The circles we move in,
Are not circles but squares,
Keeping to the corners,
Feeling isolated from the rest;
Like we were eccentric millionaires,
Except poorer by some measures,
Richer in others,
Who are we to adjudge-
Be it circle, square or triangle and your place therein-
When you are the one feeling left-out?
Self-indulgence and narcissism bring their own poverty;
For, whatever your station in life-
(Real, perceived, envied or longed for),
You cannot help wanting to belong.
Standing in a field like any other;
Similar to the ones you ran through as a child,
Care-free giggles, laughter and screams of glee, permeating all around;
So delightfully excited to be among your peers, playing at war, tag or what-not;
Punctuated by a stern reproach to ‘get back inside’!
Triggering an involuntary squirm echoing out into the distance before fading away;
A distant whistle precipitates an explosion, like lightning shattering a moment of reverie;
The child is a child no longer but a soldier with bayonet-fixed-rifle in hand;
He stands on a field less green than muddy, a drenched swamp that’s more bog than anything alike;
His karkey greens caked in wet, cold, mud;
Reflecting on memories when he played war as a child,
The adult version of the game (he grimly observed, taking shape around him) is more stark, morbid and visceral than could ever be realised;
A charge will soon be called by bugle horn,
And, he will run through this muddy marsh with bayonet thrust out;
Artillery shells, explosions and gunfire will ring out;
Shrapnel will take turns to scar, maim and shred you and the lads around you into mangled messes;
All of this you must confront head-on;
And stop only to cut through obstructing barbed-wire before continuing the onward charge,
Y’see: your own side will shoot you dead on sight for desertion,
Ahead of you lies the only bloody salvation available;
You have no choice but to move on;
Not all your friends will make it whole or at all,
Including you, if not for the grace of God;
So, make your peace with your maker for you will not get another chance,
The games you play are games no longer;
And memories of happier times-
Made so long ago, you can be forgiven for feeling you almost imagined them-
Are all you have.
Would you feel more comfortable if I turned a shade more lighter?
Make the timbre of my voice more oak than teak, so it would ring a little more familiar?
Does it irritate when i speak of customs, traditions, gods & celebrations of foreign climbs?
Do you truly believe in a multi-ethnic & pluralistic identity or prefer a monothistic way of life (where all look, do & say like you than i)?
Travelling through modern day inner city Britain, do you become concerned all of a sudden that you are the only white Anglo Saxon within sight?
An over-saturation of numbers & unfamiliar – foreign – faces;
Gradually, turning your ancestral home into a foreign, third world, annex-
In the heart of western decadence, wealth & profligacy,
Sleepwalking you out of a home & stealthily de-possessing you of your identity,
Engulfing what was once ‘Great’ in Great Britain in times gone by,
Turning it unrecognisable, full of unfamiliar sights & sounds-
Far removed from the place you used to call home, with pride, since you were a child?
Then make your long held-back plea, out of a misguided adherence to political correctness & courtesy,
Now finally demands airing in hushed fervent hope –
‘Oh, Queen & Country, your grand majesty, restore pride to our people; be rid of this resent infestation of foreign discolouration!’
‘Do this & our Greatness will be restored once more, to rule the waves with pride, again!’
‘Where will they go?’, an unhelpful voice utters-
‘I care not, just be rid of them- that is all!’, came the swift reply with gusto and whim
If you feel this way, i hate to break it to you:
If these ‘foreign’ faces were made to disappear overnight, you would be rapidly increasing this country’s decent into terminal financial decline-
Yes, that may mean very little (if anything) to you, but imagine for one moment that you wake one day to find martial law has been declared-
For the government has no money to pay the million plus (& more) permanent jobless nor for those maintaining essential services,
And, has had to keep the hungry & disgruntled at bay by strength of arms-
Any savings will soon be exhausted or rendered of no value, and your assets (if any) will struggle to find a buyer –
Making life far more difficult to lead than even in the present difficult & demanding economic times,
Yes, I agree, I do not know this for certain,
My hypothesis is a guess, just like yours, conditioned by my experiences,
And, what will happen in either case, I (wholeheartedly) agree, no one knows for certain,
But, if you truly love this country, as I do, would you really tolerate such intolerable possibilities & ruination, because of colour & comparatively minor differences?
Only you, and time, will tell, I suppose.
A goddess on the dance floor;
Rhythm is her divinity
If this place be the cradle of life;
And music is the root of all self-awareness,
She is the first to experience the beat of the drumming and mimic her body into motion,
Inspiring all to answer her call to arms by standing-up-right!
Many millennia may have passed since that fateful moment,
Is it still any wonder these rhythms and movement resonate within you and I?
Her acolytes still gather to watch her sermons;
Her movements are the orator,
And her body is a testament to her dedication and artistry;
An idol worthy of worship, forged with grace and favour;
Are we not all misfits in comparison?
Looking on at this exquisite creature for answers,
With prayers and offerings for salvation;
A shadow dancer of old, making contortions in slow-motion ;
Leaving all that befall her fanatics enthralled and slack-jawed, even after all this time,
Belying the truth: we have not evolved as much as we’d like to believe;
And remain mesmerised by the beauty of movement given life!
Forget me not, for I have not forgotten you,
Show me love and compassion, as I had once shown you,
If I could, y’know I would still be useful to you,
As it is, I am trapped in a palace of my own memories,
With a variety of heaven, foreboding and hell – snapshots from a lifetime of diverse experiences -, behind every door;
The barriers of my mind (that could once be trusted to keep my thoughts distinct and separate from each other) have somehow given way,
Forgive me if I can’t place you quickly or at all, for you – like all of my memories – are a jumbled maze,
This glaucoma-like blur clears less and less frequently, if at all;
Be patient with me – a simple human kindness, for any compassion you bear me;
Be kind to me, though I know (in your frantically stress-filled life) it is not easy;
The end is rarely pleasant, Little Pet;
But you must be strong throughout;
I am glad you are doing what you can for me, and that must be enough;
For only the rarest few achieve that sense of finality in life;
And, you and I (I’m afraid, my sweet Little Pet) will not.
Streaks of tears flow from ol’ nan’s rheumy eyes;
Is it her tear ducts or is she terribly sad? I don’t know which!
Her face is an age-old mask of wrinkles and parchment;
Turned into paper mache-
Changing from haunted, stern, angry and sincere, each time I visit;
I can no longer read which is which,
She can’t seem to recognise me, I don’t know why!
It fills my soul with helplessness enough to suffocate,
Love isn’t enough to cure you Nan, and the realisation is tearing me apart!
A hard-working woman all your life filled with duty and warmth left virtually an empty shell, where is the justice in that?
Remember, you called me ‘Little Pet’, no one else does now or ever will again;
I fear one day I will visit you and you’ll be gone, and I’m not ready for that!
Please, Nan, show me that you can hear me and come back:
To see my growing family, to give you all the comforts you deserve, and a chance to say ‘I love you’ one last time!
I need that!
I am but an ant, looking up at the night sky trying to make sense of the stars;
A simple admirer of the written word, marvelling at the trials and tribulations masterfully depicted in the works of Shakespeare;
An honest family man, watching on at the antics of Machiavelli’s brood, nursing a slow-burning flame of anger threatening to turn into wildfire;
A hypochondriac marvelling at a physician delivering exactly what the doctor had described, only to long for an ‘undo’ when there is just no-can-do;
A starved, malnourished man, struggling to keep eyes open, within an alarmingly-thin skeletal frame, being forced to look on as you and I engorge ourselves on food in front of the TV;
A highly-educated professional working 14 to 16 hours a day to meet commitments, watching on as a life-long layabout wins £150 million on the Lottery and turns a new leaf of acceptability, receiving universal popularity and praise;
A War Leader amidst the utter devastation of battle marshalling the troops to move in for the kill, suddenly coming to an epipheny of peace;
You and I have lived many lives unto this moment, if the laws of rebirth and karma are to be believed;
Who ever you are or whatever you’ve done, individuality (rather than the pack mentality) appears to be the key to progress and longevity-
However far we have come, is still not as far as we must go,
We must therefore strive to be true at every juncture:
To others, and to you.
I swear, I hear the shimmer of a most captivating melody
From the direction of the sound, I think the music is being created within you & delivered ethereally ,
I place my ear against your skin and – I tell you! – the music gets a little clearer;
I move around you, meeting skin with skin, showering you with kisses, until the orchestral music surrounds me,
Like a man & a woman, surrounded by a wall of mesmerising sound & caught up in an eternal dance,
The music takes over you and me!
Each parting of lips and skin bringing a crescendo of sounds that quicken the pulse and fills the soul to overflowing with joy,
It is too bad, when this music comes to an end; not a song, nor a dance, but, something greater by far,
I now understand why people liken a full orchestral symphonic masterpiece at its most uplifting moments- to the act of making love!
I’m making my way home for christmas, with memories swirling around,
Passing carollers, couples and families, making their way to midnight mass near Muswell Hill;
Some of the parishioners have the distinct whiff of pub-crawlers who’ve been turned out at last call!
An eclectic mix to be certain celebrating a common bond,
While I am not of this faith, I find my natural cynicism washed away by a wave of optimism in any case,
Fuelled by a shared heritage that’s crept up on me unexpectedly over time-
I may not be a wide-eyed child any more, my fondest memories tend to still surround:
Turkey, gravy, crispy roast potatoes and stuffing with extra sage please!
Minced pies, Christmas pudding, doused with brandy, and set alight to a gentle blue flame-
Voraciously gouged down with generous dollops of clotted cream!
Accompanied by mulled wine and appetisers, until your stomach literally strains to keep it all in!
Watching the Queen’s annual message at 3:00pm feeling more uncomfortably full than civic;
Followed by the Christmas Movie and the Eastender’s Double Bill, joining in with a collective mock-gasp at the inevitable shocking end!
No, it’s not the food (though, I can’t help but look forward to it);
Or, the memories (which are a mixed bag, if I am honest!);
Or, even, the veneer that comes from reflecting through rose-tinted spectacles, at greener pastures, that weren’t truly green at all,
What I am truly looking forward to this christmas is: to spend some time with my family, and not a mention of work, if I am lucky!!