Sunday, 15 April 2018

The mist descends

As mist descends on Syria,
The mist descends around.
From London town the lies abound,
Through foggy tales, a mist descends.

The mist evaporates slowly,
The mist diffuses sound.
From London town the rockets drown
The cries from history's futile dissent.

As mist descends on Syria,
The mist descends around.
The mist descends on times gone by,
Through mist our hindsight rarely found.

When you look at the stars

When you look at the stars
What do you see?
I see plates of algae.
And like sun splashes,
Bright green flashes.
The flagella dance
To the calcium beat,
While the optics flare
In the laser’s refracted rays.
Away from the lens,
My eyes still filled
With algae as stars
As I step into the night;
I look up into the midst
Of a seafoam twilight.
My tiny green stars
Still glowing bright.

Sunday, 26 November 2017

Shit happens

What happens to the world, when technology dies?
Poetry, painting and art came before,
Once more.
The last switch of the circuit
Will become broken,
It's for sure.
And then, alas,
What is left?

Sunday, 19 November 2017

A catalyst for change?

After Apartheid,
quite rightfully subverted,
The ashes of Mandela's revolution
Scatter on the whimsical breeze
Of Zuma, as he
plies the bribes
and piles the coffers.

Apartheid, long gone,
But better for who?
None of those,
Supposedly in lieu.

And Mugabe,
What comes after Mugabe,
The Zimbabwean Hitler.
It's all down
to the White Man,
the problems therein,
so goes the rhetoric
of the corrupt whim.

Farms, once productive,
Deserted as armed raids
Send them to flee,
Or murder them there.
"Shoot the farmer,
Kill the Boer,"
Lives destroyed,
The poor even poorer.

Out of revolution,
The violent
And fascists rise.
The whites replaced,
The repression inside.
The song remains the same.
Corruption is colourless,
So who then is to blame.

Mugabe, gone,
A catalyst for change?

The Honey is Gold

Obsessed with money and gold,
but rather more blessed with honey,
once we grow old, what room do we have
for coins in the purse?

To live without food is a curse.
a life well lived is a life well nourished -
we need bold new ideas for a changing earth, to flourish.

With biteback, for Orangutans, we can fight back,
a sustainable oil better than palm-based toil.
Our rainforests might just be saved from the plight,
of a hooven stampede if our animal feed
is in fact made from MagMeal waste not from grain.

With nowt to lose and plenty to gain,
with a Thought for Food we can brighten the refrain,
and hasten the future.

Where we look beyond borders and antiquated roles,
and like Shahida Begum search deep in our souls...
To change what we can, where we can, if we can.

Bees not money, the honey is gold.

Sunday, 24 September 2017

Merked it

Angela's Merked it once again,
A steady ship in murky waters
Where the crocodiles of past threaten to snap
At the heels of the wilderbeast as they pass
Across undrawn borders to taste the water
And strive to reach the other side.
From bombs to camps to reach more camps,
Like stranded pawns in a drawn out stalemate
Of kings and a queen
Strong like a rook, the bishops unseen
And the knights long left to save the dregs
Of a teabag left too long to stew.
So stale, this tale, that reoccurs
Through epochs, empires and genocides,
And tired, the weak sip meek chamomile
For a brief respite through melancholy nights
In the face of cold, hard, calculated spite.

Thursday, 14 September 2017


I want to to buy a fancy car
I want to travel near and far
I want to fly to Zanzibar
We're all complicit.

I want the latest Apple phone
I want to let my data roam
I want my life engraved in chrome
We're all complicit.

I want the latest fashion trend
I want to watch the money I spend
I want my Primani H&Emmed
We're all complicit.

I want to eat my bananas straight
I want to lose my flabby weight
I'll start once I've demolished the crate
We're all complicit.

I want my cashews from Iran
I want my ice cream from a van
I want my drugs from Pakistan
We're all complicit.

I want to watch a game of thrones
I want my slaughter done with drones
I want to ignore the screams and moans
We're all complicit.

I want my home cool in July
I want my winters warm as pie
I want to pretend I want to try
We're all complicit.

I want my showers steaming hot
I want the stove to heat my pot
I want it all I want the lot
We're all complicit.

I want my condoms lubricated
I want my condo renovated
I want to stay intoxicated
We're all complicit.

We're all complicit from me to you
From me to you from me to you
I want to say stuck on repeat
We're all complicit.

Tuesday, 12 September 2017

A rage against the machine

A vote to take the power back,
a rage against the machine,
backfiring as we turn
the rifle on ourselves
and tie the blindfold,
face the bullets,
shouting "fire!"

we crumple to the floor.

A vote to take the power back,
a rage against the machine,
vague and miscalculated,
backfiring as was past
in Hitler's Weimar
as like him then
an enabling act
passes laws

behind closed doors.

A vote to take the power back,
a rage against the machine,
which only gains in strength
as the rulebook
is rewritten
and the seams
of society
at once resemble

a distant, long lost, melancholy dream.

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

Take a step back

They say sometimes one step forward, two steps back
But we get there and fail to remember where we are
Or from where we came.

But the stark truth is that no-one seems to care,
What's won is won, what's lost is lost,
Two steps back we're all the same.

They'll have you looking everywhere.
To your left, to the right, we'll get on alright.
But they trick us into thinking someone else is to blame.

We stick the same picture in a different frame
And suddenly we think we're all the wiser.
But we just take two steps backwards again.

And there in the high tower they laugh.
Their power doesn't care for culture and creed
But whoever they can use to accelerate their gain

As lowly we spread and multiply through
This finite sphere while the few up top
Accrue to our lack, yet still we blame
The ones like us. It's a shame.

Sunday, 20 August 2017


That blighted sound of pitter-patter riles my very soul,
as meaningless words are typed onto soulless screens
and, caged, my body squirms in a windowless vessel.

All hopes fade with every smack of the space bar,
separating lines of spuriously contemplated pish -
my head, erupting, amidst a cacophony of plastic.

The constant hammering builds to a crescendo
of a lamentable 21st Century symphony
where creativity has come to die.

Swap me that plastic for blissful ivory chime,
each key caressed with the guile of an artist's touch
while words typed as melodies kiss my eardrums

Or the glistening glide of a whittled feather
painting trails of masterful strokes,
each line, to capture, a heartfelt moment.

As my mind wanders through each letter scribed,
the chains around me seemingly come loose-
the patter muted under sweet Arabesques.