Literary will

Neil Gaiman - Neil Gaiman's Journal: Important. And pass it on...

true christianity

you must conform to meet my deepest fears
i cannot abide what i cannot understand
all of the things you've seen across the years
are dismissed with a wave of my small hand
your thoughts your passions matter not a jot
you must please me or my world will collapse
i know eternity though i have not paid my scot
you into utter darkness should relapse
i am here not to learn but to have confirmed
that i need not understand this complex earth
to have my darkest prejudices reaffirmed
and to insist that my ignorance is truest worth
so you must vanish you must go to hell
you do not really matter and that's well

16 Common Myths About Atheists | Progressive U

16 Common Myths About Atheists | Progressive U

what it is that endures

shadows cast by the sun on the white ceiling
the stillness of the air the pleasant day
the radio tells a story with warmest feeling

no way to say that this is not plain dealing
the action of our choice the noblest way
shadows cast by the sun on the white ceiling

gone back behind the cloud the senses reeling
ask the bright moment to forever stay
the radio tells a story with warmest feeling

the voices on the telephone they were appealing
for someon to resolve the darkest play
shadows cast by the sun on the white ceiling

we hear the names we wonder if by stealing
off in the quiet we'll see them in array
the radio tells a story with warmest feeling

made by our histories the shining surface peeling
to show the dead who tumbled once in hay
shadows cast by the sun on the white ceiling
the radio tells a story with warmest feeling

apology for inconvenience

i'm told there was a technical delay
it was the calm voice announced minor
in just a minute we'd be on our way
to job home friends loves and airliner
we wait and go and stop to wait again
the car fills up with angry staring faces
we're passengers all on a stalled train
delayed in getting unto sundry places
i hear your voice inside urging me calm
annoyance won't get me there any faster
i think of you spreading a soothing balm
of your kind hand smooth as alabaster
i'll get to work and manage through the day
that is the task it is the only way

education

i look at fragments that once were thought
energy turned from mass to ideation
i wonder by what pathways these were brought
from chaos and old night into creation
the act of thinking makes a man a god
but he leaps backward fearful of the power
declares some fear of an avenging rod
or thinks that it is never quite the hour
a woman thinks decides and then enacts
without the fright that comes from the divine
here are my thoughts here are the flat facts
they're all included here in the outline
the power to do all this is we assume
what nature gives us till we reach the tomb

shadow of the birdhouse

warm the day but that is no surprise
sharp clear the light almost to tears
i sit and think and rub my reddened eyes
wondering if it was worth all the years
look now the purple of the autumn bloom
for still and bright as crystal is the air
the illumated moment in this room
makes all that's past seem almost fair
what happened to the day i do not know
my body answers like a sluggish thing
the music's like a river in full flow
solemn yet sparkling with a future spring
let all that's true be beautiful for now
and all that's honest then let us allow

another cup another morning

the bird's sharp whistle warns that it is there
none must cross its bounds without permit
day wakens mild in the still bright air

nothing like this so sharp and cool and clear
the purple of the flowers seems to transmit
the bird's sharp whistle warns that it is there

quiet the rush is past the morning's fair
autumn's soft hand has us in its remit
day wakens mild in the still bright air

it isn't that we don't want to know or care
but we desire for one moment to intermit
the bird's sharp whistle warns that it is there

no matter that we have not time to spare
to duty now and always we must submit
day wakens mild in the still bright air

the veil that night has held the day will tear
our work and actions we must now commit
the bird's sharp whistle warns that it is there
day wakens mild in the still bright air

marking papers

these words together don't mean all that much
their import is that today i am at last too tired
to do much more than look and then to touch
with energy i'm not now filled nor fired
i've seen what they can learn i know they try
but this for them is just a passing stage
i want their words to soar their minds to fly
i want the sense to dance upon the page
but if it doesn't i still have no choice
i have to read and seek to understand
i have to hope that each will find their voice
that they will come out better from my hand
young people they all are with futures bright
i hope that they are not too dazzled by the light

to burst the heart

naught moves the light is soft and does not blind
the air is still as if waiting for some sign
beyond us now the clouds seem almost kind
the day is cool but still exquisite fine
i lean backwards i know i have too much
to do this day too much to think about
i know i need a soft and loving touch
what whirls about my mind i know is doubt
air of this land for once does not have weight
it does not stifle at the peak of day
i know that what i fear is not my fate
though nerves it seems are always wont to fray
the time has come to choose or rise or fall
the powers at last will come when once i call

calm was the day

in the clear autumn light no lies inhere
the greens reds golds browns all are warm
not yet praise time is the outlook sere

nothing today can mask the scents of fear
that come from beings that have lost their form
in the clear autumn light no lies inhere

too soon we know will come the season drear
when grey and leaden skies will be the norm
not yet praise time is the outlook sere

the nights too long for too long will we bear
the cold of winds and ragings of the storm
in the clear autumn light no lies inhere

days that are short the heavy clothes we'll wear
that hateful hated winter's uniform
not yet praise time is the outlook sere

not now the thoughts of the dark things to hear
as the mind's lumpiness at last we reform
in the clear autumn light no lies inhere
not yet praise time is the outlook sere

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Journalism & Other Strange Practices

Journalism & Other Strange Practices

John Maxwell

If you'd asked me two weeks ago how I thought the US midterm elections would go, I would have told you I expected the democrats to win the House handsomely and the Senate by a small margin. The catalyst, I thought, was the sudden explosive decompression of Mr Jim Foley, the Congressman from Florida's Gold Coast whose sexual harassment of Congressional pages had just hit the fan.

But of course, I was reckoning without that Hippocrates of Sanctimony, President Bush's confidante, chief adviser and fondly nicknamed 'Turd Blossom' – the ineffable Karl Rove.

And of course, I am hobbled by the sad fact that, as Generalissimo Rumsfeld opined this week

"No one can predict the future with absolute certainty'

He too is obviously reckoning without Mr Rove, who told a querulous journalist this week that he didn't expect any real change in the electoral geography of the United States anytime soon, as he, unlike the journalist, consulted 68 polls every day as against the mere dozen or so available to journalists and lesser mortals.

According to 16 of the most trusted US polls, samples taken in October put the generic Republican party vote no higher than 41% with the generic Democratic vote no lower than 49%. In the polls the percentage lead for the Democrats varies from 9 points in the rightwing Fox/Opinion Dynamics poll to 23% in the USAToday/Gallup poll.

According to the RealClear Politics (RCP) blog, its sampling of 9 of the major polls puts the average of the republican vote at 37.3% and the average democratic vote at 52.3% an advantage for the Democrats of 15.9%The RCP sample discloses that President Bush's job approval rating ranges from a high of 40% in ABC and Fox polls to a low of 35% in the Newsweek poll. The average approval rating for Mr Bush in the nine majors polls is 38.4%

One would imagine that with such substantial leads it would be impossible for the democrats to lose, but, as the republicans demonstrated in Ohio, two years ago, and in Florida four years before that, a determined Secretary of States can do wonders with bad numbers and rigged voting machines with a little help from disfranchisement programmes and other ways of circumventing the democratic process.

Most scholars of the US system are clear that the GOP stole both the 2000 and the 2004 Presidential elections. As General Boykin famously said, it was God and not the people who put Mr Bush in the White house, rather like Maradonna's claiming the hand of God that won the World Cup for Argentina.

The science of opinion sampling has developed to the point that voter's intentions may be predicted with a considerable degree of accuracy. And in 2004, the predicted results were apparently confirmed by exit polls, when voters are asked immediately after voting, to say for whom they voted.

It is a curious fact that the longer after voting the voters are questioned, the bigger the likelihood that the result will swing more and more to the actual winner. When people know who has won, they tend to say that they voted for that person even if they hadn't. According to the exit polls in Florida and Ohio in 2004, Kerry won both states. In exit polls immediately after voting most voters said they voted for Kerry but polls taken a few days later gave the elector's choice as George Bush. This result is so unlikely that statisticians consider it impossible.

Part of the problem, and it is a huge part, is the fact that a great many Americans will be voting electronically, that is, by computers. Unfortunately, every study conducted so far has proved that the machines used in the electoral process in the United States are to say the least, unreliable and easily compromised by evildoers. The software used in the voting is proprietary, so that the state, the clients who are paying for the process, have no right to inspect the machines to see whether they work properly. In addition, in most states the voter does not get a receipt for his vote, so that it is impossible top check whether the votes were properly recorded by the software.

All of this makes the next elections a potentially explosive issue in the united States.

In Mexico some weeks ago, the candidate of the left was able to attract massive crowds to the capital to protest against what they thought was a stolen election. The anger seems to have subsided and Mexico City's streets are once again open to ordinary traffic. But what would happen in the United States, especially in populations so polarised by the president and the arrogant and corrupt behaviour of his party?

There are important and volatile minorities in several cities which may not take too kindly to the prospect of another two years of rule by Mr Hastert and his cronies and there are even bigger constituencies who are angry at the president for the war in Iraq and the inexorably mounting toll of death and human destruction.

When the swing against a party is as wide and deep as it is against the republicans, ordinary people have a pretty good idea of who is likely to have won; people talk, exchange stories and are well aware of the possibility for crooked manipulation.

An electorate which is bedeviled by rising unemployment, watching their jobs disappear overseas, losing their capital invested in the houses and oversubscribed to the banks, may not behave like a volatile tropical mass, but they may be even more dangerous.

People realise that a large part of their liberty has been taken away by the president who speaks of distributing freedom and liberty abroad, that the money which could be paying for education and healthcare is being incinerated and atomised by the minute in Iraq and Afghanistan and that their taxes are being frittered away by corrupt politicians and contractors in an unnecessary war which is costing $2,000,000,000 a day.

Journalism spoken here

The pathetic behaviour of the US press is, at least, somewhat counterbalanced by a few brave men and women, some of them even in places like the New York Times but mostly in blogs on the internet. In Jamaica we depend on a few radio and TV stations and even fewer newspapers.

The Star, which claims the largest circulation in Jamaica has never been a paragon of journalistic virtue. This week however, it outdid itself in crass vulgarity and horrific mischief making.

I have personally never seen anything as boneheadedly stupid and irresponsible as Wednesday's Star which carried a picture of Prime Minister Simpson, apparently at prayer, hands clasped, head bowed, facing a headline which occupied half a page and proclaimed in 120 point type– 1.5 inches high

"

Dreamer woman envisions

PORTIA

IN A

BLOODY

ROOM

And on page 3 the headline was repeated in smaller type ( inch high 72 point Tempo) with a unforgiveably stupid and mischievous story about some delusional 'evangelist' who alleges that she has been having bad dreams, starring the Prime Minister. The dreamer was asked by the incredibly credulous reporter to interpret the dream and the prophet/dreamer/"anointed messenger of God" obliged with a farrago of superstitious garbage all faithfully reproduced in the Star.

Like most 'prophets' this woman claims to have foreseen various dramatic disasters, except that there is apparently no record of these prophecies.

People in politics can generally expect to be traduced in all sorts of ways, but invoking witchcraft is probably a new departure for this country's newspapers.

That same day a caller to Wilmot Perkins’ talk-show alleged that 'Portia' was responsible for the killing of his relatives twenty years ago, when she campaigned near where the caller lived. This idiocy was permitted by the host, no doubt for good and sufficient reason.

After which, it is almost picayune to refer to the highminded nonsense being talked about attacks by the government on Freedom of the Press.

Press freedom belongs to the people and is supposedly their guarantee that they will be able to share and receive news which is in their interest, which is accurate and useful and conducive to their survival and prosperity. Spying on the Prime Minister is not a part of freedom of the press. The press has no right to make mischief or to behave like a Peeping Tom.

I cannot imagine how all the highminded hypocrisy about this case can be justified. Long ago, reporters were barred from the Hansard box in Gordon House because they interfered with the work of those who recorded the proceedings. Photographers have to get specific permisision to take pictures and their vantage points have always been agreed on generally, in consultation with the Clerk of the House.

Parliament is not a street-corner or a park and there are rules which must be obeyed. When the media bosses some time ago made a demonstration in Gordon House claiming an attack on Press Freedom they were both silly and ill-advised. The Press more than most, damages its real interests by crying wolf at the slightest hint of a lap dog.

More about the Press

Mr Ken Jones, a man I first met when we both worked at Public Opinion as reporters, delivered himself in the Gleaner this week of some opinions on press freedom. I have time to take issue with only two of his allegations.

First, he regards the JLP government's persistent attempts to silence Public Opinion between 1963 and 1965 as petty stuff, and not really an attack on Freedom of the Press. I beg to differ, since I was in the middle of that issue; one of my contributors, a University lecturer named Bill Carr, was being threatened with deportation, while I was threatened with prison and worse by people like the Prime Minister, the Attorney General and others, in Parliament and outside.

When a government goes as far as prohibiting advertising in a newspaper and forbidding civil servants to buy it for their personal use, that seems to me very much like an attack on press freedom. It certainly was an attack on me and on the jobs of the 40 or so others who worked at City Printery, whose excellent services were proscribed by the government. Government-related institutions such as the UWI and the Jamaica Agricultural Society were forbidden to have their printing done by the printery.

More than a dozen years later – in 1978 – when I was editor of the paper for the second time, somebody burned it to the ground. In the sixties,equally mysterious forces had also burned down the left wing Abeng.

Having dismissed the trifling incidents at Public Opinion, Ken Jones tells a story which defies belief. According to him, during the 70s, PNP types raided the offices of the JLP Voice and" cut out the tongue" of an employee there before " striking him dead."

I believe Mr Jones owes us all further and better particulars. And I believe that the Gleaner and the Star owe Jamaica and the Prime Minister some serious apologies

In the public interest and its own self-protection, I belief the Press needs to discover what Press Freedom really means.

Copyright©2006John Maxwell

jankunnu@yahoo.com

thus we oppose entropy

We all are flawed and never will perfect
the skill that Mike had, the noteworthy line;
we try our best and sometimes can affect
the poet or the scholar though not so fine
as he did with effortless skill and grace.
We joke and laugh and choke back all the tears,
it isn't fair and doesn't seem our place;
we wish that we had known him through the years
but know that time and chance had set the rules.
Now with the end of story comes the time
which we must recognise if we're not fools
to praise him who has vanished in his prime.
Across the gap of years and all those miles,
Somewhere I'm certain there's a ghost that smiles.

enough of this

no sound like it the mind almost explodes
i sit in my chair and cannot quite believe
we've come to this place along many roads
but now we've come to a moment to grieve
hearing the words that don't quite come to sense
i wonder why i'm here wasting my time
why one so educated can be so dense
and whether leaving would count as a crime
no one can quite believe this noisy jerk
but wants to soothe to appease or to calm
to get back to our proper needed work
after the application of some gentle balm
there's too much into these days i have to cram
so pardon me ma'am if i don't give a damn

after a meeting

i haven't said the things i ought to say
that mean as much as what is unsaid
time passes some time i'll have to pay
the price before i'm finally dead
nothing enrages quite like a foolish voice
a sound that grates on both the ear and mind
the idiot's substitute for wiser choice
reboiling serving what was best left behind
mountains will fall before a fool will learn
you pound them in the mortar out of rage
your ears and your eyes together burn
but they cannot make sense upon the page
i understand some people are so thick
they would not feel it even if i kick

the last hot time

After creation, long silence, no single word
to mark a thought or pin down a sense;
nothing to indicate what was once absurd,
nothing to puncture dishonesty and pretence.
He told the truth by making up bright lies,
he educated by sheer linguistic power,
his words rise up, it seems, above these skies
and last, we thank the gods, beyond this hour.
When he made stories, novels, complex verse,
we knew the presence of a noble mind;
never offensive, though sometimes quite terse,
yet believing in the best of human kind.
Too short his working life beneath our sun
but bright the vision his imagining won.

good and godly rule

let's build a city where we're all the same
where no one's life or actions will offend
the wild creative force will become tame

let no one have a different form or name
into one shape each of us will bend
let's build a city where we're all the same

dim every light and turn down every flame
one mediocre signal will we send
the wild creative force will become tame

who would be different we combine to shame
in our society there is but one trend
let's build a city where we're all the same

if there's disaster we know who to blame
the different our destruction do intend
the wild creative force will become tame

to maintain discipline we'll hack and maim
or kill so that our fears can at last end
let's build a city where we're all the same
the wild creative force will become tame

a few clouds scud by

the light rebounds in warmest golds and reds
short are the shadows at this autumn noon
the images have been locked into our heads

each tree with slow dignity its leaves now sheds
the season comes to us as a great boon
the light rebounds in warmest golds and reds

outside the breeze brings scents of cakes and breads
enough to make the most jaded ones to swoon
the images have been locked into our heads

resisting deciduousness the green tree spreads
casting its dappled shade not too soon
the light rebounds in warmest golds and reds

below the the bird moves in unsteady treads
its feet unbalanced by the lone plastic spoon
the images have been locked into our heads

this night as we warmly slumber in our beds
the colours will be silvered by the moon
the light rebounds in warmest golds and reds
the images have been locked into our heads

in what name

the sun comes out through clouds dim light
i wait in patience for the hour to turn
night's gone with its deep immemorial fright
i am here my bread and jam today to earn
inverted structures do not change the norm
how i hear or speak is my particular joy
what's seen when all is finished is the form
the thing in itself is only my mind's toy
the dialectic informs us that the shade
is as essential as the being that makes it
one into the other we should expect to fade
into new shape by whatever mood that takes it
morning has come little this day that shines
the stag of time has caught on on his tines

come hither child

the music wakes my steps and warms my mind
it takes me back to times before my birth
these are the things that make us humankind

what once advanced has now fallen behind
fury arises where there once was mirth
the music wakes my steps and warms my mind

ignoring those who suffer are the wilful blind
to make the struggle is what gives us worth
these are the things that make us humankind

we've known already all the things we'll find
on the bright beach across the open firth
the music wakes my steps and warms my mind

i've walked along and watched the river wind
from hill to sea refreshing once-dry earth
these are the things that make us humankind

from justice mercy from honour the kind
bring forth abundance ending the long dearth
the music wakes my steps and warms my mind
these are the things that make us humankind

no golden light

echo the trumpet from the tower walls
the knights in their gas-guzzlers fighting hard
avoiding for a time the human halls

the horns not elfin not dying the falls
from fantasy it seems we all are barred
echo the trumpet from the tower walls

for even the doughtiest the adventure palls
the days and nights no longer starred
avoiding for a time the human halls

not any more the noble routs and balls
the dances are no longer on the card
echo the trumpet from the tower walls

across the hills the modern city sprawls
the hollow hils have been forever marred
avoiding for a time the human halls

no one is left to hear the last bird calls
the dragons are no longer under guard
echo the trumpet from the tower walls
avoiding for a time the human halls

slow time

the trees are hastening to shed their leaves
the season's pace seems to accellerate
the evergreen now so much darker grieves

the sun looks down on the gathered sheaves
now smiles now frowns seems to hesitate
the trees are hastening to shed their leaves

working men have all rolled down their sleeves
the clouds seem ready to precipitate
the evergreen now so much darker grieves

it does not matter what each one believes
the times upon our nerves cannot but grate
the trees are hastening to shed their leaves

no breeze nor lightning the forest cleaves
disaster for a change will come too late
the evergreen now so much darker grieves

the the silent one observes now and perceives
that in due time we'll be called fortunate
the trees are hastening to shed their leaves
the evergreen now so much darker grieves

t

dark morning

the cold has not yet reached the bone
in other places they would call it mild
the coming winter finds us each alone

we have gone past the season to atone
long past the one when we all ran wild
the cold has not yet reached the bone

we hope for silence instead of the phone
our nerves down to nubbins are filed
the coming winter finds us each alone

patiently waiting as i the razor hone
what difference between a man and child
the cold has not yet reached the bone

once we were frenzied now still as stone
the movement's dialectic reconciled
the coming winter finds us each alone

the loud birds of summer now are flown
the trees no longer in their colours styled
the cold has not yet reached the bone
the coming winter finds us each alone

glory in this view of life

without a vision all true knowledge dies
there's not enough in its absence to sustain
the flow of understanding quickly dries

the powers of ignorance come not single spies
but in massive force cohesion to maintain
without a vision all true knowledge dies

in the name of fear there fall silent the cries
of those who from inquiry won't refrain
the flow of understanding quickly dries

narrower the focus blinkered are the eyes
the troll beneath the bridge will not explain
without a vision all true knowledge dies

the gatekeeper with loudest voice denies
that scholars might have reason to complain
the flow of understanding quickly dries

comes now the the teller of the sweetest lies
triumphant he the darkness will retain
without a vision all true knowledge dies
the flow of understanding quickly dries

doing all that's mean

there isn’t much that we can say today
no one is going to jinx their chance
we hope the troll will simply go away

once dauntless men would dragons slay
and on their horses after would they prance
there isn’t much that we can say today

we find ourselves in a meaner affray
it cannot our small reputations enhance
we hope the troll will simply go away

now we demur deride deny delay
give the ugly bridge-dweller a brief glance
there isn’t much that we can say today

too angry now to seek a better way
we let the creature go on sufferance
we hope the troll will simply go away

there isn’t any chance to have a say
in what the music is or what the dance
there isn’t much that we can say today
we hope the troll will simply go away

blow wind come wrack

in the mind there are grey waters
restless cloud-covered visibly cold
beneath the sea-king's evil daughters
wait for those who'll never be old
down in the dark wait all the ages
those who adventured but did not return
those whose names are not on the pages
the ones for whom no incense would burn
no text or plaque their names recalls
none who remember them dare to speak
the lowering cloud the atmosphere palls
we who remain find ourselves too weak
the fish that's caught into our hands may bring
only itself or perhaps a golden ring

and others of their kind

the falsehood will be stripped from what remains
truth will appear in its most radiant guise
the catch in the throat the gasp that detains

it isn't so much that the bullshitter strains
to give effect to what he knows are lies
the falsehood will be stripped from what remains

we're told the story know it took such pains
as liars take to make themselves seem wise
the catch in the throat the gasp that detains

no one would question why the hand refrains
from tearing down the veil that hid the spies
the falsehood will be stripped from what remains

insensible not a thought's crept through the brains
of these that once we lauded to the skies
the catch in the throat the gasp that detains

the broadest roads will end as country lanes
at dungheaps where rejoice the buzzing flies
the falsehood will be stripped from what remains
the catch in the throat the gasp that detains

classroom

the walls are blank and have no recall
those who have gone are gone for good
the time has flown the recollections pall

i face the repetition spring and fall
do everything i can all that i should
the walls are blank and have no recall

the sun has not yet risen the space is small
the tables are of plastic-covered wood
the time has flown the recollections pall

i listen for the footsteps in the hall
i drink my coffee grateful that i could
the walls are blank and have no recall

it is not warm the minutes seem to crawl
i long to put my head under a hood
the time has flown the recollections pall

through my dim memories the nets i trawl
find nothing that the past time has withstood
the walls are blank and have no recall

i've done my time i have not lost the ball
i've done at least some of the things i would
the walls are blank and have no recall
the time has flown the recollections pall

comfort

in the depths of the dark there are voices
people passing unaware of those who wake
between calm and alarm we have choices
if we must act there must be no mistake
at night the parties must not be too loud
the time of celebration is confined
the young we know have the right to be proud
the older ones to keep their youth in mind
we groan and wish for sleep to be restored
and when it is we will at once forget
we store what rest we can in a small hoard
and hope for some small liberation yet
life we are told goes on and things will pass
as do all matters raised by the living class

the inland delta

the journey began somewhere that we know
where it will end that no one now can tell
the river runs in constant steady flow

the sullen animals on which we cargo throw
have anger yes but not the wit to rebel
the journey begins somewhere that we know

across the desert caravans come and go
we think of them as now traversing hell
the river runs in constant steady flow

we ask the vultures what they see below
they seem to hear a final funeral knell
the journey begins somewhere that we know

the blessings that those left behind bestow
they will not matter at the last dry well
the river runs in constant steady flow

the magic in the name just seems to grow
across the wastes there comes a cheery yell
the journey begins somewhere that we know
the river runs in constant steady flow

beg your pardon son

jeremy says he detests the villanelle
the repetition grates upon his senses
he wants the poem to go down to hell
with all its jangling rhymes and tenses
the sonnet seems to him a better form
no repetitive refrains to make him scoff
it too contains a format and a norm
but does not it seems set my lad off
the verse that annoys him contains repeats
of phrases he does not want in his mind
he does not mind the rhythm or the beats
but echoes i gather he does not want to find
so this i send to him in hopes that he'll forgive
those other verses that i will make live

no use complaining

the rain today will serve them as excuse
patience i know is what now will be urged
i long to vent to let them hear abuse
in hope that all my anger will be purged
but there's no use i cannot hope to shove
them into action they cannot be made
to listen to rage to hate even to love
and hope for action soon begins to fade
the season's changing making for delay
all hopes of seeing the new year in are gone
explanations are provided in swift array
and it will end when they say they are done
there's always hope they say and need to eat
but when will our desire and home now meet

progress report

it should not take too long to build a wall
the concrete cannot be in short supply
it is not hard to make sure it won't fall

over the day there hangs a greyish pall
that it has rained we cannot now deny
it should not take too long to build a wall

not many courses it will not be too tall
here ingenuity and desire ally
it is not hard to make sure it won't fall

we are told stories they're not on the ball
lies and excuses equally we decry
it should not take too long to build a wall

it's hard to understand why they would stall
not even make a start not even try
it is not hard to make sure it won't fall

we've seen the dirt and gravel there's a haul
why will they not their best efforts apply
it should not take too long to build a wall
it is not hard to make sure it won't fall

end of the day

between the sound and the silence only rain
all that is grey and cloudy must unite
winter is coming and with wet winter pain

the clouds boiled up some days out of the main
west winds arose to speed their sullen flight
between the sound and the silence only rain

the colours are now dulled into grey plain
the mortal hopes we placed in them despite
winter is coming and with wet winter pain

nothing that happens makes for loss or gain
unless we ask for meaning or for light
between the sound and silence only rain

we listen but cannot hear a passing train
the senses all have come under a blight
winter is coming and with wet winter pain

hopefulness now just goes against the grain
but we must hope against the fall of night
between the sound and silence only rain
winter is coming and with wet winter pain

preliminary report

admit reluctant warriors to the ranks
deny that any setback is defeat
send in the heavy gunnery and tanks

the praise of collaborators is true thanks
meaning inheres whenever they must meet
admit reluctant warriors to the ranks

reject reports that there are no more banks
to pay our men and keep them on their feet
send in the heavy gunnery and tanks

keep scouts alert and watch out on the flanks
we have no time to rest upon our seat
admit reluctant warriors to the ranks

victory's one of the ruling party's planks
we have proclaimed it and we know it sweet
send in the heavy gunnery and tanks

the armour as it advances groans and clanks
its movement we would never label fleet
admit reluctant warriors to the ranks
send in the heavy gunnery and tanks

commuting

the city looms ahead towers in the haze
seem magic castles set in a fairy-tale
at sunset the skyscrapers seem ablaze

we know the essence of these autumn days
when the long heat at last begins to fail
the city looms ahead towers in the haze

the cloud that at the tops of buildings plays
drops rain into the streets as sirens wail
at sunset the skyscrapers seem ablaze

the breeze that startles us out of our daze
seems fresher somehow not quite as stale
the city looms ahead towers in the haze

we skirt the puddles smile at the brief rays
avoid the wetness beaded on the rail
at sunset the skyscrapers seem ablaze

we move as if our sense were out of phase
the zephyr seeming as a promised gale
the city looms ahead towers in the haze
at sunset the skyscrapers seem ablaze

in what name?

at what price shall we prize this praise
of flowered forests or of blooming stone
that unites in form of castle that we raise

a thing that moves another thing that stays
they are before us transparent to the bone
at what price shall we prize this praise

but ghost or spirit there'll come he that lays
to rest their hauntings leaving one alone
that unites in form of castle that we raise

the sun itself its illuminating rays
cannot see through walls unto the throne
at what price shall we prize this praise

a whip that felons' backs stings and flays
is but a tool that makes its victims moan
that unites in form of castle that we raise

in sudden moments we see other days
and darker acts for which we must atone
at what price shall we prize this praise
that unites in form of castle that we raise

not old the woods

these are the times of open flame
when nothing hidden can survive
nothing be done the beast to tame
but with an urging to survive
the books each tell a different tale
the journals cannot say what's true
we armour up with plate or mail
yet cannot now courage imbue
the craft that fly over these lands
no longer make us feel secure
we fear control by unknown hands
we fear the house will not endure
the answer is that like forgotten snow
the followers care not where we go

who hears the music now?

it sinks over and over into the grey seas
the story has been told and told again
out of the north comes a chilling breeze

the vessel moves indifferent to the pleas
of those who can no longer take the strain
it sinks over and over into the grey seas

majestic huge seeming to move at ease
even the almost-blind can see it plain
out of the north comes a chilling breeze

the sudden intersection like disease
of wood and metal as if they felt pain
it sinks over and over into the grey seas

the thing that's unexpected no one sees
until too late the thought is one of gain
out of the north comes a chilling breeze

and now they live or drown or freeze
nothing is left the hopeful to sustain
it sinks over and over into the grey seas
out of the north comes a chilling breeze

the sea is rising

for that discoveries are what we make
the songs of finders are the things that last
the science is in finding words that take

the singer sitting by some mountain lake
has little trouble with the line that's cast
for that discoveries are what we make

the gardener now leaning on his rake
thinks not upon the leaf-falls of the past
the science is in finding words that take

the lover who thinks there's no mistake
in making sure that things happen so fast
for that discoveries are what we make

unless it happens that some watchful snake
has shed its skin too soon for the bomb's blast
the science is in finding words that take

now having seen that we will truly shake
the ship together from the keel to mast
for that discoveries are what we make
the science is in finding words that take

no proper time of day

with naught of hesitation we requite
how we were treated with no burning ire
we will be quiet but we have our might

what in is would show mercy we indict
of treason and cast swiftly into fire
with naught of hesitation we requite

should some evil happen in despite
of all our choices all that we require
we will be quiet but we have our might

our resolution will not end in flight
we are not mercenaries not for hire
with naught of hesitation we requite

into our warm darkness we admit no light
the sun will not illuminate the spire
we will be quiet but we have our might

the resolution will not happen quite
as might be done to silence now the liar
with naught of hesitation we requite
we will be quiet but we have our might

not many nails to build a house

the devil in the details has to smile
between the rain and sun it waits
the road will twist and turn for a short while

the lies prevarications dishonesties pile
into grey forms of hard and brittle slates
the devil in the details has to smile

hurt by action and inaction we resile
avoiding thus we hope the harder fates
the road will twist and turn for a short while

whatever choice is made will be futile
this we believe while passion hesitates
the devil in the details has to smile

the rock itself turns friable or fissile
we seek but cannot find our journey mates
the road will twist and turn for a short while

we long for travel's end for the final mile
whatever it is that hard fate contemplates
the devil in the details has to smile
the road will twist and turn for a short while

state secret?

the king issues a lot of proclamations
to warn the people of the other nations
that we will rule them
we will school them
and they had better learn their stations

we are now i think pretty certain
that there is no one behind the curtain
but if we should look
our necks they will hook
and with us they will not be flirtin'

for in this time of terror and fear
as all around the dogs wildly tear
we keep ourselves sound
by remaining in pound
and will do so for many a year

we need i must stay to be blunt
the ship of state's a sinking punt
we have no choice
we're not allowed a voice
to point out that our leader's a cunt

as our rights out the window are chucked
our liberties from us are being sucked
we had better pray
or at least obey
since either way we now are fucked

the rose does not rove

forgetting is not sufficient we must do more
to hide from ourselves the hole must be vast
we can refuse the memory we can just ignore

enough that we have kept so far in store
the things to which we have too long held fast
forgetting is not sufficient we must do more

what once was truth what once was fairy lore
we store now unreachable far in the past
we can refuse the memory we can just ignore

those who were outside now are safe in the core
that is enough they're safely home at last
forgetting is not sufficient we must do more

through hardest boards the truth itself will bore
although into the depths remembrance is cast
we can refuse the memory we can just ignore

what we can stand's no answer nor was it before
but we have nailed blank colours to the mast
we can refuse the memory we can just ignore
forgetting is not sufficient we must do more

unburned the fog

we see the yellow sun through fog and cloud
we feel the warmth rise from the ground
today even the leaf-blower is not loud

distant trains sound horns to warn the crowd
we're startled unexpected is the sound
we see the yellow sun through fog and cloud

the sky is low pressing down on the proud
we cower in isolation near the ground
today even the leaf-blower is not loud

the silences with dull weight seem endowed
the leaves lie heavy fallen all around
we see the yellow sun through fog and cloud

we walk along the pavement with heads bowed
our footfalls with deep intensity resound
today even the leaf-blower is not loud

the weather seems to have us dumb and cowed
no force within us makes a swift rebound
we see the yellow sun through fog and cloud
today even the leaf-blower is not loud

empire

the day begins with news of yet more death
the warriors have made these days their time
the air is heavy poisoning the breath
the noblest buildings have a coat of grime
the voice of freedom now seems forced and hoarse
the garments of blind justice are threadbare
we're urge without good reason stay the course
respond to terror with nothing but fear
what does it matter that we all once knew
that fear was not enough to build a state
what does it matter that it is not true
that our fresh triumph is decreed by fate
the morning's dark around us the fog lies
we cannot hope again to see the skies

so it goes

we do not note the subtle changes time's attack
they happen slowly but they accumulate
and now we learn that we cannot go back

we start off feeling that we have a lack
though what it is we cannot formulate
we do not note the subtle changes time's attack

we stand upright although we bear a pack
that is all right as powers aggregate
and now we learn that we cannot go back

the signs of grey add distinction to the black
little by little we learn to tolerate
we do not note the subtle changes time's attack

the wrinkle seems to turn into a track
we wonder how our faces to levitate
and now we learn that we cannot go back

facing time's force we must at long last crack
advancing downwards at a faster rate
we do not note the subtle changes time's attack
and now we learn that we cannot go back

in times like these

faced with such tyranny we bow our heads
the fire's gone out though once it was fierce bright
in times like these we have to make our beds

on our own backs we place the irons and leads
for safety's sake we relinquish every right
faced with such tyranny we bow our heads

whether our favourite singer laughs or weds
is the concern of each of us at night
in times like these we have to make our beds

if we dare speak we're identified as reds
that's the essential nature of our plight
faced with such tyranny we bow our heads

the gap banana republic reeboks nikes keds
choose these but do not choose to brandish might
in times like these we have to make our beds

controlled by fears controlled we are by dreads
so we abandon thought and oversight
faced with such tyranny we bow our heads
in times like these we have to make our bed

s

not waiting for the morning train

we mistake our era's givens for the eternal
assume that each of us contains an essence
though we dislike it reality's diurnal

when we believe a phenomenon supernal
we grant it power far beyond its presence
we mistake our era's givens for the eternal

the interconnection that makes us fraternal
experiences no sudden efflorescence
though we dislike it reality's diurnal

we blame our failures on powers infernal
no act of ours produces deliquescence
we mistake our era's givens for the eternal

our enemies' destination we believe avernal
not ours despite knowing of our evancescence
though we dislike it reality's diurnal

in each of us there is a moment vernal
we wait throughout life for its recrudescence
we mistake our era's givens for the eternal
though we dislike it reality's diurnal

where's home?

this is the only homehand that we know
throughout our lives we balance pain and joy
and after who can tell just where we go

the river is intermittent in its flow
with our hopes and desires it wants to toy
this is the only homeland that we know

like a shooting star we make a lovely show
with rapid incandescence to deploy
and after who can tell just where we go

insistent with potential our lights glow
but take the merest second to destroy
this is the only homeland that we know

beautifully evanescent as rainbow
our presence nonetheless is a mere ploy
and after who can tell just where we go

boldly daringly we gaze forward from the prow
of hope and of destruction is our alloy
this is the only homeland that we know
and after who can tell just where we go

bleak

not now the answer
but further even scrying
hidden from us truth

waking up today
no cocks crow no fury signs
but dark to past noon

rain out of the sky
darkens roads covers passage
ordinary time

comes the rain

what the clouds wind and rain do is inform
the time of pleasant days has now its end
the seasons change the weather is not warm

raw days upon us now that is the norm
we bow our heads before the blustery trend
what the clouds wind and rain do is inform

the summer came and went with no great storm
no gales came through the giant trees to bend
the seasons change the weather is not warm

though milder than other places is the form
still the breeze's bite an urgency must lend
what the clouds wind and rain do is inform

today clouds open up dissipate reform
from west to east the wind has made them wend
the seasons change the weather is not warm

far to the north harsh winds the trees deform
but here though raw less bitter times append
what the clouds wind and rain do is inform
the seasons change the weather is not warm

hic dracones

there are no monsters now beyond the line
ships are not eaten by some great sea-beast
what they hit unexpected is a mine

the arbour we know is but a single vine
the drink that greets the sailors at the feast
there are no monsters now beyond the line

we see them loading the large tuns of wine
enough to keep them working at the least
what they hit unexpected is a mine

the boats that we see made of oak or pine
will carry on them treasures of the east
there are no monsters now beyond the line

the ones who breach the law will pay a fine
those who do not are exempt or deceased
what they hit unexpected is a mine

we hear the largest vessels creak and whine
the captain now believes he is a priest
there are no monsters now beyond the line
what they hit unexpected is a mine

news from iraq

another explosive goes boom
another man goes to his tomb
to get out of this war
is not for the sore
but for those who fear a great doom

we're told that we must stay the course
maintaining the abuse of force
no pain without gain
is the sense of the strain
but we seem to have backed the wrong horse

the number of deaths keeps on rising
vietnam we are clearly reprising
but the fools in command
look over the sand
and see victory which is surprising

we fight and refight for each city
ignoring the press comments witty
and every sad death
every loss of breath
for a wasted cause now is just shitty

the children of pride

the wild beast seems quite gentle in it's cage
the monster has a smiling gentle face
within there rumbles still a hidden rage

the words that seem so simple on the page
leave in the mind a sharply wicked trace
the wild beast seems quite gentle in it's cage

each giant that we see upon the stage
is made of many parts that interlace
within there rumbles still a hidden rage

we need it seems a larger macrophage
to hold the dread infection in its place
the wild beast seems quite gentle in it's cage

what matters if some maleficent mage
controls with darkest power the interface
within there rumbles still a hidden rage

the veriest fool and also the greatest sage
will in its grip accept his role with grace
the wild beast seems quite gentle in it's cage
within there rumbles sill a hidden rage

benevolence

the glint of morning coming through the shades
gives us a sense of a far brighter time
day's kingdom is so short too soon it fades

the lawn seems perfect the neat-mown blades
contrasting with the building's oldish grime
the glint of morning coming through the shades

the seed new-planted soon the world invades
though winter will first cover it with rime
day's kingdom is so short too soon it fades

the birds announce with their sharp serenades
they still control their domains at their prime
the glint of morning coming through the shades

across the sky a single cloud parades
no rain today but promise maritime
day's kingdom is so short too soon it fades

a joyful peace now this moment pervades
as soft breeze leads the breeze in happy mime
day's kingdom is so short too soon it fades
the glint of morning coming through the shades

William Hogarth illustrating false perspective

sinking deeper in the mud

another day another morning's news
the stories change yet stay the same
we cannot walk a yard in others' shoes

the tales of deaths explosions other views
remind us that we must spread the blame
another day another morning's news

what if one day we should combined refuse
continuing the same old weary game
we cannot walk a yard in others' shoes

we smile and laugh but still pretend to choose
the road to justice not the one to shame
another day another morning's news

a bomb explodes but we didn't light the fuse
we set the fire but now deny the flame
we cannot walk a yard in others' shoes

what we call freedom's now a lady of the stews
we give the wretched bombers greater fame
another day another morning's news
we cannot walk a yard in others' shoes

long live king george iii

we'll hold these brown men without trial
they'll be ours to torment for a while
doesn't matter a cent
if they're innocent
they'll suffer on that hot carib isle

then after four-five years or so
we'll let just a few of them go
they'll go off through the sky
with no idea why
'cause they have not the least reason to know

our people have suffered great fright
so we'll overwhelm with our might
these little brown men
keep them in the pen
since whatever we do must be right

it doesnt matter what anyone might think
we'll just give a nod and a wink
to the noble cause
of upholding laws
and toss alleged foes in the clink

this is going to be our finest hour
we have the will and the power
the islamists all
will just have to fall
in line and head off to the shower

only those touched in the head
would deny us the power of lead
and in freedom's name
we'll remove from the game
all who block us till liberty's dead

trumpets blatting

discordant music describes for us a world
uncertain pained and still incomplete
the flag of its new freedom remains furled

does it matter what insults were hurled
by whom and with what hate replete
discordant music describes for us a world

accepting that like a cat our hope is curled
over in the corner hiding now its feet
the flag of its new freedom remains furled

we wait to see the new banners unfurled
symbols of anger symbols too of heat
discordant music describes for us a world

the wood that once was straight is burled
the knots forbid the planks in true to meet
the flag of its new freedom remains furled

into the mess a new device has whirled
shattering all that once seemed so concrete
discordant music describes for us a world
the flag of its new freedom remains furled