Simply fixing my world

Simply fixing my world

So much wrong

with my world...

war

because of people

We could try with no guns...

I wouldn't care if megalomaniacs 

and survivalists had to chase 

people with sticks.

poverty

because of people

We could try sharing more...

I wouldn't care if no one had any gold taps.

hunger

because of people

We could try sharing more...

I wouldn't care if I had to do without

my second helping.

greed

because of people

We could try living with what we have...

hard as that may be.

theft

because of people

We could try fixing the other problems...

I could be patient.

disease

that is too hard for me to fix

We could help others fix it though.

where to start

fixing

it all?

My own back yard

is still the best place

for me to begin

simply

fixing

my world.

Take a Closer Look

Take a Closer Look

Take a look,

the hair style,

the cuts are different.

The clothes are

older, two or three

generations back, perhaps

and the buildings in the background

wooden, rough, weatherboard.

Lots of boots

everywhere boots,

someone was a boot-maker!

and serious expressions,

all serious, eyebrows,

narrowed faces,

wrinkled searching brows,

eyes,

and all picked out in black and white

Take a closer look

that face has such a 

familiarity

about it...

these people

were hard living people.

This old photo

shows my

father's

family.

all used up

all used up

Thinking hard about poetry readers;

you all there,

eager to read,

waiting to pounce on the poem

devour it, savour the words,

hold it in your mind and 

churn through the twists and turns.

Maybe you are hoping 

for a simply worded cul de sac where you can 

ruminate and relax with a thought that

resonates with your own.

Maybe you like the express ways 

that reading though my new poem,

flash ideas and clever images,

brings to you.

If you do then I'd like to welcome you

seriously and personally...

Stop.

A new thought sneaks about 

amongst the tomato sticks of

my south pacific garden...

a few of you may be

shy,

readers who prefer

the quiet of a study,

or den,

maybe a hammock

in some private back garden

magazines tidy on a nearby table

what about you?

Here I am leaping over your literary back fence and shouting "Hi!"

and waving, too keen...

one of those creative types all

loud Saturday shirt and wild hair.

Well, it is me, so without apology

I present...the subject of this poem...

air

yes a little surprise all right.

But the magic of the stuff.

blowing about all mysterious and unseen

so... necessary and vital

lungs, blood and brain

waiting for transformation

and separation,

oxygen extracted,

surging towards brain cells

and powering the thoughts 

and imaginations of countless people

everywhere.

Sustaining perception and the several billion

realities we possess.

Sharing these and heading together towards some

super-mass of collective, productive, self perpetuating,

utopian, shangri-la...

sorry folks you'll have to take it from here

the oxygen in my room has been 

all used up.

spirits

Small Dark One

No ghost haunts this place, moaning or clanking chains.

No, tonight we have something from this side of the spiritual divide!

No mountain dew distilled through copper coil neither,

although the tell-tail wisp of wood-smoke does 

curl and drift skyward

now that the first rains of Autumn have fallen.

It is instead from expire and inspire,

the breath of life,

so important to us all,

in and out, to breathe, to be alive

so, yes,

life is the spark for this infant poem.

Keeping alive is our grail

having fun, sharing the craic, a laugh, a song, a birth,

all involve the unfettered surge of air to and from the lungs.

To be in good spirits 

requires a communion with other minds,

sharing a smile or a laugh;

or a mind that perceives

beauty, perceived already;

the flower, mountain peak, river bend or

new born baby, held  for the first time.

This piece is for you, son of mine.

Gloom; a lack of mirth

and hell, that dark, foreboding place, 

can both be shaken off

with time spent

in the company of friends.

So, by all means, get together and share...

even in the sharing of anger and grief

the heave of air transforms us

out of gloom

and into the light of

humanity.

..catch the horse..

Catch the Horse

We think.

We think we like the status quo,

the way it is seems fine.

The effort to change

seems large from the start.

That first step out the door

or off the couch,

out of bed.

Don't change anything.

I like it just the way it is.

Sometimes I'd like to have nothing change,

but it seems that everything 

is in a state of flux

right now.

All change!

and when we come back tomorrow 

the mysterious 'they' have changed it again,

or made a new one

(my parents iron (a wedding gift) went for 40 years).

We seem to have to replace ours every two years.

No! Wait, that book "I wish that I had Duck Feet"!

If I wanted no change

what would happen then?

I'd have to get up earlier in the morning

and catch the horse...

and hitch it to the wagon...

and boil the porridge on the fire...

"The only constant is change".

 Heraclitus of Ephesus, a Greek philosopher (c.535 BC - 475 BC)

said something similar 2500 years ago.

Freedom

Freedom

A National holiday

is freedom of a type,

although nations rich

and nations poor have these.

I'm not up at dawn.

The service is at 10:00am 

where I live.

So freedom of a kind again.

I have breakfast in bed,

 served this morning

by a generous son.

10:00am draws near but

no one will go with me,

so I must go alone.

Another type of freedom,

although this double edged sword

leaves its cuts in a random manner.

Alone, yes, and free to walk

to the village hall but

also, alone with no company

but the trees and houses, birds and sky

they all free too.

Alone and no one to look after, 

my attention can wander freely;

to the flags,

to the poppies,

the servicemen in uniform and

the medals of the old warriors.

Free to attend to the speech

by a soldier in uniform

"this day remembers no battle,

only the men who went

and did not return",

pride in our people,

remembering the grief;

not 'the glory'.

The hymns, prayers, poppies,

wreaths, and then

the bugler lets The Last Post

dance through our ears

amongst the autumn leaves.

A solemn sound as winter

sneaks unnoticed into the village.

We all free to talk now,

mingle with friends

wander on home;

not knowing all of our freedoms,

knowing some of our bonds,

knowing some freedoms,

not knowing all of our bonds.

Injustice

More Questions than Answers

I feel angry

when I see injustice.

Something here is just not right.

Three children

affected, 

not protected.

Who will look after them?

This is not about who takes them after school,

but who will explain

the whys and the decisions?

To the children.

Maybe someone did something wrong,

but why are they punishing the children

A baby, taken from it's mother

for months?

Who makes these decisions?

Is this a procedure?

Or is it guesswork?

Why not have an observer in the home?

It would be cheaper,

and less intrusive than this

split up

mess.

Who will fix it?

How will they fix it?

What will they fix it with?

Why don't they talk to us?

The view is not Just

from here.