Widgets and gadgets
gizmos and apps.
Whatever happened
to cause the collapse
of my simple world?
What happened to the
simple pleasures?
The joy of simply living;
the joy of simply loving?
All consigned to the limbo
of a thousand electronic
gizmos.

I used to love a lass.
I gave her all I had
in time and space
and multiple delights.
But it is not enough
to satisfy her nights.
Without apps
she snaps.
That *****
needs her gizmo.
Without widgets
she fidgets.
She must have
her gadgets.

I’d like to bury hatchets
in her gadgets.

by Nanao Sakaki

If you have time to chatter
Read books

If you have time to read
Walk into mountain desert and ocean

If you have time to walk
Sing songs and dance

If you have time to dance
Sit quietly, you lucky happy idiot.

                                            Nanao Sakaki
                                                          ­Japan

                                               From Can I Buy a Slice of Sky
                                               Edited by Grace Nichols
                                               Published by Hodder Childrens Books 1996

There is a tendency among
those poets who may be very young
frequently to put in verse
those foreign phrases, or much worse
the now dead words of oh so ****** Latin
to boast of classrooms that they’ve sat in.

And just in case you’ve never heard ‘em,
Let’s reduce a few to ad absurdum.
It was amore a prima vista
until he left her for her younger sister
for, after all, who could resist her,
so moving on to secunda vista
he took that step and boldly kissed her,
behaviour that is hardly utopista.

The trouble with modus vivendi
is that it sometime rhymes with eye
but there are those who don’t agree
and think that it must rhyme with tea.
Who cares? It’s all the same to I.
Or should that be the same to me?

You may say it is not de rigueur
that I defend with so much vigour
what surely is no more than hubris
that I attribute to Confucius
for he surely ha detto tutto
albeit un po convoluto.

And everyone’s heard of carpe diem.
If not, then I have yet to see ‘em.
But I prefer to seize a waist
which may be thought somewhat unchaste
though far more likely to have shocked ‘em
would be to carpe in the noctem.

Perhaps you think it’s ipso facto
that I’m intolerant of lacto
unless it comes directly from the breast.
I think it’s better that the rest
of this is left to your own opinatus
for which I offer no blank cartus.

Then there’s the modus of my own vivendi
that I indulge in cacoethes scribendi
the itch to write for which I daily
scratch myself or play my ukulele
which is my form of modus operandi
before I pour myself a king-size brandy.

And thus we leave this boring dull citare,
by this time you have certainly grown quite weary
of any further venture into tedium
Or as ***** Harry might say, fac ut gaudeam
For after all a day senza sunlight
Might altrettante facilmente be night

Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.

Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.

I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.

It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.

But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.

Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).

To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.

Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.

That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.

I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.

I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.

And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.

#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in *Adam Bede

My brain too long has had the sound
and shape and nerve
of breathless requiems.

I want to feel my own rebirth
in time and space come throbbing through
the tips of each finger,
flooding my dry veins with rich green sap
and giving me new sight
to every sense;
making me whole again.

I want to feel my spirit as before
rippling with joy
and dancing through my skull,
so that, merged in adoration with my soul,
I may once more have that power
to fill my cup of life and love
and find this consummation
in her arms.

Sitting and waiting in the hospital reception area,
gave me time to think; and feeling even warier,
having just suffered the very first nosebleed of my life
and carrying within my wallet a warning card so rife
with the advice that its possessor is subject to the danger
(I know this may sound somewhat dog in manger)
inherent in an anticoagulant called rivaroxaban
and (if this doesn’t overstretch your attention span)
in the event of bruising or of bleeding
medical advice must be sought before proceeding
any further.  That is to say, at once, or even faster.
or, at least, with speed sufficient to avert disaster.

So, as I say, there sat I contemplating
(no, not my navel, but) the rather aggravating
progress of events that had brought me to this juncture,
that ended recently in a procedural puncture
preparatory to the insertion of a stent
the culmination of which they had to circumvent.
This gave me time, while waiting for the nurse
to minister to my problem, or at least rehearse
for my own delectation the best course
I would have to follow, not to make the situation worse.
At this point let me interrupt my own amorphous
rambling to pay due tribute to the hospital service.

This versifying for which I have developed a proclivity
means that I’m never at a loss these days for an activity
to occupy a boring period of gross inaction
replacing boredom with cerebral satisfaction.
So there I was, awaiting the arrival of the ****** nurse.
(Sorry, that sounds like an awful curse.)
In fact her blood-related treatment meant a lot to me
and was a simple adjective for her phlebotomy.
At that point my thoughts turned quite naturally
to the forthcoming repeat angiography,
and all the helpful comments by my  tender-hearted
friends, and the advice that they imparted.

I was quite astonished by the growing number
of people who this affliction did encumber
all of whom it seemed were anxious to ensure
that I was quite relaxed about what I had to endure.
Instead of being reassured I wondered
why the pessimists apparently were so outnumbered.
Indeed the views were so greatly one-sided
I found it strange there were no “undecided”.
Are they reluctant because of superstition?
Or is it that they wish to avoid an admission
that their empathic fear of ****** invasion
has led them to avoid arterial-related implantation?

But most of all I felt there should be scored
some “Nos” to balance the procedural record.
but they have been unbelievably silent,
whilst I’ve been growing every day more  violent.
Is it, dare I think, that it is just perhaps
because they may have suffered a relapse?
And then I had the most amazing thought of all,
and your objections I am anxious to forestall:
but I feel impelled to discuss the thought
that there’s a reason why they have not brought
their negativity to this post.  Is it quite beyond the pale
to suggest they’re no longer here to tell the tale?

by J.B.S. Haldane

I wish I had the voice of Homer
To sing of ****** carcinoma,
Which kills a lot more chaps, in fact,
Than were bumped off when Troy was sacked.
Yet, thanks to modern surgeon’s skills,
It can be killed before it kills
Upon a scientific basis
In nineteen out of twenty cases.
I noticed I was passing blood
(Only a few drops, not a flood).
So pausing on my homeward way
From Tallahassee to Bombay
I asked a doctor, now my friend,
To peer into my hinder end,
To prove or to disprove the rumour
That I had a malignant tumour.
They pumped in BaS04.
Till I could really stand no more,
And, when sufficient had been pressed in,
They photographed my large intestine,
In order to decide the issue
They next scraped out some bits of tissue.
(Before they did so, some good pal
Had knocked me out with pentothal,
Whose action is extremely quick,
And does not leave me feeling sick.)
The microscope returned the answer
That I had certainly got cancer,
So I was wheeled into the theatre
Where holes were made to make me better.
One set is in my perineurn
Where I can feel, but can’t yet see ‘em.
Another made me like a kipper
Or female prey of Jack the Ripper,
Through this incision, I don’t doubt,
The neoplasm was taken out,
Along with colon, and lymph nodes
Where cancer cells might find abodes.
A third much smaller hole is meant
To function as a ventral vent:
So now I am like two-faced Janus
The only* god who sees his ****.
I’ll swear, without the risk of perjury,
It was a snappy bit of surgery.
My ****** is a serious loss to me,
But I’ve a very neat colostomy,
And hope, as soon as I am able,
To make it keep a fixed time-table.
So do not wait for aches and pains
To have a surgeon mend your drains;
If he says “cancer” you’re a dunce
Unless you have it out at once,
For if you wait it’s sure to swell,
And may have progeny as well.
My final word, before I’m done,
Is “Cancer can be rather fun”.
Thanks to the nurses and Nye Bevan
The NHS is quite like heaven
Provided one confronts the tumour
With a sufficient sense of humour.
I know that cancer often kills,
But so do cars and sleeping pills;
And it can hurt one till one sweats,
So can bad teeth and unpaid debts.
A spot of laughter, I am sure,
Often accelerates one’s cure;
So let us patients do our bit
To help the surgeons make us fit
____________
.
*In India there are several more
With extra faces, up to four,
But both in Brahma and in Shiva
I own myself an unbeliever.

                                  J. B. S. Haldane (1964)

Each year it happens.
The apple tree viewed from my balcony
gives up its fruit
until at last one solitary apple
remains high up,
beyond reach,
riper, redder, more robust
than any of the others
that have fallen or been gathered.

Unmoved by rain,
unshaken by winds.
It is as if
this one remaining fruit
is determined to resist
the onset of winter.

Day after day
I awaken;
raise my bedroom blind,
rub my eyes
and seek it out
amidst the protecting foliage.

At first resistant to my gaze,
it then proudly displays
its presence,
as if to say
“Behold, I still remain,
a testament to the perseverance of Fall.”

Each year I too remain
despite the apple’s everlasting reminder
that I myself am transient
and will one day
be shaken from my bough.

I am reminded of O. Henry’s last leaf
painted by an aged artist
to give support and strength and sustenance
to fading hope of life’s recovery.
Perhaps the apple, too, is but a dab of oil
on canvas.

Indeed, am I myself a product of
an artist’s keen, unfailing eye;
living in some vast
parallel universe
adjacent to and yet unseen
by all those bygone friends,
amidst an orchard of fallen, rotting apples?

There is country that is far away
In time and space no more than shadow play;
A land designed to elevate the soul
More lofty than a soaring oriole.

A place that helps to make my spirit sigh
And soar as light as any dragonfly,
Respecting each the rights of every other
Where every man to me is my blood brother.

I lived there in miasma quite opaque
Within a dream I dreamt while still awake.
A land that’s still as far away in heart
As this which very soon I must depart

Although they seem so very far away
Neighbours are a cynic’s sobriquet
For people who are simply non-aligned
With nothing but contempt for all mankind.

Within the real world all is selfish interest
But not so far away in truth this is the best.
True patriots there are who here assemble
Be warned you tyrants that you stand and tremble.

I do not celebrate this pagan feast,
But others do, I know,
And some may call it Chanukah,
Or worship Christmas snow.

But call it whatsoe’er you will;
Light candles, deck your tree,
Or merely give your heartfelt thanks,
Please read this homily.

You do not need a good excuse
To celebrate a feast
You only need to have your fun
Before you are deceased.

by Siegfried Sassoon
1886-1967

In me past, present, future meet
To hold long-chiding conference.
My lusts usurp the present tense
And strangle Reason in his seat.
My love leaps through the future’s fence
To dance with dream-enfranchised feet.

In me the cave-man clasps the seer,
And garlanded Apollo goes
Chanting to Abraham’s deaf ear.
In me the tiger sniffs the rose.
     Look in my heart, kind friends, and tremble,
     Since there your elements assemble.

Blood tests are something I could do without
But they are alas a necessary evil
And though it’s really not a thing to shout about
They haven’t so far (in my case) proved lethal.

However it was with a deal of trepidation
That I presented myself at phlebotomy today.
The result did not match up to my anticipation;
The perfect vein was quickly pierced I’m glad to say.

It did, at least, give some sense of direction
To medical support for my ongoing treatment
Avoiding, to my great relief, any infection
Or disconcerting prospect of impeachment.

While the symptoms are improved by the procedure,
The condition, sad to say, is not remitted,
And the problem, even sadder, gets no easier,
While the health practitioners remain committed

To additional probing examination,
And are calling me for further tests next week,
Despite the blood flow’s vast immoderation
That required a lot of plugging of the leak.

When they put me into my final casket
And thus dispose my bones and body once for all
I can imagine someone there will ask it:
“We wonder why his body seems so awfully pale.”

Morning came.
The sun, though wanly yet,
From out the clouds did creep,
And chilled but more the coldness in each heart.

Night had passed.
Their craft its course had set;
They roused themselves from sleep,
Despairingly aware this was the start.

*
And then within their ******* a wondrous joy:
“We are alive. Our pained heartbeat
Is Freedom’s precious blood;
Though fugitive, we plant our feet
On this uncertain road.
Reprieve, we pray, these victims of Hanoi.”

But what inexorable dream did drive
Them to this pass? Utopia . . .?
Can desperation so
Produce a mass myopia?
Or did they simply show
A crass and rude desire to stay alive?

Freedom they sought and yet from freedom fled;
Their sorrow spent, alike their gold,
(Why give up gold for strife?)
Bewilderment assailed the old,
The rest were for their life
Content, who measured wealth by rice and bread.

This is no refuge for the older men.
Here Mammon reigns. Who dares offend
Its promissory trap?
The tree retains a bitter blend
That yet within its sap
Contains the best of threescore years and ten.

No sanctuary this; no lotus land
With blossoms sweet. Another scent
The fragrant harbour bears.
Its airs defeat their loud lament
And gives voice to their fears:
Retreat or here remain to make a stand.

Accumulated wealth; decay of man;
The evidence is all around:
This is cold comfort farm.
No penitents do here abound;
No charity; no charm.
“Dispense with it” some said “and change our plan.”

But still they stayed, and still more of them came
In constant hope: some few sanguine,
Some cynical, some scared;
The misanthrope and the benign,
Each really ill-prepared
To cope, alas, when menaced tongues declaim:

“You are not wanted here! You have no right
Our aims to thwart. We have our own
Philosophy to fill
An empty heart. Leave us alone
To line our pockets still.
Depart! Desist! This scene offends our sight.”

And whither shall they go when doors are locked
to them and barred? Another land?
Another sea serene
Yet still as hard? Forever banned;
Regarded as obscene;
Ill-starred, kept out, each avenue but blocked.

The days lay heavy on them, and the weeks
Marked mournful time; and endless nights
Of sleepless hours compose
No rest sublime. But lawful rights
And liberties opposed
By crime whose legal putrefaction reeks.

Pity those huddled masses in their hive
Of human pain. What choice had they
Beyond their selfish dream
To hope again? Perhaps to pray,
Or, with a piteous scream,
Complain once more: “We merely want to live!”

Was it not ever so, since the first dawn?
Did not our Lord (perchance, too, theirs)
Enjoy the same disdain?
(The same reward?) For what compares
With crucifix and pain
Of sword and scourge, save that one is reborn.

*

Winter brought
Another wakening day;
The menace of that dream:
Demoralizing symbol of their fears.

In the Spring
The well-tide of their gay
And sacrificial stream:
The flower must die before the fruit appears.

They tell me that
inserting a stent in an artery
these days is no different
than lancing a boil in my ***
when I was a kid.

It should reassure me,
but the use of a phrase
such as invasive surgery
fills me with such dread,
as does the hated “C” word
that rattles round involuntarily
in my head.

And even worse
is when they call it
Percutaneous Coronary Intervention
or PCI for short
but not for long
before the dreaded doubts
once more invade my mind
in sinuous counterpoint
to that more disquieting
portent of invasion.

They came one hour before the dawn,
Each to himself complete;
Fanatic’s face and stealthy pace
On canvas roughshod feet,
And each one knew what each must do,
His destiny to meet.
  
And some wore masks upon their heads
And on some heads were none;
And some held blades, and some grenades,
And in some hands a gun;
But, common to each one, upon
Their lips an orison.
  
It was not fear induced their prayer
(They were not so devout),
It was but pious callousness
That brought their prayer about;
The arrant beat of their conceit
Permitted of no doubt.
  
That they should seize, with perfect ease,
This symbol of the might
Of that great power in one short hour
Without the need to fight,
Naively and sufficient was
To fill them with delight.
  
But no one had considered that
There was a need to guard
The sanctuary of the house;
Tradition had assured
It would remain inviolate,
Thus were they ill-prepared.
  
And even less could they then guess
Their capture by default
In that bleak hour before the dawn
To dreams would call a halt,
Uncertain whether fear or smiles
Should greet this weird assault.

But never did they speak a word
  Or pause to give a thought
To those whose confined air they shared
And whose respect they sought
Yet unaware of how much fear
Their nervous rage had brought.

The constant weight of dreaded hate,
Much heavier than gold
Held in the throes of daily woes
Lacked shelter from the cold
And bitter blame that hid their shame
Scant comfort for that fold.
  
“If it were in our power alone,
You know we’d set you free,
But we must on that greater power
Bestow our loyalty.
Our faith demands the principle
Of reciprocity.
  
“And you must know our charity
Is running out of time,
And all we ask – a simple task –
That you admit your crime
Against our great and noble State.
Confession is sublime.”

But bit by bit and day by day
Anxiety increased.
The captives could not comprehend
Remaining unreleased.
And lacked the empathy that veiled
The hostile Middle East.

They disagreed between themselves
On what their captors sought.
There were a few who took the view
That they must lend support
To something that exemplified
How steadfastly they fought.

And for their part the captors too
Debated fervently.
Our fathers too believed as you
And lived lives decently
But we have learned by pain and strife
That these things cannot be.

But bit by bit their feelings changed
Quite subtly to and fro.
And what at first they would not face,
Became a need to know
The details of from whence they came
And where they hoped to go.

Is this the land your fathers loved
And toiled so hard to win?
Is this the freedom that they sought,
Those noble fellahin?
Do you not think these deeds disturb
The graves that they sleep in?

Do they not miss their families?
What holds them in such thrall?
Eternal and infinite bliss;
Is that the mighty pill?
Deliverance from worldly sin
And quick release from ill.

Our lives depend on your goodwill
And gaining your acclaim;
To guarantee survival must
Be our final aim.
Though it reflects so grievously
Our everlasting shame.

To find ourselves in bonding mode
Emotion'lly with those
Who seemed to pose the greatest threat
And had the most to lose
Seemed but the test of all the best
That we could then propose

Avoiding trauma and distress,
We need to change our course
As rivers often cannot help
Identify their source
We still believe we can relieve
The brutal use of force

Their cruelty from weakness sprang.
(They thought themselves humane:
Considerate to animals
And sparing children pain.)
But each one knew what each must do
Ere he saw home again.

“Justice for each is what we preach
Though it may terror breed;
That we may own what we have sown:
The produce of our seed.”
(The prejudice of ignorance
May yet fulfil their need.)

What irony their actions bear
As to achieve, they sought
Their violent needs with violent deeds,
And claimed for freedom fought,
Who were themselves to violence slaves.
How dear is freedom bought?
  
“The words we use indeed abuse,
But we have no regrets;
Corruption is the rotting fruit
That decadence begets,
And those who yet will of it eat
Deserve these epithets.”

Our motivation and our aims
Weigh much more heavily
Than simple arguments against
Abuse of family.
And we, with utmost trust, will still
Pursue it mightily.

To find relief in that belief
Their pleading did increase;
That that concern in turn might bring
Enlightenment and peace.
Yet still each knew what each must do
Before there came release.

The moral that this story bears
Will evermore abide . . .  
That death did not discriminate
One from the other side;  
When each one knew what each must do  
And each one did . . . and died.

If I can touch the heart and soul
of just one questing mind;
respond unto impassioned call
of questions unrefined,

then shall my feeble efforts be
rewarded quite enough,
and force my inner doubt to flee
without fear of rebuff.

If I have brought the regiment
of inner doubt or fear,
to rage or hate or merriment
by words that I hold dear

Then I may finally reveal
what held me in distress
and I may come at last to feel
an undeserved bliss.

[Therefore when you meet the unbelievers,
smite them at their necks.
Thus does Allah test you,
and, according to Qu’uran,
those that are slain in Allah’s way,
will never have their deeds forgotten.]

They called him Jihadi John.
It was not his name.
Mohammed Emwazi was how he was really known.
Born in Kuwait;
brought up in Britain.
How are such monsters made?
They have special classes
associated with the mosque.
How to slay
in the name of Allah.
The mosque does not encourage them,
but the mosque is a useful hub
for recruitment
and good camouflage
for activities denounced by
the majority of the congregation.

We really cannot blame
the parents,
we, who have spawned our own share
of mad dogs.
“He was always such a good boy”,
we hear them cry.
“Charlie’s such a good boy, a good boy”
runs the Dia Frampton lyrics
“so compliant, quiet as a stepping stone”.
“You’re such an easy target,”Dia says,
“without a rebel bone”.

[Do you hear what I’m saying?]

But this is in the West,
where tolerance is synonymous with weakness.
Pinpointed as terrorists
by the enforcers of public order,
(perhaps better defined as errorists)
so hesitant to deny these miscreants
their legal rights,
these sickening abominations
(undeserving of the name of Man)
are able to perpetrate their outrages
and continue to abuse the State
that has nourished them.
All in the name of
political correctness.

An equal tolerance
has never yet been granted
to one suspected of a similar
disregard for the traditions
and beliefs and loyalties
prized within their own
Islamic State.

We also have to ask ourselves:
would Russia tolerate this situation?
And furthermore
why is that immense country
so free, apparently, from Jihadism
when it has been responsible
for far more Muslim slaying
than any other Western nation?
Is it perhaps that very fact:
that absence of such toleration
has rendered it immune
from such attacks?

[Do you hear what I’m saying?]


So if you really want to take a hostage
and satisfy your primitive desire
to lop off a head,
the road to take is spread out there
before you.
You need to move to
freedom-loving nations of the West.
Pronounce your aims
in non-equivocating terms
and tie them very closely
to doctrinal belief.
No matter how outrageous
they may seem.

Indeed, the more absurdly
barbarous and primitive
the ideology that you spout,
the more your hosts
will backward bend
and shower upon you all the
benefits of a beloved friend.
Indeed, in bending backward
they are making a symbolic
gesture:
baring and presenting you
a throat.

[Now do you hear what I’m saying?]

I recall myself growing
inside her,
moving and reaching and
sliding, slithering,
straining against
any explosion of feeling.

I remember the sharing
of tumescent desire;
the transition from
connection
of mouth and breast
to thigh and ****.

I remember, I recall . . .
and that is all that’s left;
the memory,
the recollection,
the evocation
of joys long gone.

Alas
the sands run out.
Nothing now remains
but odium,
loathsome,
vile.

I’d had my way
back in the day,
but this, oh this
it must be said:
I’d left her
in a loveless bed.

by Philip Larkin

They ******* up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****** up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

                                         Philip Larkin

There is a country that is far away
In time and space no more than shadow play;
A land designed to elevate the soul
More lofty than a soaring oriole.

A place that helps to make my spirit sigh
And soar as light as any dragonfly,
Respecting each the rights of every other
Where every man to me is my blood brother.

I lived there in miasma quite opaque
Within a dream I dreamt while still awake.
A land that’s still as far away in heart
As this which very soon I must depart

Although they seem so very far away
Neighbours are a cynic’s sobriquet
For people who are simply non-aligned
With nothing but contempt for all mankind.

Within the real world all is selfish interest
But not so far away in truth this is the best.
True patriots there are who here assemble
Be warned you tyrants that you stand and tremble.

I do not walk in measured tread,
I cannot spare the time;
And steady pace is better suited to the dead
Or projects more sublime.

I see them dressed in garb of green
As best befits the land
That harbours jihadist and others more obscene
And not their native sand.

They bear allegiance to no state
That may have sheltered them,
But spread instead their ugly message born of hate
And anxious to condemn.

It would be easy to cast blame
On perpetrators of
The outrage that most freshly has induced our shame
And dissipates our love.

But this would be to hide our guilt
At similar events
That other so-called freedom fighters have but built
And empty rage foments.

The question that we must address
Is why these souls should choose
Defection from their lives of love, and thus aggress?
Why do they not refuse?

What is there that holds them in thrall
And draws them to a place
That their forefathers chose to leave for freedom’s call?
Is it a search for grace?

Is it the hope of paradise
Should they in jihad die?
Seventy-two-virgins is perhaps the promise
On which they then rely?

They claim that Allah is their lord,
that Islam is their life.
They spurn the pen; relying solely on the sword.
The Quran is a knife

with which to cut the Gordian knot
that engirdles their guide.
The jihad route to paradise, the unbeliever’s lot.
But we are mystified.

What must we then on our side do      
that hold freedom dearly?
I just demand the freedom that I give to you
Car moi, je suis Charlie.

I finally got
what I had for so long sought.
And did not want it.

Voltaire said
if god did not exist he would have to be invented.
But god does not exist,
except in my imagination.
Therefore I have invented him.

And according to Montesquieu,
if I were a triangle
my god would have three sides.

But god is of my mind
and thus . . .
god is me, and
I am god.

*quod erat demonstrandum

As I make my progress through life
I am aware constantly
Of the need for answers
and I am equally aware
that I have not been asking
the right questions.

I’ve reached the age when most of my contemporaries have
kicked the bucket,
turned up their toes,
popped their clogs,
and other such unsavoury activities.  
I take every opportunity
to memorialise their lives.
The question I ask myself is:
when I finally pop my clogs,
kick the bucket, and so on
who will provide the tribute to me?  

De mortuis nil nisi bonum is the Latin phrase
of Greek invention.
Speak nothing but good of the dead.
I cannot accept this.
What good can I speak of Adolf ******,
Osama Bin Laden
or even Senator Joe McCarthy?
Better would be De mortuis nil nisi veritas.  
Speak nothing but the truth.  
But, if I had to choose one for my own obituary,
I think I would turn to the late, great Harold Laski,
who coined De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.

I’d be very happy to have nothing but claptrap
talked about me.
after my demise.
At least let there be something written,
be it good,
truth
or codswallop

By John Reed

To Lincoln Steffens


SOMEWHERE I read a strange, old, rusty tale
Smelling of war; most curiously named
The Mad Recreant Knight of the West.
Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate,
Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly         
Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong
Harried the weak …
                    Long past, long past, praise God,
In these fair, peaceful, happy days.

                            The Tale:         
      Eastward the Huns break border,
        Surf on a rotten ****;
      They have murdered the Eastern Warder
        (His head on a pike).
      “Arm thee, arm thee, my father!         
        Swift rides the Goddes-bane,
      And the high nobles gather
        On the plain!”

      “O blind world-wrath!” cried Sangar,
        “Greatly I killed in youth;         
      I dreamed men had done with anger
        Through Goddes truth!”
      Smiled the boy then in faint scorn,
        Hard with the battle-thrill;
      “Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn         
        And shrill!”

      He has bowed to the voice stentorian,
        Sick with thought of the grave—
      He has called for his battered motion
        And his scarred glaive.         
      On the boy’s helm a glove
        Of the Duke’s daughter—
      In his eyes splendor of love
        And slaughter.

      Hideous the *** advances         
        Like a sea-tide on sand;
      Unyielding, the haughty lances
        Make dauntless stand.
      And ever amid the clangor,
        Butchering *** and ***,         
      With sorrowful face rides Sangar
        And his son….

      Broken is the wild invader
        (Sullied, the whole world’s fountains);
      They have penned the murderous raider         
        With his back to the mountains.
      Yet though what had been mead
        Is now a ****** lake,
      Still drink swords where men bleed,
        Nor slake.         

      Now leaps one into the press—
        The hell ’twixt front and front—
      Sangar, ****** and torn of dress
        (He has borne the brunt).
      “Hold!” cries, “Peace! God’s peace!         
        Heed ye what Christus says—”
      And the wild battle gave surcease
        In amaze.

      “When will ye cast out hate?
        Brothers—my mad, mad brothers—         
      Mercy, ere it be too late,
        These are sons of your mothers.
      For sake of Him who died on Tree,
        Who of all creatures, loved the least—”
      “Blasphemer! God of Battles, He!”         
        Cried a priest.

      “Peace!” and with his two hands
        Has broken in twain his glaive.
      Weaponless, smiling he stands—
        (Coward or brave?)         
      “Traitor!” howls one rank, “Think ye
        The *** be our brother?”
      And “Fear we to die, craven, think ye?”
        The other.

      Then sprang his son to his side,         
        His lips with slaver were wet,
      For he had felt how men died
        And was lustful yet;
      (On his bent helm a glove
        Of the Duke’s daughter,         
      In his eyes splendor of love
        And slaughter)—

      Shouting, “Father no more of mine!
        Shameful old man—abhorr’d,
      First traitor of all our line!”         
        Up the two-handed sword.
      He smote—fell Sangar—and then
        Screaming, red, the boy ran
      Straight at the foe, and again
        Hell began….         

Oh, there was joy in Heaven when Sangar came.
Sweet Mary wept, and bathed and bound his wounds,
And God the Father healed him of despair,
And Jesus gripped his hand, and laughed and laughed….

He did not upon the coffin place a wreath,
to do so, he felt, would have been obscene.
His wreath, instead, was just a metaphor
to symbolise the life that once had been;
a memorial to spirit that remained
and not a talisman of something pre-ordained.

The years had been filled with inconstant strife
to enter the parnassus of an exalted life

He may not have had all the answers
but he helped me address some good questions,
such as how you can locate a cat in the dark
when that feline itself is pitch black,
and has hidden itself in a cellar
otherwise termed a black hole.

But if I should chance to confront him,
I could ask for his personal view
of the answer to Hamlet’s sage
question of whether we are or we aren’t,
or which of the two we prefer.
And how can we learn to distinguish
a quasar from a hole in the head?

I might even ask what he thought of the cat
that Schrodinger placed in a casket
with poison and deadly material
that’s radioactively based.
Does he think it might leak radiation?
Does he think particles might escape?  
Or suspect it could simply explode?

And what might become of the cat?
Was it dead or alive, or just gone?
Let’s leave then with neither a whimper
nor even the biggest of bangs
It seems that it’s time to conclude this,
Now we’ve somehow returned to the cat.

I was a pimply-faced youngster,
fresh from the soot and grime
of London’s East End.
Removed unexpectedly
from the bomb and blast and buzz-bomb
of wartime London
and deposited precipitately
in the midst of South Wales
in the heart of rugby-playing country.
And I a soccer-playing kid from grubby back streets.
What could I know of scrums and back-passes and blindsides?

But I did my best, while ashamed to admit to my ignorance.
We put our heads together.
I thought it was a team consultation.
(They told me later it was a scrum.)
Someone shouted “heel”.
I thought he was being abusive
and the ball was so elusive,
and I turned too sharply,
and the upper part of my boot
detached itself from the lower.
(Our budget didn’t run to decent boots!)
And the team coach came over to me and said
“Didn’t you hear me say ‘heel’?”
And I, on the top of my form, replied:
“What shall it profit a man to win the whole game, but lose his sole?”

I got in a stew
About you.
And not knowing what I should do,
My only way to treat the issues
Involved an entire box of tissues,
When I got in a stew
About you.

I got in a mess
I confess
When you revealed signs of distress.
Though a very small bit o’ me
Considered at least the epitome
Of how we two might coalesce
I confess.

I quite lost my head
When you said
You would never share my nuptial bed,
Though a very small part of my mind
Believed you were just being kind
Despite saying we’d never wed
As you said.

I got in a stew
About  you.
But I had to accept your adieu,
Though the shaking apart of me
Was breaking the heart of me,
And I got in a terrible stew
About you.

And I bellowed, and yelled, and I moaned
And I hollered, and cried, and I groaned
And intoned that it’s time I withdrew
From your view

I view the future with much equanimity
And try not to rely on consanguinity.
My loss of blood to NHS phlebotomists
Whose hides are thicker than hippopotomists
Or, if you prefer it, hippopotami
Exacerbates  a lot of my
Concerns with the diminution of supply,
Reminiscent of Hancock and his cry:
A pint of blood!  You must be mad!
That’s almost an armful.  It’s really bad
If I do not have enough
Left to fill the smallest coffee cup.

But do not grieve excessively,
I’ve left a glorious legacy.
A double pocketful of books
Into which no one ever looks;
As well as countless music scores
That it seems everyone abhors,
Regarded by equal abhorrence
As evidenced by non-performance.
But one we greet with jubilation
Refrigerated Transportation
Beloved by transport chiefs galore,
Who hide it in their frozen store.

I want to see her one more time;
One more time to say the things
I should have said before;
One more time to say I’m sorry
and how much I deplore
the ill-concealed behaviour
that she could not ignore.

I want to see her one more time;
One more time to gaze upon
that so beloved face;
One more time to visualise
that look of peace and grace
so unappreciated
while it was commonplace

If only I could see her one more time,
I’d be able to expiate my crime,
express  contrition
for that disgraceful act
unintentionally hurtful
and more a lack of tact.
If I were granted only one more time.

The apple is gone.
It departed today in the wake
of Gonzalo’s sting.

The sting in the tail
of a hurricane that
should never have touched our shores.

And so the symbol
of tenacious life
no longer bears witness
to my own tenacity:
my own survival in an
irresolute world
now seeks another yardstick
on which to pin a shaky faith.

I love the English springtime:
the lambs that gambol
in the sprouting grass,
and budding flowers
that spread their scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate the sneezes
and the running nose
and streaming eyes
of allergies
in English springtime.

I love our English summer
that warms but rarely
overheats my thirsting
body.  And I love
its cooling breezes.  
But oh . . . !

I hate those wasps
that buzz around
my honey-covered toast
at breakfast-time outdoors
in English summers.

I love the English autumn.
The russets and the golds
that tease my eye;
the orchards and their
apple scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate that mud
that ***** my walking boots
from off my feet
on country rambles
in English autumns.

And then the English winter
that never can decide
which of the seasons
it most likes to emulate.
But oh . . . !
Thank god there are no wasps!

Only the tough survive.
It’s like a baptism of fire;
when the going gets too hot
the tough become firewalkers.
Singed souls
with asbestos soles.

I put myself out there –
all of me on the line.
I knew it wouldn’t last.
The immersion heater’s faulty
and I have to press
reset.

Kit Wright – From Humpty Dumpty, the Official Autobiography

9.  Ode to Autumn – Humpty looks back on his life.

Humpty Dumpty had a lean summer
Humpty Dumpty’s spring was a ******.
Humpty’s winter was no good at all
But Humpty Dumpty had a GREAT FALL.

[See notes below]

That model of a ****** rifle
is one with which we need not trifle
the acronym is far from hard to see
representing, as it does, accuracy.

Indeed, extreme tasked ordnance
from Latin countries such as France
appreciate a form such as exacto:
regarding it as simply ipso facto.

I look back to that period
of innocence
and deplore its brevity.

I recall when
we bathed ourselves
beneath the fountain of youth
and I believed
that our love would never die.

Was it a lie,
or just unspoken truth?

Every breath I took
brought me closer to you.
But it was not enough.
Why could I not understand
that all I lacked
was the recognition
that there was nothing
I needed
that I didn’t  already have?

It is a lifelong pattern.
A concern over what I might be missing
has always spoiled my
enjoyment
of what I already possess.

And while we continue
to blame others
for our own shortcomings,
we fail to recognise that
a voyage on
the vessel of forgiveness,
must begin with  forgiving oneself.

We have freedom of choice,
but apparently
we prefer to choose regret
rather than happiness.

All things are dust,
and to dust all things return
is a biblical pronouncement.
But while we may rail
against the losses and perils
of our existence
it is too easy to forget that
the bough may have broken,
but the tree still stands.