GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty-eight

Today we write about poems


I could write about any number of poems that I have read
Over the many years that I have been reading poetry.
There have been short poems, long poems,
Ones that rhyme, ones that do not rhyme,
Ones with a regular metre, ones that ramble and meander to the end of their lines
And then drift onto the next line as well and

sometimes into the next stanza.
But on poem has stayed with me, and seems
To grow in impact as we live through
This month of fools.

"History repeats itself.
Has to.
No-one listens."

It is short, but it is so much to the point,
And I do not know why I am trying to
Write new poetry when these three
Simple lines say everything that everyone else
Has ever said.

There have always been fools.
There will always be fools.
We are all sailing on the ship of fools.

(c) 2ndwitch, 28/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty-seven

Today we rewrite the bard, with a twist.

And when you're older, darling
And wrinkled like an unironed shirt
Those guys who stare at you now
Will seem to matter not at all.
And if they ask why you are ugly now
And why have you not taken care to age well,
Then say, from within the depth of your soul,
That the fools have shamed us, now folly wins
And the ephemeral beauty of a firework
Lasts longer than the beauty of the fool
And his child will know naught beyond the excuse
And will inherit the earth by folly laid bare.
     If only we knew then what we know today
     How different might our actions be today.

(c) 2ndwitch, 27/04/19

("When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
     This were to be new made when thou art old,
     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold."
Shakespeare Sonnet II )

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty-six

Today we are being formal again.


Oh do not sail into the treacherous seas,
Thou many-masted ship of many fools
But stay in this safe harbour if you please.

There are no charts to help you sailing free,
And the seas respect not you nor rules,
Oh, do not sail into the treacherous seas.

The pain of life can bring you to your knees
And make you wish you'd learnt of this at school,
But stay in a safe harbour if you please.

The wildest waves or gentlest swell that teases
Is nought beside the whirling of this pool,
Oh do not sail into those treacherous seas.

Your journey would be endless, there is no ease
At the destination port, you're but the tools
Who should stay within safe harbour if you please.

We are but human, frail, and hearing all our pleas
The fools are still determined they are not fools,
But do not sail into those treacherous seas
And stay in this safe harbour if you please.

(c) 2ndwitch, 26/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty-five

Today we season with a sonnet.

When first I hear the cuckoo call in spring
I look toward the beech tree grand and tall.
I smell the raindrop's song, and hear it sing
Of dying days of winter that recall

The crisp and frozen crust on fallen snow
That hides the saddest mark of season's end,
And then I turn my face to winds that blow
The taste of hope that memory will mend.

For as I watch the new leaf dimpled sky
And catch the wee birds' chatter in the trees,
And see the soaring hawk that hovers near,
Then think I of foolishness, asking why
The greed of some can bring us to our knees -
But only future's promise do I fear.

(c) 2ndwitch, 25/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty-four

Today we consult a thesaurus.


The thesaurus is a dinosaur that has survived into the modern world.

The child flips open the pages and looks at the words hidden within.

The fool sees words and cannot understand this is not a dictionary.

And so the legacy continues      
                  there is an antidote to folly in its venerable pages
                  but the fool sees it as a counter-measure against his efforts.
             the dinosaurs existed in antiquity, roaming an earth
             devoid of fools, and golden olden day.
         the wise are apathetic, seeing only pain and a hopeless
         future, the fools unconcerned beyond themselves.
     the would be wise are apprehensive, the ship is sailing
     into uncharted waters, disturbed by new currents.
 And the ones who advise have only approximate answers
 To offer, no balm to soothe the rough pain of what is to come.

And yet the ship prepares to sail, to leave behind that which
Is familiar, and to sacrifice the wise who urge caution
In order to preserve the interests of fools.
The fools are dinosaurs, left walking a modern earth
Searching for an age long gone, that lives now only in their imaginations.

(C) 2ndwitch, 24/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty-three

Today we describe an animal.

Four legs.
It definitely should have four legs,
Because three would make it hard for it to run,
And five would probably make it trip up.
So it has four legs,
It has a tail.
A long and swishy tail,
That can be plaited or left free
To blow in the wind as it runs
Along the glen from burn to byre and back.
It is white.
Shining white, maybe more silver,
With an inner light
That shines as it wanders by the river
In the gloaming.
It stops to sniff a rose.
A small white rose,
A rose that has been written about
By another poet
In another time.
And its noble head carries
But one horn,
A unicorn,
The beast of mythology that carries
Hope for Scotland's future
In every hoof beat.
Not the jazzy and blowsy
Unicorn of the imagining of fools.
Not the plastic and fragile
Toy that the fools believe can steer their ship.
This unicorn has strength
And grace.
This unicorn can run forever.

(c) 2ndwitch, 23/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty-two

Today the fools sing.

It has been suggested, somewhere or other,
That music is a universal language.
The wordy can talk to the wordless via notes
And rests, and artificial borders
Of the sort that languages create are rendered
Ephemeral and transitory by a whistled melody.

So, as the ship of fools prepares to sail,
Perhaps it should emulate the ferry that sails
Each day from North Shields and serenade
Its foolish crew with 'Anchors Aweigh' so that they
Might understand that their vessel is leaving
The safety of a known harbour and steaming
Its way out into unknown and uncharted waters?

Or maybe we should just accept that music
Can contain cliche, and that however bad the
Tragedy that blights our lives, friends will
Apparently comfort us and we will find
Beauty in seeing snowdrops in the rain.

(c) 2ndwitch, 22/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twentyone

Today we visit a zoo.

The small voice is buried in a cacophony of sound
And the chimps and cockatiels
Parade their endless superiority
In a hall bound in wood, polished and smoothed
With the arguments of ages and the passing
Swish of ancient gowns.
There used to be a reason when first men
Came to this house and sat beside other men.
In those other days there were reasons
And the eldritch scream of debate was a distant
Echo warning of things to come.
Late nights with port and belching pigs
That have feasted on ill-gotten spoils.
Penguins on parade through the lobbies
Whilst in the viewing gallery the naked apes
Watch as a feeding frenzy is enveloped in
Calling cats and the keeper tried to keep order.
The small voice is still there, but the naked apes
Can shout louder, and the brass monkeys
Chatter and squeal as they take all
The available bananas.

(c) 2ndwitch, 21/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twenty

Today we debate.

She told me it would be okay
"It'll be fine, stop worrying"
But even then I had my doubts,
Someone else said to have patience
"Just take your time, you'll get there"
But those words sounded as a cracked bell.
You see, my dear, when life is
A constant parade of fools, each
More braggart than the last, it is
Hard to judge the truth and
Even harder to stay true to yourself.

(c) 2ndwitch, 20/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Nineteen

Today we consider the alphabet.

A ship of fools
Bound for glory
Carrying no knowledge, but
Denying
Everything.
Fools, the crew, and
Guesswork informs
How they set sail.
In case of emergency
Just break open a bottle, and
Kill another pheasant.
Lemon, with your gin?
More red wine in the sauce?
No need to worry about
Others,
Poor people,
Quite how they manage
Remains a mystery, and out of our
Sight.
Tuck in to
Underdone steak and
Vintsge
Wine, watching
X-rated films for free,
You need not ever pay because
 . . . this is a democracy ruled
by an out of control ship of fools
whose final destination is known not
even to the captain.
Whoever she may be.

(c) 2ndwitch, 19/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Eighteen

Today we are in remembrance.

She wore my sunglasses.
She did not ask if she may, but just
Took them
From my bag, and put them on.
I remember that.
I took a photo of her
Wearing my sunglasses.
Enigmatic, the world reflected
In my sunglasses.
There was no shadow, no sense of foreboding,
Just laughter and teasing.
She wore my sunglasses.

Then one day the world ended.
Time stopped,
And she would never again
Take my sunglasses from my bag
And wear them.

She did not tolerate fools, but
Tomorrow we shall return to fools
In this month of fools
That is also the month
Of her birth.

(c) 18/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Seventeen

Today we turn the tables.

As a child we learn to respect knowledge and
To assume that with learning comes wisdom.
We are raised to view the ones who attain power
As possessing wisdom, for without it they could not be in power.

I may be small, Mr Politician, but I can watch you.
I see you on television, talking about important things.
I listen to your words about education.
Education concerns me, Mr Politician.
I understand that it is important that I can read and write,
But I do not understand why it is more important that
I understand a subjunctive clause than that I
Understand the meaning of birdsong.
I understand that I must be taught important things
And that those who teach me are important people,
But I do not understand why you will not pay
Enough important people to help me learn.
I understand that it is important that I treat
Everyone as my equal, and do not judge on your
Terms of colour, class or gender, but I
Do not understand why there is one rule for
You, and a different rule for me.
I understand that there are glories in my past,
But when you tell me of them I see only sadness,
And I do not understand why the old people, the
Ones who should have grown wiser with the years,
Should want to make me live in the past and
Not have any hope for the future.
I understand we need to live in harmony with
The earth, and do not understand why you cannot
Understand that simple truth.

I understand, Mr Politician, that what I was taught
Is wrong, and that you are not in power because you are wise,
But you are in power because you understand the importance
Of money, and of self, and all else is just words.
I understand, Mr Politician, I understand.
I understand that you are no more than a fool.

(c) 2ndwitch, 17/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Sixteen

Today we consider.

In your hand it smooths quickly.
In your hand it moves smoothly.
In your hand it caresses the wood.
In your hand it would always be gentle.
In your hand it has rhythm.
In your hand it plays its own tune.
In your hand there is a shimmer of sawdust.
In your hand the wood grows warm.
In your hand the plane is plain, but
In your hand it is a thing of wonder.

Perhaps the fools would be best to seek the wisdom
Of the old man with the plane, and
To consider the way in which rough wood
Is planed to become a thing of serenity,
Smoothness and beauty?

(c) 2ndwitch, 16/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Fifteen

Today this fool speaks.

However quiet the morning there is no doubt
That it is the beginning of a new day.
I walk, bare-headed, in this awakening land
And hear the call of the birds and see
The dew-dropped grass bend under the weight
Of the world's tears.
Oh why is this world so damaged?
Why do I hear pain in every softly
Uttered cry, and in the very breeze that
Sifts and sorts the emerging leaves?
The ship that I should have been on
Sailed so long ago, in June, and heads
Now, rudderless and adrift, roughly
In the direction of the so-called
New World.
It carries the rampaging triumphalism
Of a long dead Empire, and cannot
See that it is the folly of those like me
That rips the tattered sails and tears
The screaming shrouds in the
Cold and heartless winds that drive
The raging seas.
It is too late for me, I cannot sail on that
Ship, and would not want to if I could.
But even now, I wish that we could return
The ship to harbour and rebuild the land
It has left behind.

(c) 2ndwitch, 15/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Fourteen

Today we consider our rites.

Perhaps some find it essential to preserve our rites
Whatever the threat or argument against them.
Perhaps others find it essential to preserve our rights
Whatever the threat or argument against them.

When these issues rise in their thoughts, the fools
Rise to the bait and begin to shout and bluster.
When these issues rise in life, the wise
Rise to the occasion and try to muster
Some sense and import it into the proceedings
Which obviously have great import
For the sum of all believings.

The fools are convinced that rites matter most,
The wise hold rights as worth any cost,

(c) 2ndwitch, 14/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Thirteen

Today we are mysterious.

There is a ghost that is really in charge.
There is evidence.
There are promises but they are not fulfilled.
There are people's whose wishes they willed
Have been ignored and refused
Whose beings are cursed and abused.
There are threats of evils and pain
Made again, and again and again,
And again, by the fools
Who make their own rules,
And the wise who have sense
Are left sad, and incensed
At the mysterious way that
Nobody seems to be in charge.

(c) 2ndwitch, 13/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Twelve

Today is a dull day.

The highlights of life attract the passing glance
And hold it, transfixed, for a moment of frozen time.
It is the lights we recall, not the dark sky they
Are set against, it is the sparkle of the tinsel
Not the dull green of the tree.
Or is it?
Is what we really remember the contrast
Of light and dark, of bright and dull?

We recall the promise on the bus, and the
Threats of immigrants and losing our identity
And these are set in stark contrast against the
Realities of economic forecasts and
Canceled educational exchanges.
The desire to have a blue passport
Stands out, and the loss of a research project
In renewable energy seems distant and
Rather boring.
Rather dull.
But yet, in the end, when all is said and done,
When the shouting is over, and the dust has settled,
Then we will realise that it was the dull things
That we really needed and cared about all along.
And then the words of the wise, drowned out
At the time in the cacophony of fools,
Will sing out sadly but true.
When it is too late, and the fools
Have gained their empty victory.

(c) 2ndwitch, 12/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Eleven

Today we consider the origin of fools.

Were they born of woman, or did they hatch
From a rancid egg laid by an old hen?
Perhaps they were spawned in a foetid
Pond, rank with stagnant water and
Slimy with rotting pondweed?
Perhaps they simply happened,
Crawling from beneath a random
Stone one cold November afternoon?

For the fools who live a luxurious life
At the expense of the downtrodden
Wise men have no moral compass by
Which to navigate a gentle and considerate
Path through daily experiences.
The wise men who know how to travel
Kindly through this land, and who
Appreciate the keening cry of the soaring hawk,
Are given no room by the fools, they
Are shouted down, and ignored, and their
Words of wisdom and gravity vanish
In the cacophonous maelstrom of jibes
And insults that are the mode of business
For the foolish ones who operate the controls.

This is where the fools come from,
They come from money and arrogance,
Transmitted from foolish father to foolish son
For ever and ever, amen.

(c) 2ndwitch, 11/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Ten

Today we consider the wind.

It's a lazy wind.
Lazy?
Aye, lazy - blows through you
And won't go round you.
A lazy wind.
A wind that blows no good
From nowhere.

It has been said that a fool
Is but a bag of wind.
A lazy fool cannot
Help but blow his foolish wind
In your face.
His wind will strip the skin from your bones
And the levity from your life
Without a single regret.

It's an ill wind that blows no-one any good.
But this wind is terminally ill
And the fools are extinguishing
The wise by their intemperate gusting.

Oh, for the wind of change instead.

(c) 2ndwitch, 10/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Nine

Today we list things.

Only the fool places faith in things.
Only the foolish worship things.

But the wise see things
As simply things in context:

Today the sun has set leaving a clear sky
Tinged blue with pink,
Glowing and arcing above the
Deepling grey of the fellside.

Today the buzzard soared overhead
And its keening cry pierced
To the heart of the day.

Today the magnolia opened its flower
And smiled at the spring sunshine.

And today the fools clutched at straws.

Again.

(c) 2ndwitch, 09/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Eight

The day we take-away.

Surely there will be time to cook
Up some form of solution that
Will pass muster?
Surely the ingredients we need for
A meal deal are all there in the
Euromarket, just waiting on the shelf
For a fool to walk in a find them?
But it seems that spending all our time in the
House means that there is not time to spend in the
House, and therefore we cannot assemble
A suitable meal deal that will
Good enough for all who come to the table.
We have argued about meals and snacks
And considered several ready meals, but
There is always an objection from someone.
And so we have no choice but to
Opt for a take-away.
A ready made meal from a dubious
Corner shop, with meat from an
Indeterminate animal smothered in a
Sauce of unknown constituent parts,
With a strong hint of saltiness.
After all, this is what the fools think
Is good for us.

(c) 2ndwitch, 08/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Seven

Today is the day when . . .

Today is the day when the fools give us gifts.
Not wrapped in paper
All gaudy and bright
But in messages complex that we need to sift
To find the inclusion
To find what is right.
Today is the day when the fools give us gifts.

Those who sit in judgement on us
So clearly believe
That their right to control is inherent
And rooted in the privilege
And accident of birth.
Those who hold the reins of power
So clearly believe
That their need for control Is inalienable
And rooted deep,
Deep in their privilege and
The accident of their birth.

So, when we wake on the festival morn,
Excited and expectant with joy newly born,
What will we find 'neath the tree of life,
What presents are there for the wise?
Will we find freedom?
The end of all wars?
Hope for our planet?
The key to the door
That opens onto a world brand new?

But we must not forget that the fools are giving the gifts
And that our lives are their own to control or deny.
We must not forget to take off our caps as the gentry ride by
And to obey all the rules and to keep off the grass.

My wish for us all is the ending of fools,
The capsizing of government and the bending of rules.
My wish is for a world where none know hunger
And few no pain,
Where work is for welfare
And never for gain.

Today is the day when the fools give us gifts
Of empty boxes and dead flowers.

(c) 2ndwitch, 07/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 - Day Six

Today, if there were no fools . . .

If there were no fools
Then the ship would not have sailed.
If there were no ship
Then we would not be in troubled waters.
If there were no troubled waters
Then we would be quietly at home.
If there were no home
Then we might live in another place.
If there were no other place
Then we might be here.
If there were no here
Then we might be thought to be fools.
And if there were no fools . . .

(c)2ndwitch, 06/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Five

Today we vill an elle-ish prospect view.

The sails are set now on this ship of fools
There is no crew and no-one who can steer
For the wisest men are erased by the rules

This ship sails on through dangerous pools
And the passengers dine well on dark and fear
And the sails are set now on this ship of fools

The fools on this ship have no navigation tools
They have no charts or maps by which to steer
And the wisest men are erased by the rules

The fast encroaching dark ship crewed by ghouls
Draws inexorably onwards closer ever near
And the sails are set now on this ship of fools

Soon the dark ship will engulf the foolish fools
And that faintest hope that the wise men hold so dear
Will see these wisest men erased by the rules

The stars will one by one recede into a formless doom
And the spring and summer lost in the never-ending end of year
For the sails are truly set now on this ship of fools
And the wisest men are erased by foolish rules.

(c) 2ndwitch, 05/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Four

Today is a day of sad fools.

When we were very small
We were told life was a dream
We would soon master it all
And things were just as they seem.
But today when we went to our house
There was water where water should not be.
Last night we had our hackles were roused
And late hours delayed when we were set free.

We do this job
For ourselves
And for the country
We live in,
But the two aims
Are now so far apart
We can no longer
Reconcile them.

Today the ship of fools left the harbour.
Today they set sail with no charts.
Today the fools stepped to the brink
Of the unknowable abyss,
The chasm of unpredictable future
Watered by the mistakes of the past,
And warmed by the infernos of
The hatred and misery
That the fools deliberately created.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Three

Today we recount the life of a fool.

Born into an old house, resplendent with dark polished oak,
And burnished silver, dancing light from oil lanterns
Scurried and hurried to carry the news.
Raised in an old nursery, where nanny was starched and stiffened,
And her breathing played a backing track to a life
Of isolated privilege.
Taught in an old school, with masters whose gowns carried chalk
And blackboard rubbers in the swinging sleeves,
And who wielded a ready cane.
Educated in an old university, where the polished oak was sported
Or not, and where the days were spent on the river,
And reading was a rare thing.
Employed in an old trade, where discipline was exercised
Exactly as it had been by nanny in the old nursery,
And privilege was essential.

The old ways of the fool have meandered from pillar to post
Over many years, decades, even centuries of traditions that
Have lead to the day when the fool is in charge.
And then the fool is the one who considers all others
To be fools, and who laughs behind the closed doors of
And old and corrupted way of not living.

(c) 2ndwitch, 03/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day Two

Today is a day of questions.

Have the fools yet left the house?
Have the fools come to a conclusion?
Have the fools decided?
Have the fools yet left the house?

In this world of sunshine and showers
Where grass is growing
And the magnolia is about to burst into bloom,
In this world of rolling traffic
And buses that stop
To let people on or off,
Or off or on,
In this world, why are there fools?

April is a foolish month.
Perhaps it is the month
When the flying pasta lord,
The monster of spaghetti ,
Was Born, or rather, extruded?
Perhaps it is the month
When little lambs leap
And play in sporting oblivion?
Perhaps it is the month
When the non-foolish ones
Will allow sense to surface
And demolish the house of fools?

Or perhaps it is not?

(c) 2ndwitch, 02/04/19

GloPoWriMo2019 Day One

Today is a day of fools.

We are told, from early in our lives,
To listen when someone is talking to us,
To take notice,
To do as we are told.
We are told, from early in our lives,
That they know what they are doing,
That they will do their best,
That they know what is best for us.

So why do I think they are wrong?
Why do I think I should never have listened?
Why do they keep ignoring common sense?
Why am I so worried?

I was told, I was instructed, that privilege
And education fitted those who had them
For a role in charge of life.
I was told, I was instructed, that those
Who were privileged and educated
Knew better than the rest and
Had a duty to be in charge of life.

The old order has broken.
We should no longer listen.
We should take notice only to oppose.
We should challenge.
We should disobey.

There is no new order,
And the ship of fools
Has left the harbour
And taken all sense with it.
We are alone and betrayed.
We believed in the fools.

(c) 2ndwitch, 01/04/19

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day thirty

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on one of a given section of weird facts. Today is also the end of this year's challenge.

All swans are owned by the queen.

this is something i have always known, and being, from a young age
the sort of child who was passionate about animals and matters
green and ecological, i also always felt that if I were to accidentally
kill a swan i would need to report myself to the police for doing so,
but this view was ridiculed by all who heard me express it, and i was
made to feel stupid and inept and awkward because i had a sense
of principle about things, and of course as life as has progressed i have
learned the sad but true fact that people in general whilst normally being
relatively honest are also all too keen to 'get one over' on others or
to escape the consequences for their actions especially if those
actions were or are illegal or immoral, and this odd quirk of being
a normal human is a quirk that i do not share and because i do not
share it i have realised that i am not a normal human at all, but a
very abnormal one who does not work according to the standard issue
operating instructions, and that this weirdness in me is the reason for
so much about me and my life that for so long made no sense at all but
now is starting to and so it is not the fact of the ownership of swans
that is weird at all

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-nine

Today the prompt is to write a poem that responds or engages with one of a selection of Sylvia Plath poems.

Among the Narcissi

by Silvia Plath

Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks, Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi. He is recuperating from something on the lung. The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing : It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks. There is a dignity to this; there is a formality- The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending. They bow and stand : they suffer such attacks! And the octogenarian loves the little flocks. He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing. The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.

The flocks of daffodils that dance and wave their yellowed heads

In mute and glowing admiration of the one walks between them

Are a static crowd, growing only beneath the grass-clad ground.

Their object of adoration is not so limited, and the sound

Of his voice is melodious and carries the words in flames

Of never-ending envy, his agile fingers with tune words weds.

And yet, those fingers plucking strings can scarcely contain

The silvered notes of glory, echoing the polished mirror round

And bursting into life as though lit by sunshine-fireworked beads.

And so those flocks, in music-time are wind-waving droopy heads

And swaying green-wand leaves in a tidal wave around them

Fixed in tribute, silent, soon to be returned to the earth-born ground.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-eight

Today the prompt is to write a poem in the style of a postcard.


I
 wish
  that
   you
    were
     not
      here.

And that you never had been.
Ever.
No sandcastle memories.
No dripping ice cream.

      I
     wish
    that
   you
  were
 not
here.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-seven

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on a tarot card of choice.  I chose the 5 of cups.



Long cloak, black,
So eloquent
And terse.
Black, the cloak
That covers
The sins.
Cloak,
Long
And black.
The wine
Drunk
And gone.
The wine
Waiting.
Long and dark
Cloaking the wine
And desire
And death.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-six

Today the prompt is to write a poem that embraces all five senses.


Stand still, my friend, and take this moment in your busy day
To contemplate on the which is happening in the shadows
And dark corners of our life.

Be silent, my friend, and take the time to listen to what they say,
Those who live in the darkest corners and the shadows
Of out affluent life.

Breathe deep, my friend, and not only the scent of the flowers gay
Will assail your nose, but also the stench of the shadows
Where poverty is daily life.

Your hand, my friend, could be held out to those who may
Not understand that you know not the cold of the shadows
That are their life.

Be brave, my friend, and realise that the sugar and fat are the way
That many feed themselves, for such is cheap, and in the shadows
Money is scarce to nurture life.

And when these things you have done, my friend, your prejudice lay
Aside, and learn that there is an inevitability in the shadows
Cast as they are by the shining sun of riches, privilege and wealth
That shine on your life; and then as Kipling might have saith
Take heed and mend the things you can
And stand up and be a human.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-five

Today the prompt is to write a poem that is a warning to myself.



Remember to check the ingredients!

Because when you don't, you suffer all sorts of unpleasant after-effects that seriously outweigh any pleasure you may have got from whatever you decided to eat.

Remember to look both ways!

Because if you don't you might meet a large bus and in the case of such a context you are basically bound to lose.

Remember to set your alarm!

Because if you forget you can guarantee that you will oversleep and it will happen on a day when you not oversleeping is a matter of extreme importance.

Remember to check that you have packed everything!

Because you can be sure that the thing you have forgotten will be the thing you need most of all and that you can least do without.

Remember to smile!

Because the world is used to shite and you can be certain that your shite is of no interest to anyone else but that your one smile might be the thing that makes the day okay for someone else.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-four

Today the prompt is to write an elegy that also contains and element of hope.


Jimmy Saville

For many years the media lauded your fundraising efforts,
And the public saw a genial and rather odd man,
Loveable perhaps, laughable for sure, but always
Positive and ready to help.
Friend of the sick and halt, helper of the lame,
And lover of little children.
When you died, the world wept, or some of it did,
Other parts did not weep, and felt relief,
Gladness, that loosening feeling at the end of the ordeal.
It seems strange to offer your death as a moment of hope,
But it is, it was, and it remains so, as it was
The catalyst that allowed the revelation of an age
Of abuse, it allowed the silent ones a voice that
For the first time was being listened to.
From your life, which amidst the evil and corruption
Also offered good, a bizarre silver lining of money
To expiate incompletely the sins of the donor,
From your life has grown a generation of people who
Are less afraid to shout out "Me Too", and a newly
Empowered voice granted to women who for too long
Have been told to be quiet and smile.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-three

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on heard material.


it is an inherent part of being human that we listen
    and that when we listen we interpret
        what we hear according to our own understanding

so when we hear the call of whales
    or the song of the soaring curlew
        we attribute to it meaning

but what if there is no meaning and if the sounds we hear
    are nothing more than simply sounds
        and the sounds themselves are mocking us

although surely the mockery would be wrong as that
   would in turn attribute meaning
        to the meaningless beauty of sounds

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-two

Today the prompt is to take an impossible statement and write a poem where it happens.



"I've cleared that bed of last year's plants . . . "

The autumn leaves lie dejected on the damp earth,
Stirring only torpidly when the wind taunts them.
Stark branches, naked on the tree that gave them birth
Defy the wind's commanding voice, that does condemn
And sentence them to death and lifeless end.

Skeletal flowers, in the summer blue and pink, that danced
Are brown now, dull, their petals paper thin.
And bracken dead and crushed, their broken stance
The wind attacks, and punishes for unnamed sin
That autumn wove and twisted into winter's friend.

But then the rains of spring cast down their softing touch
And seep, deep into the ground, below the frost
Until they reach long-slumbered roots, and much
As the gentle word does find the child that's lost,
The growth that time had ended, starts again.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty-one

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on the myth of Narcissus.

(I am treating this subject VERY laterally!)

There are many forms of beauty, as many as there
Are people who can see or hear or feel, and then
Some more beside.
But for me the epitome of beauty can be seen in
The hands of a skilled craftsman, in the grace and
Deft movements they employ.
And however the musician may consider himself
Above the ordinary mortal, his hands and the beauty
They create remain.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twenty

Today the prompt is write a poem that encapsulates rebellion.


With thanks to D.E.S.

A spring day, when the sun creeps over the rooftops
And illuminates the ground below, a promise of warmth
And a touch of gentle breeze, the oasis of pleasure
Before the summer that is yet to come.
A spring day, when the clamour of the office is
Almost unbearable, the clatter of typewriters clashing
With the constant chatter and gossip, and only the
Glimpse of foreign lands from the wharf to lighten
The stuff and stolid progress of the morning.
A spring day, and a sandwich to put in your pocket
When you escape at lunchtime, and a bench
In the garden in the square behind the office
Where peace and temporary tranquility reign.
A spring day, and the still pool of contemplation
Reflecting the plans for a new and growing year
In the garden on the roof that relieves the tedium
Of this soot-coated inner city life.
A spring day, and the shock of realising that
The man who has walked in through the garden gate
Is your boss, and the delightful amusement at his
Unconscious rebellion when he ignores the sign
And walks on the grass!!

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day nineteen

Today the prompt is to write a descriptive paragraph and then remove words to make it into a poem.

The track was stony, wet, with mud and puddles to negotiate as we walked along it. It did not climb or drop, but kept more or less level, apace with the Lussa running adjacent to its course. It wove in and out of the slender trees, here and there an older specimen stood watch over the peaceful scene. The air was clear, and soft to the touch, if you can so describe air, caressing the person breathing it in. In the distance there was the call of gulls, the sea can never be far away on an island like Mull, and closer to hand the birds darted through the leaves, showing themselves in glimpses to tantalise and perhaps to encourage us to walk on. After we had walked for perhaps 20 minutes or half an hour, the track made one last curve and we could see the cairn. It was roughly built, little more than a pile of stones, with a stone cross held firm at its centre. This, then, was the Pedlar's Pool, and this was the memorial to a man who died because he selflessly helped others.
When I walked away I knew the memory of his sacrifice would never leave me.


The track was stony, wet, with mud and puddles,
It did not climb or drop, but kept apace with the Lussa
running adjacent.
It wove in and out of the slender trees,
and here and there an older specimen stood watch.
The air was clear,  soft to the touch, caressing.
In the distance, the call of gulls, the sea never far away,
and closer to hand the birds darted through the leaves,
showing themselves in glimpses to tantalise
and entice us round one last curve.

It was roughly built, the cairn,
little more than a pile of stones,
with a stone cross held firm at its centre,
the memorial to a man who died
because he selflessly helped others.
This, the Pedlar's Pool.

The memory of that place is within me still.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day eighteen

Today the prompt is to intersperse with another poem, line by line, backwards.

Springtide, or the day the rains came.

'ebbing drop by drop of grief?'
    the tears like raindrops that weep over daffodils and tulips
'and how did I lose its succour'
    when the long remembered sun refuses to shed the steel grey cloud,
'the springtide more golden to me than to the birds'
    and the nighttime's silvered shroud.
'How did the springtide not last'
    beyond that early promise when the crocus bloomed?

'about my feet with a silken rubbing'
    grows the grass that fights the sodden ground
'and the unbreaking wave strikes'
    a blow for winter's clinging grasp,
'with its reefs and the wrack of grief'
    the last breath of the dying year, where
'The shore of trouble is hidden'
    and the memories of happier days fade.

'with flood tide and a thousand sails'
    the never-ending sea whispers its elusive song
'and the incomprehensible ocean fills'
    with the tears of grief that flood the spring when
'my thought comes on you when you were young'
    as always you will be, ever growing old and
'Again and again when I am broken'.
 
 
   

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day seventeen

Today the prompt is to write a poem about a 'family anecdote'.


Small things.

It is not uncommon, I find, to have people
Tell tales of things that happened to them
Years ago, or that happened to their aunt or
Perhaps their cousin, or their father even.
These tales are the constant thread that
Weaves through the tapestry of family
Gathering, whether at a funeral when all
Are reminiscing, or at a wedding or party.
It is far from uncommon for such tales
To be told in company, over coffee with friends,
Or a beer with colleagues at the end
Of a very long day.
For the person who has no such happy
Memories on which to draw, they are a mixed
Blessing; they entertain and amuse, but
They also remind the listener of their
Own inadequacies that stem from their
Abnormality or Difference.
An orphan, a child in care, a child who
Was ill for years, whose parent was in
And out and in and out of hospital perhaps?
A child who does not understand, who was
Bullied or ignored or abused.
The stories are small things, but they not only
Provide a thread in the tapestry of life, they
Can also be the knife that rips the tapestry
From top to bottom and leaves it
In irredeemable tatters.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day sixteen

Today the prompt is a poem about 'play'.


The guitarist

A deep-voiced thundering, making the ground shake
And echoing in the very depths of your being.
And making you wonder.

A wall of impenetrable complexity, electric and wired
Encompassing you and spinning you round and round.
And making you nervous.

A soft waterfall, a streamlet flowing and bubbling
Down through ferns and trees, soothing you.
And making you breathe.

A solitary curlew, calling plaintively and ceaselessly
In the grey-blue-white heavens, and soaring.
And making you cry.

All of these and more,
The guitarist.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day fifteen

Today the prompt is to write a poem where a villain meets misfortune and is proved human, or in this, case not human!



A misfortunate child.

When I was a small child I was told that there was a monster
That lived behind the dustbins.
I was warned never to approach this monster, as it was evil and would
Do unspeakable things to me.
One day I moved the dustbins to look for the monster, so I could ask
It in what way it was evil.
Behind the bins was a gap in the wall, and a door, a very small door,
And of course I pushed it open, and there was a sudden shuffling noise
And the monster ran away and hid on the other side of the door.
Puzzled I continued through the door, and found I was in my own back garden,
Just below the apple tree.
The only monster I could see was a toad that cowered by a loose brick,
Unable to escape past the curious child.
The only villain was a toad!
And then I turned on my dad and shouted at him, told him he should
Not tell me lies, and I was sent to bed for being impertinent.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day fourteen

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on dream symbolism, using one or two given words - in this case seagull and hammer.


The Demon in the Teashop.

As the night rolled past the ticking hours
My mind was inspired to dream
And the dream was not of flowers
Or pretty plants and streams.
Instead along the wild seafront
I wandered, all alone,
When a tapping and ringing note
Was heard, source unknown.
I turned at once, to check this out
And what did I espy
But a seagull, without a doubt
Hammering, with mournful cry.
Dear seagull, what, I have to ask
Are you doing? Pray stop
And tell me the purpose of your task
Before I visit the adjacent teashop.
The seagull it glared, and opening its beak,
Thus dropping the hammer it held,
And answered me, in words clear to speak
That here was a tale it could tell.
Visit not, it said, the nearby cafe
And risk not their scones or cakes
For to enter would be to go astray
And to eat great risk to take.
I walked on past this ominous gull
And pushed open the teashop door,
Of tea and cake I would be full
Before walking on once more.
I sat me down, and ordered tea
And a scone to have as well,
And then a bloodstained banshee
Allowed her voice to swell.
Go forth you evil one, she said,
And leave this my dwelling place,
With tea you should only have but bread
And butter, you're a great disgrace.
So dear friend, if in your dreams,
A hammering seagull you encounter,
It may be best no to order tea
Unless with plain bread and butter!

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day thirteen

Today the prompt is to use a familiar phrase or saying that is 'upended'.

"Red sky at night shepherd's delight, red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning"

(My thanks to Ralph McTell for inspiring this, which is nearly plagiarised from one of his songs, albeit the cause is different!)


Red Sky

The farmer, with his dog at his heels as ever, walked from the yard
Up into the field by the trees. He looked across at the empty acres,
That only yesterday were thronged with sheep, with cattle inbye.
He walked on past the trees, and up to the hill gate at the top of
The field, and thence out onto the moors that for three generations
Had been in his family, farmed before him by his father, his grandfather
And his great-grandfather. The heathered tops and rocky outcrops
Stood resolute and timeless in the cool of the evening, the blue of
The cloud-whispered sky showing no warmth, no delightful promise
Of a fine day tomorrow. Her turned, and gazed back down on the buildings,
The house where he had been born, the barns and the byres.
Heading back uphill he climbed higher, until he came to the stream that
Tumbled down, gathering strength as it approached the yard, and that
In olden days had powered the waterwheel that now was a mere
Skeleton of wooden limbs, bladeless and  powerless, slowly rotting
Into obscurity. Pausing by the stream he stood still, silent, hands in
Pockets and face inscrutable in the now dimming last light of the day.
Beyond the farm buildings he could see the lower field, the trench within
It stark in the evening light, long shadows and grey craters juxtaposed with
The remaining grass that until only yesterday had been grazed by his cattle.
Even now, there was still smoke rising and spiralling from the funeral pyres,
The work of his lifetime and his father's and his grandfather's and his
Great-grandfather's, all smouldering in ruins, killed in a 'contiguous cull'.
With all the science and medicine and the things that vets could do, why
Could they not stop the foot and mouth by other means? Why did it need
To end the lives of so many, animals and men?
He pulled the letter from his pocket, the figures meaning nothing against
The memory of beasts he had tended from birth, and as he looked it one
Last time, he pressed the button on the detonation controller, and watched,
One more workless shepherd, as a red sky brought him no delight at all.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day twelve

Today the prompt is to write a haibun.



Redundant reservoir.

Many years ago I visited this valley with my grandfather, and it was a sea of construction,
fascinating to childish eyes, and the top of the valley was flooded already. There was a small
dam to hold back the early water from the moorland river, and the main valley was flattened
by bulldozers and diggers, farmhouses and cottages, barns and byres all demolished and left
as piles of debris and stone.

When I visited this valley with my grandfather there were some trees, they were young and
marched along the hillside in ranks, pine-treed soldiers fighting an imaginary war with the
native heather and bracken. Over time the trees grew and many have now been harvested,
not by men with horses as years ago, but by forwarders and chainsaws and heavy plant
running on petrol and diesel.

When I visit this valley now it is without my grandfather. When I visited with him he could
not have known that one day I would live just across the hill form this valley, and that I would
drive here several times a week and walk along the tracks and beside the lake. I have seen old trees
taken and sold, and new ones planted to take their place. I have seen new paths laid to replace
the old ones that meandered by the lake.

Today, when summer
Is hidden from view by pillow-soft
Clouds, I recall.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day eleven

Today the prompt is to write a poem that addresses the future subject.



Strange Dawn.

Across sand dusted with silver and gold
Your feet left no prints and the sea
Had no need to wash the strand clean.

Through evening velvet, blue and rich grey,
You drifted, singing, and laughing
At the echoes of another life.

In the deepest night, star-dimmed and
Moon-muted, your voice called faintly,
A call from beyond on a poor phone line.

When the morning dawned, there were colours
In bands and woven plaits across the sky.
But that was a future without you.

That future is black and the colour
Is false and mocks the grieving watchers.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day ten

Today the prompt is to write a poem where two or more things are happening simultaneously.



Unwilling presence.

The lights flickered in the tiniest of breezes, and
Illuminated the singer; the plans in my head were
Fighting to make sense, and surreptitiously I opened
A document on my mobile phone; the guitar sounded
Softly and the song was heralded by the delicate fingers
Forming and picking the chord and the melody, a musical
Signpost to point the way to the voice, the rolling accent
And warm tones describing; and I made notes about
The next weekend, and cursed the blue fairy lights.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day nine

The prompt today is to bring together something very big and something small.


One book.

There is a photograph of a wall that one can view on the internet.
It is a wall with an irregular and inappropriate 'lump' in it.
The wall has been built of bricks, strong and red, but with one small
And thin book laid on the ground as part of the foundations.
That one small thing has changed the whole of the wall.
When walking, in sturdy and substantial boots, the ingress of
A small stone is sufficient to render the walker into a state of
Great discomfort and pain; the stone, so tiny, can cause not only
Pain but blistering and can ultimately prevent the walker
From completing their journey.
The world is a dangerous place, there are many politicians
And bankers and businessmen who seek to control all that
Everyone does in order to maintain their inflated bank balances.
But all of these superior people can be challenged, and even one
Voice crying 'foul' could be enough to trigger the revolution . . .

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day eight

Today the prompt is a poem where something mystical occurs.


The Pedlar's Pool.

I walked out one day, to the Pedlar's Pool.
I only knew of it because I had heard the
Story in a song.
The day was a long one, and this was to be
The main part of it for me.
So I set off and walked to the Pedlar's Pool.

The Lussa runs beside the path,
A river that carries memories and
The present day in harmony as it makes
Its way down to the sea.

The air was silent, the sounds of the day
Faded into the background of the trees
And chattering river, and there subsided.

There is a cairn at the Pedlar's Pool.
It is rough, with an iron cross,
But is says as much as many a marble
Edifice, erected to some noble.
The cairn commemorates the selfless
Sacrifice of one man.

The Pedlar's Pool.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day seven

Today the prompt is list the various things, identities, that I am, and to choose one strong or powerful one, and one weak or vulnerable one, and allow them to converse.


To be seen . . .

There is strength in being woman, for the power of the womb and the
Gift that is granted through bearing the child are beyond compare
And no mere man can understand these things.
But then you are weak, you cannot lift, you cannot hit,
You cannot fight back, you are useless and need a man to
Do for you those things you lack the muscle to achieve.
But there is more determination in the tears that are shed in private,
And more life gained from the deepest feelings that love allows
A woman to feel for her child, than is ever known to man.
But you are weak, you cry with emotion, you cannot control
The tears when there is a death, you rush to comfort those in pain
When they need instead support and a firm hand.
A woman can take refuge in her humanity, she knows the truth that
Defines being human, and allows softness and beauty to smooth
The harshness of the cruelty of being man.
But you control me, your weakness swallows my power and hardness
And takes it into the warmth of the centre of you, and in doing so
You redefine the pain and suffering that is the essence of being human.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day six.

Today the prompt is to use line breaks in a way that stretches my comfort zone.



Triptych.

Three people stand there, all
          in the same place but
                 actually all in different places
Entirely.
                 The brain is a country that is
Closed to all
       But those who live in it, and
       Even then it is mysterious, and
       Maps get lost.
One woman, confused in
Her mind, with
       One man who loves and
       Tries to guide her, and
                There is the photographer, a
                Selfie-taker caught in
                A mirror, and trapped
                As an insect in amber.
                                        The frame serves
                                 To divide the
                          Three of them at
                   The same time as
              It keeps them all
        Together, despite
    The tide of
Dementia.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day five.

Today the prompt is take a poem not in English and imagine the translation describes a photograph.

"Calbharaigh

Chan eil mo shùil air Calbharaigh
no air Betlehem an àigh
ach air cùil ghrod an Glaschu
far bheil an lobhadh fàis,
agus air seòmar an Dùn Èideann,
seòmar bochdainn 's cràidh,
far a bheil an naoidhean creuchdach
ri aonagraich gu bhàs."

(Somhairle MacGill-Eain)

The photo is of the cairn at Hallaig in Raasey.

(I know a little of Gaelic, mostly from studying the poetry of Sorley MacLean, but only a very little.)

Calvary.

There is a modern Calvary, where man
Is sacrificed, not just from Bethlehem, but all
Men are depleted.
They move from their native earth, from the
Isles and the shoreline, from the trees
And the heather and the warmth
Of evening fire, to the rain-washed
Bare and naked streets of the big city,
To Glasgow and beyond, to serve not the
Goddess of the land, but the needs of
Money and capitalism.
This, then, is a modern Calvary.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day four

Today the prompt is concrete terms to describe the abstract concept.

A Strange Dawn.

The sky is clear and the palest blue, a vibrant pastel of intensity,
Streaked with clouds and baby pink stripes as the dusk hour
Approaches and the day draws to a close.
This is the turning day, the ending day, the day of new beginnings
And saying goodbyes to the year that has made its
Presence so painfully felt, etched onto the soul
Like engraving on cut glass.
The night will fall like a velvet curtain to
Blanket the light from distant stars, and to deaden
The sounds of revelry from those who do not and
Cannot ever understand.
Tomorrow there will be a strange dawn, a new dawn,
A grey dawn, soft and unrelenting, pigeon-feathered
And dappled with silken threads.
Tomorrow is a step into the unknown future, a
Future that you are not part of, a year that you
Have never known, never breathed a single breath in,
Never shared a heartbeat with the rhythm of time.

My thanks to the McCalmans whose song 'Strange Dawn' was the inspiration for this poem about grief.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day three

Today the prompt is a poem that is a list of made-up names for something.

A Library of Ludicrosity.

A Guide to Watermelons, and The Cultivation of Dandelions,
Stand side by side with Mechanical Raisin Selection.
Move down a shelf, and there stands
A Woman's View of Wrenches and Egg-beaters (condensed).
Along the way is Sixteen Pencils, which leans on
The Dogs I Always Wanted to Walk.
For the bedside table there is Guitars I Have Known
And The Beachcombers Coffee Handbook.
And the ultimate in toilet reading is provided
By the unforgettable Paperclips from Scapa Flow.

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day two

Today the prompt is to play with voice.

Caffeine.

If I, as a poet, write a poem about me,
A poem that includes I many times, and
That consequently makes the lines create
A statement of opinion or observation,
Then you, as the reader, are very likely
To assume that I am writing the poem as
Myself, and that I mean the things that
Are contained within the carefully crafted
And thought out lines of the stanza in question.
And what would you think if I pointed out
That the I in my poem is not the I in my life,
And that the I who speaks through the words
That I write is not me, but is me the poetic voice?
Would you understand that I can both hate
Instant coffee and at the same time I can
Need that cup of instant coffee to start my day?

GloPoWriMo 2018 - day one

Today the prompt is to write about a secret shame or pleasure.


Lock up.

For some the allure of stockings is the thing,
For some silk and leather, for others string.
For some the crack of whip is what they wish
And for others being beaten with wet fish!
There are those who gaze with greedy eyes
On the leggy blonde, and those who disguise
Their illicit love in books and illustrations;
And imagine the feel of a whore's ministrations.
But for you the leather, silk and lace has no appeal,
The sultry voice, the softest touch, the gentle scent
Raises no thought of lustful self indulgent pleasure;
Instead you dream of strength, your thoughts steal
Towards the gym bound women, in clothing meant
For ease of movement, for wrestling at leisure.

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day thirty

Today the prompt is basically repetition.


Nightmare.

Each night, most nights, but with no telling
When, a dream, a flash back to things that
Happened several years ago.
The sound of metal drinking on metal.
The endless ringing of the mobile phone
That was never answered.
The knock on the window and the sombre faces
At the door.
The soft words - I am afraid it is the worst news.
The long hours.
The kindness of a stranger.
The long hours.
The telephone calls the next day.
The long hours.
The careful planning about how things
Were to be managed, to make
Them feasible, one after another.
The well-meaning but destructive help of
Others who thought they knew best.
The long hours.
Realising, again and again and again that
This was real, and that it was not a bad
Dream, it was not a nightmare from which
I would awake.
The long hours.
It is as fresh today as it was then.
And the pain of added wounds has not faded.
The long hours.
There are things that cannot be put right.
Insults, hurt caused, angry words spoken.
The long hours.
Learning that in the end there is
No-one you can trust.
No-one.
The long hours.
The long hours.

(c) 2ndwitch

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-nine

Today the prompt is to take a word from a favourite poem. I have taken 'deer' from 'Hallaig' by Sorley MacLean.


Deer.

The long-night, stag-bellowing, antler crashing
Of the deer on the hill
Is now, as it ever was, the
Ever-lasting fight for prize,
One boy against another,
Vying for the brightest marble or the shiniest conker,
Wanting to be top-dog in the playground.
The running hinds, taunting and calling the calves
On the hillside, hiding in
Fresh green-bracken, waving leaved troops,
Standing sentinel whilst the wind
And rain march past in order,
Giving way only to the sun's passing glance
As it watches and warms the hinds and the calves.
And the bellowing-stag-antler-locked
Crashing continues, day after day after year after year.
Thus it ever was.

(c) 2ndwitch, 29/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-eight

Today the prompt is 'dipodic'.

Guitar

Touch the strings
The music rings
A melody sings
Of painful stings
That all grief brings
And joyful wings
Are gone.

(c) 2ndwitch, 28/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-seven

Today the prompt is taste.

Imitations.

The sugary crunchiness waves to you
From the bag on the
Supermarket shelf.
You walk past.
Then walk back.
Then on again, but no,
You give in and
Put one bag of those
Sugary crunchy doughnuts
In your trolley.

Back home you
Make a brew
And put one
On a plate.
Then you sit in
Your favourite chair
With a book to read.

You take one bite.
And then you
Remember.
THESE doughnuts are
Gloopy and laggy,
They lack crunch,
They have sweet and sickly
Gooey stuff
In the middle.
They are not
The sugary and crunchy
Doughnuts of your dreams.

To get the proper ones
You need to be at the
Seaside.
They need to come from
A booth on the front,
Fresh fried and
Piping hot, and
Dripping with
Sugar.
THOSE are the
Real Thing!

(c) 2ndwitch, 27/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-six

Today the prompt is to be an archeologist of the future.

The Horses.

I remember my grandfather telling me that his
Grandfather had learned to work with the horses.
When they came back, exactly as Edwin Muir predicted.
And now, today, I do not understand what there was
To be learned about them, for they work
Alongside us each day, never tiring and always, always
Understanding the intricacies of the jobs we have to do.

One day, at school, we were told we should bring a trowel
And wear older clothes that were hard-wearing, for we were
Going to dig at the site of the old farm, to see what we could find
About those long ago days, to see if we could discover how they
Had managed, in the days before the horses came back.

We dug slowly at first, looking aways for a find, a thing,
A something that would puzzle but also enlighten.
Then we got bored and someone went home for a shovel.
And the digging was faster now, with those of us not digging
Sifting through the soil, a rough job, but we wanted to be
The first to turn up a new find, that special thing.

We came back the next day, and the next as well.
Someone brought a horse and plough, and we turned
The ground to make it quicker and easier to dig.

Then there was a shout, a cry of shock.
The shovel had hit something metallic.~
We crowded round the hole, and those in the depths
Shovelled dirt to those on the surface, and
It was barrowed away and piled up until there
Was a new hill at the back of the old farm paddock.
Once the metal was clear of soil, we hooked ropes
Round it and used the horse to pull it up.

And that is how we found the tractor.

Some say that having tractors now would be quicker
And more efficient than the horses.
But others say not, else why would tractors have
Fallen into disuse, and why did the horses come back?

(c) 2ndwitch, 26/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty five

Today the prompt is to explore a small space.


Comparison

The floor has flagstones, just like his did.
I have a shelf on one side, just like his did.
I have room to put things on the other side,
Exactly like his did.
Mine is not so today as his was.
Mine does not smell like his did.
Mine is not so complete.
I have never used sulphur.
But in so many ways it is just
Like his was.

(c) 2ndwitch, 25/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-four

Today the prompt is a poem of ekphrasis.


Margins.

In olden times the monks illustrated their
Handwritten manuscripts and also adorned them
With marginalia, pictures and visual jokes
To leaven the day of toil at a desk
In those days and in these days we still
See illustrated manuscripts of a sort whenever
We walk and notice the world around us.
We can walk in an industrial manuscript,
Decorated with brickwork, glass and concrete,
With graffiti to brighten the austerity, and
Natures little joke of dandelions and nettles.
Or we can walk in a rural manuscript
Decorated with the sunlight's glance on
The trees' new leaves, and where the waves
On the loch draw their own musical stave
To accompany the birdsong, and we
Can see the emerging bracken, curling
In imitation of life from outer space,
Teasing us with a promise of something
Spectacular and outlandish, and then
Bursting into fronds of well remembered green.

(c) 2ndwitch, 24/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-three

Today the prompt is to write a double elevenie.


Twenty-two.


Happiness
Shed tears
Of laughter, smile
When gold shines through
Sunshine.

Sadness.
Shed tears
Of pain, smile
Through dark velvet blanket,
Midnight.

(c) 2ndwitch, 23/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-two

Today the prompt is to write a georgic. And no, I'm not going to tell you what one is!


In Orkney they . . .


The land is good, and most suitable
To cultivation, but wherever
I went it was terribly neglected
And underutilised.
The stock were not thriving
As they were let to roam
Freely and not fed.
The crops were sparse, and
Sown only for personal use.
But what else could you expect from
Such a lazy and slovenly race?

The words of Walter Scott do
not paint a happy picture of
the Orcadian isles that I know and
love, but then he was writing as
a rich man with all the benefit of
privilege and wealth.
And some of his ideas were
actually relatively sound.


(c) 2ndwitch, 22/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty-one

Today the prompt is to write a poem based on or using overheard speech.


Off your trolley?

No, you can't.
Can you see if you can find four the same size?
I saw him the other day and he didn't say anything about it then.
Do they have any larger ones?
And then she told me to bend over.
Will you please stop dragging your feet?
Excuse me, can I get past you?
If it carries on I will have to go to the union.
Seven o'clock.
There's only one left.
You choose which one we get, darling.
Oh look, it's raining again.


(c) 2ndwitch, 21/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twenty

Today the prompt is to use the vocab of a sport or game of some sort.


Not Nemo . . .

My memory tells me that you are hidden here
Somewhere, the coordinates have not been
Changed, and I am doing my best to follow
The arrow until I get to the hidden treasure.
Or actually, I am possibly looking for a box,
Because however much I want to be FTF
Or part of a team that finds it, I know that
You are now forever a DNF that I cannot
Return and avenge.

(c) 2ndwitch, 20/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day nineteen

Today the challenge is to write about a creation myth.



In the books.

In the story books, and the ones that are given out in the
classroom at school during the lesson called biology or
possibly, if you are at a progressive sort of school that seems
to abound nowadays, in a lesson about health and stuff,
then mummy meets daddy, they get on very well and
eventually go and see a vicar or something, buy
expensive clothes, have a fancy day that costs a fortune and
where women dress up like exotic butterflies, men like
butlers from a West End farce, and three uncles and an aged
aunt drink too much and do the cancan, and the
lovely couple head off to somewhere like barbados or bognor
and finally discover what the stuff between their legs is for,
and come back with the mummy preggers and all is well.

It is a myth.

It does not account for the sex after too much vodka, or
the battle to win the attention of gorgeous gav from
slutty sal, or to get prim priscilla drunk enough to
persuade her into your bed and keep sober enough to
escape in the morning before she wakes up and
remembers who you are!
It does not account for sex on the back seat of a fiat 500,
or behind the market stall.
It does not account for that lad who promised the earth then
turned out to be married and who now denies
Any Responsibility.

Myth is not Real Life.

(c) 2ndwitch, 19/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day eighteen

Today the prompt is to use neologisms.


As important as blood.

Each day is compete in itself
A challenge to be met
And overcome.
In the process it is
Necessary
To indulge in something
That possibly outranks
Blood in the service of
Life.
Team - when with milk.
Steam - when with milk and sugar.
(Although adding sugar
Is guaranteed to
Result in my out and
Our opprobrium!)
Cheam - if with spices.
Chea - if the chinese sort.
And
Givememymugofteanow
First thing in the morning.
Of course.

(c) 2ndwitch, 18/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day seventeen

Today the prompt is write a poetic nocturne.



Nocturne.

Stand still, now, just there,
Don't move, but listen.
Hold your breathe and
Hear the song that the trees
Are whispering in the night air.
Pause, now, where you are,
Walk no further on that path
Yet, until you have waited for
The tiny countermelodies of
Nighttime animals and birds,
Of bats and errant breezes,
And until you have heard them
And let them sing in your
Heart, with the trees.
At night, the lake is full of the
Tears you have shed, and the
Soft caress of the breathing wind
Plays like gossamer fingers over
The surface of your memories.
At night, the ache that held your
Daytime soul in thrall is freed
To waltz slowly with your thoughts,
And the words you left unsaid
Will flee away, cloud-borne and
Echoing in the vastness of the sky.
Stand still, at night, stand still
And listen.

(c) 2ndwitch, 17/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day sixteen

Today the prompt is a letter.


Dear Mother.

I am in receipt of your last, my thanks for
Your words of advice.
However, I fear I need to remind you that
It is now too late to regret the birth
Of several children, and that your repeated
Suggestions regarding abortions and the like
Would be construed as murder when the
Children in question are alive and in this world.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.

I am again in receipt of your letter, for which
I thank you for taking the time to write.
I am well aware that you consider the man I
Married to be a waste of space, however regardless
Of your views, I am married to him, and as he is the
Father of the children you have previously
Recommended I abort, then I think you will have to
Come to terms with the marriage as well as their existence.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.

I am in receipt of your recent, again I thank you
For expending your energy and ink in writing.
I do realise that if you had arranged to have an abortion
When you became pregnant with me there would
Not be this exchange of letters, and nor would
You be in a position to chastise me for my choices
And actions since I was born.
I acknowledge and accept that I am a disappointment to you,
But I fear that I am now too far down the path I am on
To return and change anything.
I would find it difficult and not appealing to become
A son that you might have preferred.
I gather from your comments that using my brain to study
And pursue education is not a commendable activity.
This is a pity, as study is one of the few things I am
Competent at.
Yours sincerely, Daughter.

I finally got the telephone call last night, dear Mother,
Although the initial calls were ignored as someone
Was at the time harassing me over the return of some
Music, and was refusing to accept that it would be sent as
Soon as we could organise the posting. I think he wanted
Me to get in the car and drive 30 miles to deliver it there and then.
Anyway, it meant I missed the call from the hospital that
Told of your demise.
So in death, as in all of my life, I failed you.
And I will simply have to live with that knowledge.
Yours sincerely,
The fat, ugly, useless, failure of a daughter that you created.

(c) 2ndwith, 16/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day fifteen.

Today the prompt is about being halfway, or in the middle.


Halfway.

Wherever you are
You are halfway
To somewhere.
Wherever you were
You were halfway
To here or there.
Where you will be
You will be halfway
To the next place.
Halfway is not
The beginning
Or the end.
Halfway is
A movable feast
Between then and then.
The past is gone
It was halfway
Between the distant
Past
And the recent
Past.
The future is
Halfway to the
Distant future.
So, whatever you think,
Wherever you imagine
Yourself to be,
You are always
Only
Halfway
There.

(c) 2ndwitch, 15/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day fourteen

Today the challenge is to write a clerihew.


Running away from Waverley!

The young Walter Scott
When on holiday from court
Went to sea in the Pharos with a party of men
To view many lighthouses then back home again!

(And in doing so avoided the furore over the whether or not he wrote the Waverley novels!)

(c) 2ndwitch, 14/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day thirteen

Today the prompt is to write a ghazal. In my case I shall write something that is a bit like one, if I'm lucky.



The Guitarist.

The slender body of the musical man is rapt and focussed on strings;
His mind entertains no existence other than this, the tautness of strings.

The fingers caress the metalled tension, they stroke and strike, picking the tune
The rhythm of the chords walking the melody on the path of the strings.

The head is bent, hair falls across his eyes, hides the echoing pain of life
A light, silver then gold, that flashes in time with the melody of strings.

The intimacy shimmers, one man makes love to the guitar, to music
And caresses from their tightened length the thrill of the climax of the strings.

There are no words, no phrases, that can supplant this symbiosis of man
And instrument, no witchery can replace the ecstasy of the strings.

(c) 2ndwitch, 13/04/17

Over the years I have come to love the music of the guitar more and more. There is an exquisite sense of perfection in the mastery of human over strings, and this intrigues and beguiles me. There are some guitarists who are one with the instrument, there are some for whom the instrument is their lover, and as I once unfortunately described the sublime Martin Simpson . . . there are those who do both!!!
This poem is about the relationship between a man and his instrument - however good his voice, however good a singer, for me the guitar playing comes first. It could be Martin Simpson, it could easily be Michael Chapman, it could be John Doyle, it could be Steve Tilston, but this poem is actually about watching and listening to Ivan Drever.

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day twelve

Today the prompt is to use alliteration and assonance.



The cold of warm embrace.

Deep and dark, the moonlit hours dance
Mournfully towards the morning, the
Morning's soft and soulless light scatters
Shadows across the grey and ghostly landscape
Of the day, the darkling day.
The thin and threadbare tapestry
Tells tales of what was, and now what
Will never be; the tapestry rent, riven
Right from hem to hem, and cast aside
Discarded, never again to hang
Upon the castle wall.
Airborne, forlorn, the dreams and hope
Hang now in tatters, the flag at half-mast
And music muted into disharmonious murmer.
Perhaps, perchance, one day, some day, there
Will be a way to bring back to life the broken
Promises, but in the meantime, the dreamtime
Nightmare is sharp and cutting, the window-fingers
That keep on tapping never end.

(c) 2ndwitch, 12/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day eleven

Today the prompt is to write a 'bop'. No, I'd never heard of it either, but apparently it is a thing.



Remember the . . .

I am but a storm-tossed leaf, floating back and forth
On the angry burn of someone else's life.
I am the shuttlecock, hit with force from left to right
And back from right to left again.
I can see my goal, but am kept so far away, and
Having no money makes it all the harder.

And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.

I try to call the players out, to listen to my tale, to
Not forget that plans, once made, should not be
Forgotten; but I am not of note in this, and the pain
That other humans use to play a vicious game
Blinds them to the pain that is caused for me, and
Then I am dragged in to a dispute that is not mine
And each thinks that I will side with the other
When I only side now with myself.

And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.

I know now that I cannot walk this path without
Hard words, and I know that hard words could
Have the effect of moving me further from my simple
Goal, but yet, do I not have the right to be heard, and
To be known and be a constant not part of the fight.
Things are not easy, and there is no answer.

And the words that danced the reel are dancing still.

(c) 2ndwitch, 11/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day ten

Today the prompt is to write a portrait of someone important to me.


To my granddaughter.


I cannot but be sad to see the way that you know are so like I was then,
But there is no changing the disposition of genetics, no adjusting of the
Genetic code to make things be different. And you have the curl in
Your hair, the twist that sometimes turns against the rest.
You have the eyes that gaze with wonder and a knowledge beyond
The understanding of those of us who watch you as you wander
Through this broken and damaged world.
In your laughter lies the key to reparation, the key to
Mending that which is so broken, and in your smile
Lies balm and peace to end all wars.
As time moves on you will grow and learn, and perhaps, just perhaps
You will lose some of the wisdom that you have now but cannot
Give words to express; or perhaps you will keep it, adding,
Day after day to its sum, and gaining only that which can
Build and heal, and make once again a world where all
Can live together in friendship, where fishes swim the rivers
And the seas, and where plants and man live with animals
In one great complementary global union of valuing difference.
In your hands is the future, guard it well.

(c) 2ndwitch, 10/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day nine

Today the prompt is a nice line poem. Some examples are given, but I am going my own way!



Nine seasons.

Bare twig, bare branch, bare tree,
Dead leaf, fallen, and fading
Thin wind, lazy wind, cold wind.
Soft caress of snow, a winter fee
To pay for promises spring making,
And slowly, 'neath white shroud begins
The spring's warm promise, buzzing bee
And summer sun, green leaf parading
Marching tall the trees beckon autumn in.

(c) 2ndwitch, 09/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day eight

Today the prompt is to use repetition.



My England.

The limestone edges, sculpted by water
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
The caves and chasms that lie beneath
The heather and bracken of the moorland
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
The white clouds, chasing each other across
The vast northern skies, sun-kissed and rain-washed
Are timeless, changing and never-changing.
This land.
Our land.
Limestone land.
Granite land.
Heather land.
Forest land.
Sea strand land.
Wheat field land.
High crag land.
Not land of blood.
Not land of flags.
Not land of names.
Not land of religion.
Not land of skin shade.
Not land of empire.
Not land of slaves.
This England.

(c) 2ndwitch, 08/04/17

My thanks to the writing of Hamish Henderson and of Maggie Holland for my inspiration. My 'thanks' to Brexit for coalescing my thoughts.

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day seven

Today the challenge is to write a 'fortuitous' poem. I cannot say it fascinates me, but . . .



Only in my dreams.

When the wind touches your hair with the lightest of touches;
When your tea is just that bit too hot for you to drink;
When you go to bed after a good day, and feel the caress of the sheets;
Like these, one day, a thought passes into your mind, and you
Watch the dogs racing down the disused road, fighting
Over a stick, rolling and tumbling as only dogs can;
And you glance down when you get back into the driving seat
Of your so-practical estate car, and see the pen that you thought
Had vanished in the pocket of the rather seedy salesman who
Had spent ten minutes trying to convince you to buy double glazing.
And you put the pen, safely, into your pocket,
And drive home to your already double-glazed house.
But even that does not erase the memory that drifted into
Your conscious mind, and it does not erase the echo
Of laughter that you will never ever hear again.

(c) 2ndwitch, 07/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day six

Today the challenge is to write a poem that looks at something from different perspectives.

Turning Point.

One day
Is sufficient
Now.

There is waiting
Soft air
No noise.

A bustle
Of nurses
Attend.

Unexpected
The knock
On the door.

The long
And slow
Decline.

I
Have said
My goodbyes.

(c) 2ndwitch, 06/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day five

The challenge today is to write a poem based in the natural world.


Fractured and formed.

The rocks, laid down in an ice age so many years ago, are bare to the atmosphere
And the rivening force of the rain and snows, the wind driving particles upwards
Into the atmosphere, and seeding the storming clouds with miniature rocks
And airborne gravel; those rocks, forming the river bed and banks,
And guiding the torrents from mountain to sea, ox-bowed lakes
And random pools, swirling and spinning in the whirlpool of life.
Your life was part of those rocks, part of the limestone pavements
And the granite cliffs, part of the river bed and the grey-cast screes,
Your breath was interwoven in the soaring trees and waving bracken,
And your laugh carried on the last breath of the evening breeze.

(c) 2ndwitch, 05/04/17

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day four

Today the prompt is to post an enigmatic variation, where something is alluded to but not actually described.


Long nights.

The soft feathered shroud of evening falls,
As it is always said to do, although perhaps
It would be better to suggest that it 'settles'
Or 'alights', as falling has a heaviness to it
That belies the reality of dusk, of
Daylight gate, however when it is a shroud
The perhaps it does fall, it does land
Heavily and solidly on the land?
Long hours, long dreams, a reminiscence
That cannot be denied, a dream that spins
And circles without pity, falling, falling,
Yes, indeed falling, a chasm of darkness
And repair, with a soundtrack of horror
And gothic nightmare interwoven in
The fabric of existence.
I do not care if the gloves are white
Or non-existent, they will tap on my
Window again and again, and the
News will repeat without mercy.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/04/2017

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day three

Today the challenge is to write an elegy.
This post is back posted due to being elsewhere and busy.

Given my intention to use this month to more closely examine some painful stuffs, this prompt is both easy and hard. I am sure my reader who knows me will expect one specific subject here, but I am not doing that - I might in some way by the end, but not yet.


Let's do it.

The power of the internal combustion engine always held you in thrall
And on a fine day, any trip, any trip at all
Would be met with a smile
And 'Let's do it'.
So we did all sorts, you and I, from the Lakes to the Dales
And down the Midlands and Wales;
And as the bike ate the miles
You said 'Let's do it.'
We stopped for a bun and a mug of strong driver's tea
Or sometimes we stopped for the scenery.
Wherever we were, whatever beguiled,
You'd say 'Let's do it'.
But it was not so easy, we did not always concur
And plans and ideas caused rancour.
We argued and bickered and riled
As you said 'Let's do it'.
You gave up on the bike, bought a fancy new car
And thought we could us it to travel afar,
But I had exams, and all the while
You'd say 'Let's do it'.
In time we decided, as we grew and matured, to try life apart
And our last words were in anger, to sting and to smart.
And no longer a couple for a period of trial
You said 'Let's do it'.
One week on from that last heated affray
You set out to visit me on Valentine's Day
You never arrived, two of you died
And so we've never done it again.

(c) 2ndwitch, 03/04/2017

(The two who died were the subject of the elegy and the driver of the bus that was in the collision. I will always grieve more for that innocent family man who died because of carelessness than I actually do for my ex.)

GloPoWriMo 2017 - day two

Today the prompt is to write a recipe as a poem.


Foolproof recipe for a broken person.

The ingredients for a broken person are varied,
And various, changing depending on the season
And year of initial conception.
In general it is best to have two parents, one
Of either gender, as this is the simplest
Method of creating the initial mixture,
But of course there are alternative approaches
That also result in a small human person.
Once the person is created, then the processing begins:

A balanced and unbroken person will have been
Raised gently, and will know they are loved
So if your intention is to guarantee that the
Person is demonstrably broken, then rough
And thoughtless handling is the first stage.
Make sure that they are not hugged too often
And that they are punished for crying or
Being unsure.
If the growing small person becomes inquisitive
As they discover a wider world, shout at them
Often, and smack them when the chance arises.
Once the small person is large enough to venture
Into the company of others they are
Ready for the initial proving:

Send the child to places that frighten them, and
Do not forget to explain to those in charge that
This child is 'trouble' and must be watched carefully.
Ensure that the place chosen incorporates a wide
Range of activities that the child is unhappy about,
And be sure that they are compulsory.
A year or so in this environment will
Be sufficient to have the child ready to be knocked back:

Take the child from the place you first chose and
Send them to school.
Be sure they are already different, perhaps 'hothouse'
Them into early reading, or focus on musical skills,
Anything like that to make them stand out from
The crowd, and to allow their peers and teachers
To ridicule them for showing off.
If that is not possible, you can encourage the
Peers and teachers to see them as thick and stupid
And thus also make ridicule appropriate.
This knocking back will then allow the rising:

Take the child from the school that they have
Slowly and painfully learned to negotiate and
Send them to another, larger school, with many
More children and rules and uniform and many
More potential pitfalls and problems.
At this stage there is a danger that some teachers
Will see the child as not broken, and as worthy of
Positive attention, so in compensation, if this happens,
The parents need to be extremely careful to maintain
The attitude of criticism and disapproval in the home.
During this rising, finding the subjects in which the
Child might excel allows further damage to be
Inflicted by not allowing them to study these things.
Once these years of schooling are ended, the risen
Child is now ready for baking:

Force the child to go to college or other establishment
That will allow them to learn skills for a career.
Be careful to reinforce that they are not as good as
Any other child there, and remind them at all times
That they are an inferior person who is not worthy of
Help or support, and who is unlikely to ever meet
Someone who loves them, as they are unlovable - their
Life to this point has surely taught them that - or
To be employed as any employer will immediately
See through the act and recognise the failure that
They really and truly are.
For best effect, the baking should be interrupted
Midway, and the person removed from the 'oven'
And subjected to some form of major life change
Like pregnancy or serious illness.
The person is now ready for attempted consumption:

Take a sharp knife of ridicule, a testing of means
Or worth, and slice into the person, thus
Bringing to public view the uncooked and
Mangled interior, the raw dough, grey with
Manipulation, and the rotten, fetid smell.
Cast the person to one side as useless, and
Good only to be beaten, or raped or ignored.

Then, in due course, when the broken person is
Destitute and on the streets, a fat politician can come
Along and condemn them for their lack of application
And poor life choices, and make sure they are blamed
For all the ills of society.

(c) 2ndwith, 02/04/17