Safe and Sound

They’ve risk assessed binge drinking,
And now it’s safe as soap.
They’ve rendered vodka harmless,
And plan the same for dope.

The electrics have been grounded.
The fluids ? Reservoired.
All sharp points have been blunted,
And they’ve checked each circuit board.

Fat meat’s back on the menu
(Cholesterol is good.)
And have no fear when strolling
In that drug gang’s neighborhood.

The studies are conclusive
And there’s no margin of error.
So flap your arms when jumping
And have no twitch of terror.

One Happiness

You just need One Happiness ;
The rest doesn’t matter.
Ascendant and soulful –
The lonely times scatter.

The shops try to sell it
At prices outrageous ;
But what is the value
Of feelings contagious ?

And how do you winnow
The many to One ?
And screen out the misery /
Phase in the fun ?

One love and one trust
In one life – all a part.
Commitments are honored
When bound with one heart.

Random Thoughts, Ignited by Recent Events at the Large Hedron Collider in Switzerland

It was not their intention
To give you a fright,
But they seem to have
Found something faster than light.

Oh…the ‘they’ means the docs
Who observe how light speeds,
Thinking this is a key
Thing the human race needs.

After which I reply :
‘Light’s enough for me, please ;
But I’d love to hear what
Caused the holes in your cheese!’

This would really enlighten,
And set the world right.
But let’s look at other
Things faster than light:

My daughter when finding
A spider in bed;
Some drivers when traffic
Lights turn green from red.

‘Shopaholics’ when told
Something’s priced for a song;
Or a spouse when she’s
Found that you’ve done something wrong.

The taxman, when you’ve made a
Goof and not paid ;
A rock star who hears that
His flight’s been delayed.

Consider light-beating neutrinos!
(More explosive than eating baked beanos?)
They arrive unexpected
In a way undetected
As the docs toast their brilliance with vinos.

Sumfin Wot I Roat in Skool, Emprooved By Teechur

Kiss, Don’t Miss
Hug, Don’t Slug
Luv, Don’t Shuv.
Love, Don’t Shove.

Fly, Don’t Lie
Make, Don’t Fake
Kreate, Don’t Hayt.
Create, Don’t Hate.

Simplify, Don’t Amplify
Empathize, Don’t Rationalize
Democratize, Don’t Autocratize
Distinguish, Don’t Extinguish
Illuminate, Don’t Eliminate
Expostulate, Don’t Excommunicate.

Bee, Don’t, Flea.
Be, Don’t Flee.

Me and Thee

There's an ocean between us
(I'd prefer it a puddle)
It's my ego and I
Got us into this muddle.

There's a land mass between us
(I'd prefer it a garden)
For your heart's with another
And I've forced mine to harden.

There's a galaxy gap
(But I crave inner space)
And the moon's a reflection
Of your lovely face.

Tidalia

'The land may vary more
But wherever truth may be -
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.'
- Robert Frost

(What is it of that fluid edge
That keeps us all in thrall ?
That justifies the seeker's pledge
But makes us feel so small ?)

I reach for her, and she for me -
My endless mirror: the sea, the sea.
On far horizon's line she keeps
The mysteries of her tawny deeps.
But here on my loved rocky shore,
With noisy breakers by the score,
I manage what lies in my reach,
And search for treasures on the beach.

The Horn, Silenced

The dust from the shuffling of a million feet,
Obscuring the sun in its appalling heat.
The mothers and children, the men without herds,
Moving forward towards nothing - looking back without words.

The borders are blurred when the drought is complete,
And the crops turn to dust under shuffling feet.
There's a way to the camp, with the promise of water,
So a couple move on with the corpse of their daughter.

Kwashiorkur relentless, and the young will die first -
Armageddon triumphant (malnutrition and thirst.)
Still the warlords deny all the death in their land,
Though the harvest's a bounty of dust, dirt and sand.

At the gate stand two thugs, and they greet with a shove;
Still the couple persist with their bundle of love.
Join the mob at the truck, where the water's in flight,
Then the search for a roof, and some ground for the night.

I have seen quite enough, so I switch off the news,
And I head for the fridge for a couple of brews.
While a husband and wife face a hole in the ground,
And the mummified death of a love that they'd found.

Then I reach for a pen, pop a cheque in the post,
For an easing of guilt, then I'm done - well, almost.
I should do it again in a week, month or year;
For the need will continue beyond this, I fear.

And the pair walk away to an uncertain fate,
Just two pawns on the board of Somalian hate.
Now a wind swirls the dust on that long-barren plain,
Where a cross on a grave marks unbearable pain.

Life, Jim, But Not As We Know It

I’d like to see a UFO,
Not later, but right now;
And watch it as its ghastly arms
Abduct a munching cow.

Those tentacles will issue forth
From ‘neath the hov’ring saucer;
And give the cow a tale as real
As any found in Chaucer.

The green men will attach their probes,
And prod each orifice;
And test the cow’s reactions
To ensure no artifice.

The cow may well discharge cowpats,
And “Moooo!” as if in fright
(Or maybe to complain about
The lack of grass in flight.)

And on the ground I’ll sit and wait
For Daisy to return;
Or for the pat-smeared swirling disc
To quickly crash and burn.

Across the fields a radar man
Will monitor events;
While accessing his online bank
To count his pounds and pence.

For now his job is under threat
Because of budget cuts;
And not even the RAF
Can pay for high-priced butts.

Perhaps the cow will be called up
To ‘man’ the radar station
(That’s if the bovine close encounter
Sparks some conversation.)

The air force brass might be impressed
With what the cow’s been through;
And Daisy’s newfound aptitude
For adding two plus two.

The cow could play a crucial role
In UFO detection;
But never make the evening news
Thanks to data protection.

The aliens will return to Zog;
(They'll leave us - that was that)
To spend the next three light years
Probing one distinct cowpat.

And me? I’ll always scan the skies
From railway, car or bus;
While pitying the farmyard beasts -
Hoping it’s them, not us.

Once Upon a Time in the Two-Thirds World

Raul lives on a trashpile
Maria lives next door
Their cardboard shanties shelter
Them from life which feels like war.

Their parents are a vapor
Their brothers drift around
The rest of those they knew then
Are still hiding underground.

The men with guns come often
Their weapons sweep like brooms
The children softly cower
In their makeshift cardboard rooms.

El Loco and amigos
Have ruled the hill since when
El Presidente squandered
The golden egg (and hen).

Conquistadors on trashpiles
Where beggars sift and sort
Just Raul and Maria
And their orphanage cohort.

What Fresh Horrors... ?

What fresh horrors await us today ?
What fresh honors await us today ?
I will hold back and have something in-between, thanks;
A wealth of the well-known - a closing of ranks.

What lines do we utter to earn ourselves love ?
What signs of life clutter may just burn out our love ?
I will scribble some poetry, mumble some verse,
And pray for a lifetime, for better or worse.

What games do we play to deserve this dire fate ?
What flames of affray will preserve this fire (fate) ?
Though a sin of ommission is no sin of commission,
I will offer my fears to the angelic vision.

The Machines Are Winning

Split-second timing.
Database priming.
Upgrading, climbing...
Cyberspace crime-ing.

Facebook-style 'friend';
'Friend'ships that end.
Receive, now, or Send.
Block, then, or Mend.

I-Player, You-Player.
Electronic soothsayer.
Square-eyed Dragonslayer.
Switch it on ; be a Stayer.

Machines can't feel
(Can they ?) but deal
With things that seem real.
It's our imaginations they steal.

What is This Life? What's He Mean?

What is this life, I ask you, if not constant crowd control?
You start off in a hospital, and end up in a hole.
You’re marched from school to school, sent forth, and then from job to job,
And drive a bloody caravan like every other slob.

That tea with Alfred Prufrock sadly failed to change your mind,
Only reinforcing views that you’re the Walter Mitty kind.
Though Big Brother is impassive, as you try to slip away,
The White Bubble may well catch you, as you swim across the bay.

“I’m a man, and not a number!” is a noble sentiment,
But if nobody is listening, then it’s breath that’s poorly spent.
So you stand in line and worry that your passport may be lost;
No escape and no identity – existence has a cost.

“Would you like a new PIN number, and a unique username?
Very sorry, but your documents were all put to the flame!
But we dearly crave your custom, and will gladly come to call,
To confirm you’re not a brick in our almighty business wall.”

Yes, we’re all part of the tribe, and must do what we can to cope,
Or else seek a bleak oblivion, with a necklace made of rope.
There’s more meaning if we seek it, Reader, don’t mistake my theme,
I am actually an optimist; salvation is my dream!

A Thousand Journeys of a Single Step

When you need more time to think, or
You think, and then you drink;
When you hit the ‘berg and sink –
Walk on … walk on.

Walk on water, soothing soles;
Walk on waves that break on shoals.
Walk up Golgotha, with blisters and all;
As you carry your Cross, and you suffer a Fall.

Roads to Emmaus, Damascus and Home;
You can fake the centurion, march into Rome.
From a meaningless shuffle, break into a sprint –
Though the sun’s in your eyes, you’ll run fast if you squint.

When depression hurts belief,
When your choices end in grief,
When the rainbow time’s too brief:
Walk on… Walk on.

Belonging

I am a Merican,
And – here’s the rub - Ritish,
Plus a touch of Ilipino.
Don’t laugh ! Rench,
With the odd Utch.
From a younger age, Erman,
And a little bit Alian.

Much blood has been spilt in these names.
Seemingly endless, fatal games.
Nationalism killing almost as many as ‘Belief’.
Good intentions ending inevitably in grief.

National Socialism.
National Front.
Chiang’s Nationalists.
Hunter, hunted… hunt.

These days I wave my flag of convenience
As I sail through the airport.
It’s shaped like Mao’s Little Red Book,
But it’s a deep-blue, American passport.

Haven’t lived there in years.
Customs man sneers before he clears.
Love it or leave it, his eyes seem to say.
It’s him and his kind, why I'm off and away.

But then when I pause, reconsider, take stock,
I have my P near Plymouth Rock.
(That’s P for Place, and not what you think
(of the bodily effluent that leaves a bad stink))

I’ll grow where I’m planted,
Even when trans-Atlantic-ed.

Gloria

Drain my ego,
Fill me up ;
Blood wine from
Your loving cup.

Starve my soul,
Then feed me full ;
Bread of life –
Incomparable !

Still my voice,
Then teach me song ;
Hymns of praise
A lifetime long.

Bless with money
(Just enough) ;
Keep me from
The silly stuff.

Teach me love,
In all I do ;
Love that carries
Back to You.

Take my life,
Then make it Yours ;
‘Loss’ could open
Many doors.

Sacred and Profane

He thought no good could come of this ;
But thought not twice that he’d persist.
The kiss of life,
The kiss of strife ;
Malingered… Dallied … Partner ? Wife ?

She was, no doubt, a tad unstable
And hurt him (though she thought not able);
To some avail,
Beyond the pale :
Their lovers’ life was worse than jail.

Divided by a common tongue ;
He made her feel old, she made him feel young.
The dream unfulfilled,
The passion now chilled:
The dull monotone of a voice that once thrilled.

A curious thing, this thing called love;
Pounce like an eagle, drift like a dove.
A blink of the eye,
A baby’s first cry;
Or a dead star’s white light, as it stares from the sky.

The Game of Kings

Lay down the board, and set up the pieces.
Anticipate scenarios; obfuscate openings.
Be obdurate; obstructionist… obstaclize. Is it chance?
There are no dice to roll, no spinners to whirl, no cards to flip.
It’s all in your head… or is it?

Genteel aggression, with each piece
Having its role, inherent.
Sacrifice. Is there a choice?
Carried off the board for the
Greater good. Victim of a feint, a defensive
Ploy, or an outright attack.

What matters to you is results.
Annihilation, or a surgical strike, and a quick
Concession, or a reluctant draw. On the other side,
Your opponent questions, “What if …?”
As you shake. Pieces are returned, if
Not peace. Decide; your hand is already moving.
Make the unknown happen.

Thought….
Move….
Thoughghght….
Moooove…
Thght….
Mve…

Enough, poker face. I’ll show my hand;
I’m a king and a pawn, on this board we call land.

One Grandmaster controls my fate. The paradox of
Giving up ‘freedom’, but gaining much more.
Live by the rules. No choices but one; life or death.
Pieces taken. Pawns like Tommies in Flanders fields.
Expendable. A war of attrition. And the King?
Limited mobility, must be protected.
His Queen roams the battlefield like a Sherman.
I am all of them and more, but need to know where I’m placed.

Then there are those who reject the Grandmaster; feeling their
Role is sufficient. Living from square to square – no strategy.
Or thinking the players have abandoned the board, left
The room, gone to have lunch, forgetting to return.
There are other things to do.
Maybe it’s better to compete on level playing fields: chance,
Luck, randomness, and surprise; they rule play.
Backgammon, Monopoly, Blackjack, Scrabble.
Some skill, to be sure, but not quite enough.

I’ll rest here awhile on this square,
Seeking a common purpose between
My role and His thought.
Sharing a strategy, and ready for
Action. Aware of those around me: castles, rooks, bishops.
Each able to move in preordained fashion for
The common good, but also, like me,
Waiting.

Witless to History : A Pastiche of My Past

When Sputnik flew, and Kennedy fell,
I was rolling my wheels over the Common
Like that kid in ‘Make Way for Ducklings’, with
No.. knowing.. nothing of a Space Race or Conspiracy Case;
Just wondering if that waddling mallard would fly, or die.

Boston was blue, and we moved near DC one night
When Dad joined State while
Johnson and the hawks dreamt the
Crap that did Vietnam. I still had my bike.

But the boat to Europe left possessions in its wake.
The bike stayed. In the Kiddy Kabin, I used
A periscope to spy a
Wheel-like Coke sign in Arabic, through a
Porthole, steaming into Casablanca, before Paris.

There were spies in embassies then;
Cold War complications, contrasting the
Calm of Pont Neuf, and the Rue de la Ferme.
There really wasn’t much to report, and
I wasn’t aware ; a new bike got me
Round the Bois de Boulogne.

The Hague was... well, we heard that
Martin and Bobby fell.
A cyclone of cyclists; and across the North Sea,
Beatlemania shifted gears.
Our short hops were to London,
Riding down those wood-slat
Escalators to the Tube (way
Before the Kings Cross conflagration); Chelsea
Girls grooving to ‘Hello Goodbye’ on transistors,
Riding up while we descended…

…to The Philippines, and blessed Cebu –
Pearl of my dreams, and
A new Stingray with banana saddle
For my birthday; our gang ferried by
The still-operational landing craft to
Mactan. Then back to the harbor,
With Dad to check papers on a USN Destroyer,
Steaming its way west to lob
A few shells into Haiphong.
The New Frontier becoming The Great Society.

Once more to DC, and Watergate went down.
Shuffling through my paper round in Olde Towne.
John Dean on my list; an awestruck mention, met
By my handler’s : ‘Just chuck the paper over
The fuckin’ gate. We don’t want no complaints.
Cooperate.’

He’d have made a good Confederate, Johnny Reb,
Klansman-in-Training, cruising through The Bird in
His Camaro, traced by sullen black
Faces, and me getting cold-cocked in a school
Corridor by one of them. Didn’t even know the kid.

I had a 10-speed, and needed all of them.
That first year I biked out of Towne to school in
A ‘white suburb’, but the next year, eighth grade,
Found myself on an ‘Integration Bus’, riding
To a ‘black school’ closer to home.
A Civil Rights Initiative. Instead, I got
A Faceful of Fist.

Some shithead
Polyester-suited Nazi handed out leaflets at
Our bus stop: “Send the niggers back to Africa. They’ll
Be happier there, and so will we.”
J.G. and Johnny T. made them into paper
Airplanes and sailed them out the window as we
Rolled through The Bird. Two black kids picked
Up pieces of brick to return the favor.
No Freedom Riders here.

Sick from school, one day I
Watched the news and saw George Wallace gunned down by
Arthur Bremer, “The Smiling Assassin.” Still
Smiling as he was wrestled to the ground.
An American Dreamer.

Went north to high school,
Leaving my loving family, and a lot of baggage, too.
Took the Overground Railway, left my bike, and
The years rolled by.

These days, don’t cycle much; prefer
My feet on the ground, moving at my own pace,
Running past house-hidden wars, and character assassinations.
I know now that battles are won by Love, Humility, and
Compassion, even as campaigns continue on various
Fronts, in multiple theatres. Looking up, I remember that
Sputnik long ago beeped its last in space, and the
Eternal Kennedy flame
Still burns in Arlington, not far from Olde Towne and The Bird;
Just down the road from the headquarters of
The American Nazi Party.

We are where we are in time and space; in sight
When the clocks chime – an appointed place.
Made reverent or numb by what happens.
Cycling or jogging along; sometimes stopped in our tracks
By a targeted shot, or a redemptive thought.
Watching a flock of ducks in flight.

Not Fade Away ?

She's dropping down his Inbox,
And her voicemails ? Fading, sure.
But worst of all this slippage
Are his memories of her.

He's blocked her face on Facebook
And her postcards have been burned,
As he's grasping for remembrance
Of the way his heart she turned.

They've got no friends in common
So no shoulder will be stained
By the tears of someone's sorrow ;
Of a breakup unexplained.

He assumes this is his swan song,
Though she'll never hear the tune.
There's just silence, pain, and wondering,
And a blank, impassive moon.

Dear, Sweet, Ailing England

You are my hostess, not my home ;
Away from you I like to roam.
Agreed – a green and pleasant land,
But not if homes are built on sand.

Your gates swung open ! – In we came
Like Irish to the Statue’s flame.
But now your stature’s sinking fast ;
Your glory days comprise the past.

“Tired of London / Tired of life”,
But glad was I to leave that strife
And hurry to these village hills,
Away from concrete’s subtle ills.

Until I realized : near this scene
Are multiples of Milton Keyne.
The soul-less housing (cursed “estates”)
Which, like disease, proliferates.

I’m in a siege, surrounded by
Developers who have an eye
To eat the hills and drink the streams ;
Devouring Britannia’s dreams.

From an Alternative Burns Night

There once was a haggis from Wick,
Which made people horribly sick.
It was filled with the guts
Of a pair of dead mutts,
And a sauce from a rancid oil slick.

The Epicure

He stuffs himself fat,
And drinks himself stupid;
He smokes every last friggin' fag in the pack.
And his heart's a fine organ,
But it ain't playin' Cupid
(Though his ticker is dodgy,
It has always come back.)

He drinks himself fat,
And eats himself stupid;
He gnaws every last friggin' bone in the freezer.
Though the odds are he'll last
Just a year, he'll bet two, bid
The house on a nice, happy life -
Drink a Breezer.

'All You Can Eat' is a challenge he'll take;
He will gorge till he's gagged,
And he'll swill till he's slewed.
In the morgue where he lies,
His big toe has been tagged.
And his friends raise a toast to him:
'One happy dude !'

The Widows of Longville

There are four widows on my street;
I fear them when they daily meet
To chat about 'who might be next.'
My cry for help ? I send a text.

Their men expired without a fuss,
Back when our street was known as 'Us'.
Those couples seemed so nicely matched !
But now each dame's alone - detached.

Old Johnson's heart was poorly wired,
And Baker ? Well, he just got tired.
MacGregor's lungs filled with 'Big C',
And Pollard's tractor hit a tree.

And me ? Good health, but can't be smug ;
My dame may find some poison drug !
Then join the four for daily chats,
While we dead boys feed graveyard rats.