Poetry – Ain’t it all a bleeding shame?

Ain’t it all a bleeding shame?

White boys languishing.

Black boys being shot.

Immigrants castigated.

They don’t give a jot.

Business running politics.

Backhanders on the bench.

Money buys integrity.

I can smell the stench.

30.10.2018

I was hearing how it is the poor white boys who are doing badly at school while black boys are being shot in gangs. They can all blame it on the immigrants but the MPs don’t really care.

Big business, with their lobbying, bribes and offer of jobs, are running the show.

The politicians are self-serving and happy to follow the money.

We’re all in it together – How much is Osborne earning now?

Poetry – The Art of a Budget

The Art of a Budget

Giving to the rich

But saying you’re giving to the poor.

Ending austerity

While continuing the cuts.

Stagnating incomes

In a booming economy.

Feeding the boardrooms

While starving the estates.

Representing all the people

But only your own tribe.

Giving to the schools

But only a stick of chalk.

Filling in the potholes

While careering off the road!

Opher 30.10.2018

It amazes me how they get away with it. Cutting the taxes for the wealthy while screwing the poor.

Giving a little here and there to create a mirage.

Austerity is over. It always was for those at the top and it still is for those at the bottom.

Poetry – Nobody

Nobody

Nobody gave the command.

The details are unclear.

There were no orders.

It is always somebody else.

They were bathed in blood

But it was their own fault.

They did it to themselves.

They are to blame.

With doves and olive branches

They beat upon the eyes.

With body bags and ruins

They paid for their sins.

Nobody gave the orders.

Nobody took the blame.

Nobody was there.

They did it to themselves.

Opher 30.10.2018

I wrote this after watching the events that have led to the massacres in Syria. The peaceful demonstrations demanding the promised reforms were met with brutal violence.

The Arab Spring deteriorated into fundamentalist extremism and bitter reprisals.

Spring descended into winter.

Poetry – Rights

Rights

We build them up

With fine filigree

As the wind blows them away.

Freedom and liberty

Are the delicate flowers

Of a long cultivation.

We tend the blossoms,

Feed the roots with hope,

But the drought comes

And the desiccated leaves fall.

Out of the long winter

Will come a new spring!

Opher 30.10.2018

We never seem to learn the lessons of history. We never seem to free ourselves of the mentality to destroy. We never seem to break the selfishness and greed. That is why the fascists are marching again, why the fascists are being elected, why rights are trampled under tribal boots.

But they will come again.

We are trapped within the cycle of our own stupidity.

Rights

We build them up

With fine filigree

As the wind blows them away.

Freedom and liberty

Are the delicate flowers

Of a long cultivation.

We tend the blossoms,

Feed the roots with hope,

But the drought comes

And the desiccated leaves fall.

Out of the long winter

Will come a new spring!

Opher 30.10.2018

We never seem to learn the lessons of history. We never seem to free ourselves of the mentality to destroy. We never seem to break the selfishness and greed. That is why the fascists are marching again, why the fascists are being elected, why rights are trampled under tribal boots.

But they will come again.

We are trapped within the cycle of our own stupidity.

The Stone And Reality

The Stone And Reality

I picked up a stone,

A lump of flint,

And held it in my hand

That I might judge its reality.

It weighed heavy in my hand,

Solid and brittle.

The outside rounded

With nodules,

All chalky white,

Smooth with small holes

Speckling its surface,

Tiny craters,

Glimpses through the crust

To the darker kernel of its nature.

One side had sheered

Into a glassy sheet,

Alive with brown, grey and black hues,

With depth,

As if my gaze could pierce into its deepness;

As if it were an aqueous liquid,

An undulating vitreous fluid

In which the shapes and colours flowed,

But it was only light playing on its surface.

The stone was impenetrable.

This flint,

This brittle rock,

So easily shattered,

Whose shards

Have served us well in ages past,

As knives, arrow heads or scrapers,

But is this the reality of this stone?

The sum total of its being,

Its aesthetics?

Its uses?

Isn’t there more?

Shouldn’t we not consider its history?

Born from great pressure in chalk,

Silica seeping,

Slowly crystallising within the strata

In the earth’s crust

Over millions of years.

Chemicals fusing to form these nodules.

Should we not go back further –

To the birth of those chemicals in distant stars –

Their formation

In the nuclear holocaust inside a sun;

The Nova that spewed them forth into space;

The condensing into planets?

Or yet further back

To the hydrogen

That fuelled that fusion.

Or beyond that

To the Big Bang itself

When the fundamental particles

From which it was formed

Were created in a flash –

Into existence from nothing.

I held the stone

And slowly turned it in my hand.

Billions of years of change

Manifested itself before my senses.

Yet its reality was still elusive.

Should I not consider its molecular structure?

The atoms that it is made from?

The subatomic particles that lie within?

The network of forces binding it together?

The microcosm of my rock?

Should I not consider the energy it possesses?

The heat it radiates?

The light it reflects off every surface?

Its sound as I tap?

The radiation it emits as its atoms decay?

What was its reality?

I had barely scratched the surface.

I turned it slowly,

Examined it carefully,

Before tossing it away.

Opher – 26.7.2021

We are surrounded by mystery, complexity and wonder which we take for granted.

Everything is so much more complex than the reality we afford it.

Nothing is trivia.

I was thinking of Blake when I wrote this.

The Stone And Reality

The Stone And Reality

I picked up a stone,

A lump of flint,

And held it in my hand

That I might judge its reality.

It weighed heavy in my hand,

Solid and brittle.

The outside rounded

With nodules,

All chalky white,

Smooth with small holes

Speckling its surface,

Tiny craters,

Glimpses through the crust

To the darker kernel of its nature.

One side had sheered

Into a glassy sheet,

Alive with brown, grey and black hues,

With depth,

As if my gaze could pierce into its deepness;

As if it were an aqueous liquid,

An undulating vitreous fluid

In which the shapes and colours flowed,

But it was only light playing on its surface.

The stone was impenetrable.

This flint,

This brittle rock,

So easily shattered,

Whose shards

Have served us well in ages past,

As knives, arrow heads or scrapers,

But is this the reality of this stone?

The sum total of its being,

Its aesthetics?

Its uses?

Isn’t there more?

Shouldn’t we not consider its history?

Born from great pressure in chalk,

Silica seeping,

Slowly crystallising within the strata

In the earth’s crust

Over millions of years.

Chemicals fusing to form these nodules.

Should we not go back further –

To the birth of those chemicals in distant stars –

Their formation

In the nuclear holocaust inside a sun;

The Nova that spewed them forth into space;

The condensing into planets?

Or yet further back

To the hydrogen

That fuelled that fusion.

Or beyond that

To the Big Bang itself

When the fundamental particles

From which it was formed

Were created in a flash –

Into existence from nothing.

I held the stone

And slowly turned it in my hand.

Billions of years of change

Manifested itself before my senses.

Yet its reality was still elusive.

Should I not consider its molecular structure?

The atoms that it is made from?

The subatomic particles that lie within?

The network of forces binding it together?

The microcosm of my rock?

Should I not consider the energy it possesses?

The heat it radiates?

The light it reflects off every surface?

Its sound as I tap?

The radiation it emits as its atoms decay?

What was its reality?

I had barely scratched the surface.

I turned it slowly,

Examined it carefully,

Before tossing it away.

Opher – 26.7.2021

We are surrounded by mystery, complexity and wonder which we take for granted.

Everything is so much more complex than the reality we afford it.

Nothing is trivia.

I was thinking of Blake when I wrote this.

Poetry – Unseen

Unseen

Unseen on the drifting breeze

                The scent of death from a common sneeze.

Isolating from our trusted friends.

                Gouging a wound that never mends.

A situation so badly managed,

                Leaving a crater as big as any war.

With damage to the economy

                Threatening to leave us forever poor.

Opher – 21.7.2021

I find it incredibly depressing to see how the country has suffered under the twin impact of Covid and Brexit as this disastrous government has overtly channelled huge sums of money to its wealthy benefactors while decimating public services and ordinary people.

All this nonsense about levelling up as they gaily award multimillion pound contracts to their friends.

All these lies about a prosperous future and Global Britain as they ferret away the spoils into their bank accounts, tie us up with red tape, decimate trade, throw away jobs, take away our job opportunities abroad while telling us how great this oven-ready disaster really is.

Now we can look forward to the decades of austerity as average Joe Soap picks up the bill for these years of Tory lies, sleaze and incompetence.

Our mental health is suffering.

Dead People in Dead Streets – Bukowski

“I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead: men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideals.”

~ Charles Bukowski, from “Sunlight Here I Am: Interviews and Encounters, 1963-1993” (https://amzn.to/2UKlnfd)

May be a black-and-white image of 1 person and beard

Poetry – The Best there is

The Best there is

There’s the UN and the ICC

Bringing the world to justice.

Selective and imperfect

But where is the alternative?

Someone has to hold them to account –

The murderers and poachers,

The polluters and warlords;

All those who practice genocide.

It’s all we’ve got!

The best there is.

Opher 28.10.2018

There are people who act outside the jurisdiction of governments. They are having a laugh.

They think they can kill with impunity, destroy the planet, slaughter for fun and rip everybody off.

Somewhere there has to be a system to bring them to justice.

We have the International Criminal Court and the United Nations. They are far from perfect but they bring people together and occasionally they have teeth.

They are better than nothing.

Poetry – Endless

Endless

The air is endless.

The grass is endless.

Water is endless.

There are endless numbers of fish.

There are endless numbers of insects.

There are endless numbers of animals.

Trees are endless.

Humans are endless.

The planet is endless.

But no.

Only the sky is endless.

Opher 28.10.2018

We treat everything as if it is endless. Unfortunately it isn’t. We are in grave danger of finding out that everything is really finite.

Our greed is probably endless though!