly remain inept at addressing the problems that confront us. Instead of coming together as a species we remain apart as countries, companies and individuals vying, with voracity, for wealth and power in the face of the inevitable.

The Anthropocene Apocalypse looms and we seem incapable of breaking out of the selfish stupidity we are locked into.

The mantra is – ‘Expansion, growth and more!’ It should be ‘Together, intelligence and sanity!’

If we don’t change we will be a flash in the pan.


A Flash in the Pan

A flash in geology –

We came.

Held down by gravity.

We saw.

A species still in embryology.

We conquered.

With insane brevity.

 

Arrogant with no apology.

We knew.

Beset by depravity.

We grew.

Creating theology.

We thought

With undue voracity.

 

A chimp with ideas.

We flew.

Flawed with cruelty.

Right through.

Choosing a way of tears –

By choice.

Instead of what could be.

 

A narrow strip of rubble

We left

Hiding a sea of trouble

Created

By our unruly bubble

Bereft

On the shore of possibility.

 

Busy designing our own exit

With glee.

Blind with selfish greed

We ignored

The means to fix it.

The word

Was lost in the deed.

 

Opher 10.9.2015

 

Poetry – Inside my head – pt3 of the Tumble Drier Trilogy. (That sounds so good)

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Image of Distinction Stefan Eberhard University of Georgia Complex Carbohydrate Research Center Athens, Georgia, USA Caffeine crystal

Inside my head

I was enjoying myself playing with this idea. This was the second in my tumble drier trilogy. I didn’t quite get the scan right but I found that if you say it right you can get it to work.

Communication is amazing.

All those neurons firing away in the dark, creating patterns of electricity that somehow have meaning. Evolution is wonderful.

I know that if I really peered inside at an operating brain all I’d see is dull grey blancmange. But I can fantasise.


Inside my head

 

There’s a hurricane inside my head;

A firework display of sparks.

Ideas spin like electric storm

In crescendo of fits and starts.

 

A tumble drier churns them round

As around they spin and fall.

A blizzard of electricity

In a scintillating squall.

 

I round them up like a herd of cats

And try to tie them down;

To translate them into the black and white

Of advective and noun.

 

This is them upon this page

Frozen as if in blocks of ice

No longer spinning in a rage;

Words will have to suffice.

 

I hope that when you read these words

The energy is released.

That you see the colours that were in my head

And they will be reprised.

 

Opher 5.9.2015

Poetry – Rumble, Tumble, Rumble – The Tumble Drier pt 2 – How a creative mind works.

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brain

Rumble, Tumble, Rumble

I don’t know how this creative process works. I just imagine my head as a whirlpool of electricity, all those sparks jumping around. Each one is an idea. They swirl about in a hurricane of madness. My job is to catch them, tie them down and translate them into words.

The words are symbols for concepts. The concepts are wild, free and glowing with life but the words are black and white.

If I do my job right (which I occasionally do) those black and white symbols will light up as iridescent jewels in your mind and live again.

It’s a nice concept isn’t it?

This is part two of a trilogy on the same theme. I seemed to need to rework it in different forms.


Rumble, Tumble, Rumble

 

Rumble, Rumble

Churn and Tumble

Sparks and Electric Storm.

Fireworks and explosions

In scintillating form.

Within the tumble drier

The ideas come and go

Spinning in their fury

In their iridescent flow.

I trap with my magnetic net

And attempt to glue them down.

But I know they will lose their sparkle

Trapped in adjective and noun.

Opher 5.9.2015

Poetry – I’m back – just when you least expect me!

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I’m back

Scurry   Scurry

Stop and wait

Lurk and hide and plan

Chuckle as they hesitate

Hairy legs will find their man.

 

In dead of night

When all is quiet

I’ll creep from out my lair

Up over the bedspread

Over pillow

Towards the tousled hair

Fangs eagerly dribbling juice

As I crawl across your cheek

To tease your lips with bristly feet

To just disturb your sleep

So that assiduously into your nightmares

Images of me will leak.

I’m back

And I’m bad!

I’ll make you mad!

 

Opher 6.9.2015

 

Poetry – The Tumble Drier – a humorous poem about the world within our heads.

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IMG_4807

The Tumble Drier

I’m not sure if the humour comes across enough in this. I’m a bit too close.

I liked the idea of my mind being like a tumble drier with scintillating thoughts as bright sparks being swept around and joining in new ways. I liked the idea of them chuckling and being naughty. I liked the idea that when you get them to slow down enough to make into words you can never fully capture their brilliance. The black and white symbols are so much less than the brilliant flashes.

If only I could encapsulate the firework display inside my skull and translate them into symbols that glittered and spat their sparkly fire.

I’d change the world.


The Tumble Drier

There’s a tumble drier churning in my head.

It’s tumbling the sparks that are my ideas.

If there was a window in my skull you’d see

Blue and yellow electric flashes of electricity

Spinning,

Falling,

Endlessly,

Like the swirling of the sea.

 

They swirl and flash

As on my skull they bash

Knocking sense

Into my brain

So dense

That it feels

No pain.

 

It’s a washing machine

Geared to cleaning up the sparks

So that they can see

To join themselves

For further larks.

 

As they tumble through the space inside my head

They chuckle as they fall

And join together in endless new ways

Like children giggling in a school.

 

I have to capture them

And make them stand still

So I can record in symbols

And get my fill.

 

Sometimes they spin like a hurricane

And light up my eyes with an inner firework display,

Generating emotions and dreams, anger and fury,

And conjure up dragons to slay.

 

These are those bright sparks

Reduced to black and white

No longer shiny bright

But still lighting up the dark

And sometimes giving me a fright.

 

There’s a tumble drier churning in my head.

It’s tumbling the sparks that are my ideas.

If there was a window in my skull you’d see

Blue and yellow electric flashes of electricity

Spinning,

Falling,

Endlessly,

Like the swirling of the sea.

 

Opher 5.9.2015

Poetry – Ripples – A poem for a new positive Zeitgeist amid the infinite ripples of energy we emanate.

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DSC_0457

Ripples

This was inspired by Calansariel who puts nice comments on my blog. She was talking about how energy never wears out but goes on for ever and so, in effect, so do we.

I have this crazy notion that we are all connected by this zeitgeist we produce and so had the inspiration to meld the two ideas together; our energy rippling out to touch everyone around us and help create the mental climate of the future.

We are building the zeitgeist in which we flourish. We can make it positive and change the world for the better.

Our mental ripples will caress humanity for the rest of time.

It’s a nice thought.

The poem is exactly as it came out of my head just now. It probably needs a lot of work – this is it raw. I’ll work on it later.


Ripples

 

Ripples in an infinite sea

Of energy

And possibility.

Brushing minds

As they pass,

Forever.

Swirling the thoughts

Emotions

So clever

They evade credibility.

Ripples of a life

From you and me

To echo

Through time

Whatever

The weather.

Touching

Most intimately

Our dreams

Wishes

And schemes

As we alter

The climate

In which we swim

And create

New electricity,

New hope

For you and me

Amid this

Eccentricity.

We are building

A new vision

A zeitgeist

As our ripples

Create

What will surely be.

 

Opher 4.9.2015