If you believe the media
cancer is a fight, battle, a war
all guns blazing every day
they don't have it any other way


Cancer hijacks your life
you choose to fight a war
no one chooses cancer
you don't decide to be courageous

There's no cowardice in dying
survival is down to an early diagnosis
the knowledge and skill of surgeons and our old friend, luck

Media people say "stay positive"
throwaway words to people with cancer
take a cue from the person with cancer
avoid battles or fights, just love them

Inspired by my visit to Maggies in Manchester today. Google it. I understand this may be difficult to read but since my diagnosis, I've never felt like I was "battling"

A companion can leave them empty
devoid of self esteem and scared
bereft of friends to call on
memories of good times impaired

A companion can let them down
unable to connect with society
make self destructive choices
choosing alcohol over sobriety

This companion is good for no one
better off finding another way
a path less travelled but more fulfilling
a positive memory from every day

Be their friend, ease their sadness
that companion is loneliness

Be aware of loneliness

Would you still write a poem
if you knew no one would like it?
would you still post a poem
if you knew no one would love it?

Do you write poetry for you
for your own satisfaction?
do you write  poetry specifically
for popularity and attraction?

Does your poetic head
rule your poetic heart?
Does your ego control your thoughts
from the very start?

Have you an angel on your shoulder
guiding your hand and loving mandate?
have you demons in your fingers
driving a devil's advocate?

and if you believe in the faith of my father
to his obligations to his sons
and if you believe in the motif of my mother
for her wishes for her daughters

their faith and their motif will evolve
into a mellifluous melange
their obligations and wishes will ferment
into a timeless template

After attending a poetry gathering in my locality this morning, this led to natural expansion of my mind

Bono sang in mono
to Ed Sheeran shearing sheep
the Rolling Stones bag of bones
had Adele rolling in the deep

Frank Black turned to Jack White
then hid Robert's plant
Sparks flew down Electric Avenue
where they met Eddy Grant

Talking Heads met Radiohead
on a high and dry road to nowhere
stopped by the Police in a crime Sting
no one is innocent, especially Tony Blair

Foo Fighters eventually learned to fly
Rod Stewart sailed across the sea
Freddie Mercury rode his bicycle
all the Beatles just let it be

Sometimes you just have to fill the hours
Chris Neilson Jul 18

Summer's here, a time for shorts and thoughts of wine and gardens of beer
filling tables under umbrellas shielding the afternoon sun
where even in the North, rays can penetrate clouds and penetrate clothes and turn the pale peeling red, turning the air blue with verbose vernacular

Summer's here, a time for acres of flesh spilling over optimistic sized waistbands and ostentatiously tattooed torsos of symbols and kid's names, football teams and lovers and ex lovers and lovers of ecstasy.

Summer's here, a time for bouncy castles and burning meat on grills with various vegetarian options and wet lettuce salads, listening not to ballads but booming bombastic beats for free for neighbours delight or despair.

Summer's here for the urban spaceman and wonderwoman, for dogs and cats and birds in trees, tweeting if you please high on seeds from garden centre gardens in the suburbs for all your green fingered needs.

Summers here for a few months in name only if we're lucky or plucky to forecast days without rain with no pain but gain but maybe insane to believe that will ever happen on windswept islands off mainland Europe.

Summer's here for the good of all with it's Vitamin D and it's calmer sea with long light days where SAD can vanish into the ether with other seasons and HAPPY can be achieved on this evolving, revolving planet with a PMA and luck and love and peace to you all.

Trying my hand at some Tony Walsh tinged stuff
Chris Neilson Jul 17

Sting crossed the Atlantic
in a plane gigantic
with a passenger frantic
for sex that's tantric
didn't mean to be pedantic
but he's an old romantic
so this tryst titanic
with a stranger who's manic
for a mile high liaison organic
placed him in a panic

A slight re-work
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