In search of distractions from fractured reactions
to viral infections conflicting us all
The beast on my shoulder gets meaner, gets colder
gets thinking of things that could do with a fall
Collapsing contentment and rising resentment
As vicious suspicions maliciously twist
And virally spiral compiling with ire all
the lists of the villains who wouldn’t be missed.
It’s easy, a breeze, to believe this disease
is a key to relieve us of troublesome foes
Let karma disarm those who lead us to harm
in whatever the form that enrages you most
But I can’t let it happen, can’t fall for that pattern
and so I shall seek a superior spell
A quick incantation from nation to nation –
I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
Though losing my patience in self-isolation
my station is not to condemn or to curse
We’re scared, unprepared, we’re deserving of care
We are all of us human – no better, no worse
It’s easy to send all my prayers to my friends
to extend my concern to my own personnel
but when all’s said and done we are all of us one
and I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
The bog-rolling, bankrolling blinkered baboons
who believe that their need is more urgent than yours
The greedy, the needy, the selfish, the seedy
who’d climb over corpses to capture the cures
To wish them destruction, distress or dysfunction’s
to sanction the strife that’ll send us to hell
There’s only one thought that can stifle the rot –
I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
The braggard, the swaggard, the shit-stirring blackguard
who puffs and parades and proclaims it a hoax
However prophetic, profound and poetic
the justice would be if you choked on your jokes
You’re only mistaken, a place often taken
by me and by you and by everyone else
You may be a fool, may be callous and cruel
But I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
The fashion for passion has stirred us to action
Habitual friction, regrettable, crass
I know that I need just a moment to breathe
my rage can engage when the danger is passed
From Daisy to Doris, from Donald to Boris
we’re part of a chorus for good or for ill
We loathe and we love and we hug and we shove
And I hope you don’t get it. I hope you stay well.
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 3:46 PM UTC
I drew a picture
of a tree in winter
cold black branches
criss-crossed the white page
It made me sad
so I put it away
and forgot
I’d ever drawn it
That Spring
while looking for a pencil
I found the drawing
and gasped in shock
The tree had grown
white blossom
where tiny bees
could feed
And a robin sang
from its topmost branch.
“Impossible!” I thought,
hiding it away again
The idea of the tree
grew through the season.
By summer
I desired another look
A riot of green
hid the cold black branches
and sunlight burst
through every leaf
This time I hid it
with a secret smile,
let weeks pass
as I felt the magic working
Autumn came
my picture changed
branches heavy
with bright red berries
Mistle thrushes,
waxwings, blackbirds
beyond my skill as an artist
flapped and chattered on every branch
To keep them safe
I hid the picture
one more time
my perfect, living tree
Winter came -
I showed my children.
The cold black branches
did not make them sad
They could see
the coming colour,
the light, the joy, the sweet berries
and they climbed into the branches, laughing.
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 7:32 AM UTC
The jackdaws shared
their plans with me
in silver glances,
subtle gestures
quiet but relentless
The plans
were appalling
horrific
inhuman
and yet
made perfect sense
I bore
the burden
home
began to pack
but stalled
midway
There really is
nothing for it
but to wait.
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 11:30 AM UTC
Aye.
There was no police brutality
when we had the vote.
Barely a punch thrown.
We do things right here.
We talk.
We spraff.
We shoot the ****
We build momentum,
shake foundations,
come within
a midgie's whisker
of doing something amazing
Then we **** it up completely
and write poems about it
for the next couple of centuries.
At least we can still kid ourselves
that it's someone else's fault.
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
But he hijacks your mind, you see -
you start thinking
in pithy vignettes
and seeing ancient injustice
in a drunkard's bloodshot eyes
The universal
in the particular -
God, aye! Sheep
as avatars
for all society
and majesty in language
as it's spoken, and heard.
Then you imagine him
hiding other poets' books
behind his own
in Waterstone's in Dumfries,
and remember -
he's as human as you,
thank ****
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 6:53 AM UTC
There's a commotion
on the top deck of the bus.
Lost in thought
I take a moment to register
as an old gent stands up and says,
"Does anybody ken that wee boy?"
I look to the street below,
and there you are,
proud, red-faced and beaming.
You'd caught up with the bus
on your scooter
just to wave me away
one last time
Your grin has lit
every face around me
as you catch my eye, delighted.
Brimming
with a simple love
I wave back
and we pull away.
The bus may leave you behind
but I carry you with me
through streets all bright
with your presence.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 6:36 AM UTC
They had faces and bodies when I was young,
and they were rare -
Maybe once a year, a joke would be ruined
by a walking sneer,
my unselfconscious laughter curdled
by their pitiless scorn.
But, young and sure, I'd bounce along,
leave them forgotten,
and look for the good.
Blessed to expect
that people were kind,
I unshackled them,
disembodied the derision,
unhitched them
from reasoning, living beings
Left them free to gather
in geometric clusters
lurking on the edge of sight
like burning after-images
of a cruel sun
Wordless, sightless, lifeless
empty, ******* spaces
glimpsed with a shudder
on the best days -
gathered in consumptive clouds
on the worst.
Unseen by my companions
they eat my ability
to explain or expel them.
They are there
if I acknowledge them
or not
and in time
they make a nothing
out of everything.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 5:46 AM UTC
We don't beat hate with hatred, you know.
You just corral them with contempt,
get their defenses up, their bile flying.
Let folk feel beleaguered and defined
and you strengthen them tenfold.
Look at the ****** church, for Christ's sake.
They can't all be bad. They just can't.
There must be plenty decent folk
rocking themselves in darkened rooms
disgusted at the devastation
their party has wrought on the country.
Looking for a way to save some face.
So here we are. A national holiday,
an amnesty on regrettable social views
and rampant self-interest - Hell,
we've all helped out our pals when we could.
Go find a decent Tory. Open your heart.
Leave your partisan badges behind.
In gentle, soothing tones, explain,
"Your party's ****** mate.
They have no plan. You really don't want
to be with them when the dust clears.
If you keep voting for them, you're an enabler -
it's like handing a bottle of meths to an alkie."
They don't need to join your party.
They don't need to change their views on anything important.
On national Turn a Tory Day, all we ask
is that they stop voting for these dangerous morons
so they can get to **** out of the national consciousness
and let the rest of us clear up their mess.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC
1) - My Life as a Disabled Gay Black Woman
I choose my food
based on personal preference.
I enjoy preparing
and eating it.
I set my home up
in a manner I find agreeable.
I find my partner
rapturous and infuriating
in almost equal measure.
I would lay down my life
for my children
and I fear the world
on their behalf.
I endure
and enjoy
a particular set of experiences
which will never be repeated
but can be broadly understood
by anyone
with a passable degree of empathy.
I speak for no-one
but myself.
I am more involved
with the here and now
than I am
with centuries
of cultural history.
I modify my behaviour
based on the company I am in
and there are aspects of my life
which are no-one's business
but my own.
2) My Life as an Able-Bodied Heterosexual White Man
See above.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
Me and Robin
rockhopping
round seaweeded,
barnacled beaches
where the river
shakes hands
with the sea
When up pops an otter.
Straight out the silver waves
it comes
and starts chattering at us
in Japanese.
I scratch my head.
Robin looks baffled.
The otter is urgently
incomprehensible.
We look around
on the offchance
that a Japanese tourist might be around
and willing to translate,
but we're the only ones there.
"I wish my dad was here,"
I say,
"Or Auntie Lynn,"
adds Robin,
but they're not
and we lack their talent
for languages.
We try our best
with shrugs and gestures
but all we have is apologies.
Eventually,
with a tetchy 'sayonara',
the otter slips back through the waves
leaving us
none the wiser.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC