Parasite

Role models
But only for the rich
In this stitch-up
For Palace staff

Not even minimum wage
We'd all feel
Enraged while
The Queen's having a laugh

Sitting high
On her pots of Gold
Continuing to keep
Her hold on
Our common wealth

Be best to turf them out
We'd be better off without
This parasite
By stealth

 https://republic.org.uk/what-we-do/news-and-updates/low-wages-palace-failure-leadership-queen

Solution

The fact that it dissolves
Quicker than a painkiller in water
Cannot be lost on anyone

It's constituent bodies leaching back
Into the countryside
Like landfill

Perceiving to bind itself
To public popularity in order
To engineer a reverse reaction

Apart they are in solution
Which when together
They never seem to find

Palms

He was astounded by the crowd
Their shouting
Their cheering
Even more as they endowed

His path in front with palms
And cloaks
And softness
As they threw they sung him psalms

They were wild and excited
Fierce
Compelling
And a fire inside ignited

A completeness
Where once had been a lack
And in future he often wondered
The fate of the man upon his back

City

The city crowds dance
Foxtrotting at the crossings
Taking turns to lead

Tango in the streets
Polka through the shopping mall

Retail park prancing

Capitalist skips
Spending with swagger and poise
Credit card rhythms

Whence came the music?
Who conducts this merry dance?
Corporate maestro's

Wreckage

Tragedy on a mountainside
Sharp as the clustered rocks
Thrown up in a great collision
Millennia ago
Days ago

The dust has time to settle
Erosion longer
Though death is an instant

The wreckage of families grief
Is exposed to the raw chill
Of alpine winds
Perhaps the snow's can numb the pain
Until the meltwater
Floods out the tears

Flock

Peering out with glum faces
Into the grey-wet gloom
The commuters huddle
Under their shelter
Much like a flock
Of variously feathered pigeons
In the stark branches
Of a winter tree.

The train pulls in
And activity is a flurry
Pointy elbows stab into ribs
Like sharp beaks
Umbrellas explode like wingbeats
Their daggered ends grazing cheeks
As heads duck
To avoid the flapping

The train halts
And the flock
Have aligned themselves
As if strung out
On a telegraph wire
Before another
Claw, beak and wing scramble
For the doors

Crumble

Guilty feelings press
Twisting in swirling circles
Do you do enough?

Senses overwhelmed
Detached and lost for actions
Failing your duties

Helplessly watching
Barely providing support
Worthless to the side

Esteem battered down
Violent winds of worry
Confidence storm lashed

Tirade of self doubt
Mocking sandy foundations
When will it crumble?

Hasty

You could say he's counting chickens
Before they're even eggs
Jumped the gun before gunpowder
With the question that it begs

Was this Tory arrogance?
That a second term's in the bag
Or was it a foolish hint at truth
Of a future leadership tag?

But how the electorate see it
We will have to wait to know
Third term thoughts could be academic
If Cameron is asked to go.

http://www.theguardian.com/politics/2015/mar/24/gove-defends-david-cameron-over-leaving-date-announcement

Richard

Knights in armour rode
While the procession behind them strode
Cannon were fired
In pageantry
White roses thrown
In memory

A coffin made of oak
While a distant relation spoke
Before the laying
Of a King in state
A long dead monarch's
Final fate

Poetry

A spark
A flash
Of electricity
Light cerebral nodes
Of creativity
Rhymes
Symbols
A scene perhaps
That tells a story
Fills the gaps
Between
The seen
And the unseen
Comparing the now
With the might have been
Bind it
Hold it
Intricately
Using the power
Of poetry
Plying
My art
If not my trade
To touch
The heart
With something made

Sacrifice

Watch out for the lengthening shadows
That stretch out for your neck
And for disoriented seagulls
Looking for eyes to peck

Beware of the priests and augers
Who will have their doomsday talk
Best stay hidden and out of sight
Not the time for a morning walk

For fear and deep seated prejudice
Can inspire the most demonic deeds
Through revolution or retribution
Some part of the populace bleeds

And as civilisation crumbles
You're fodder for the rats and mice
Chained and gutted upon a hill
As a Sun God sacrifice

Sleep

Were I to sleep
I would dream
Of waking up to pens
Of trapped sheep
Bleating their insistence
To leap
Over fences
Their wool would
Nuzzle me
Like blankets and keep
Me warm in the heavy deep
Of a grateful sleep

Acts

Act I

Throw the poorest some personal allowance rises
Like crumbs to the pigeons.
Let them squawk and cluster
Flapping in a frenzy
For grains in the dust.

Act II

Pander to the angry mob that is
Drivers and drinkers.
"A duty to reduce", you say, but
The smokers have to cough up again.
But for every give there is a take
For once in a politician's life
Left knows what the right is doing.
And stealth tax rises form
Wraith-like on the edge of the dispatch box.

Act III

Now comes the meat
In thick juicy steaks dripping
With the blood of the vulnerable
Tossed out to the wolf packs of privilege
Breaks and subsidies
Lowered rates and loopholes
Keep the thirsty donors sated
For they are the true electorate.

      [exuent with a flourish of your magician's coat
       and a puff of smoke]

Green

A good day to be green
Contrasting the grey pallor
Of a cloudy skyline.

A good day to be green
Unaffected by the stupidity
That the world brings upon itself.

A good day to be green
To re use and refuse
To choke the Earth with poison.

A good day to be green
To take part in celebration
Of a proud nation's culture.

Unlucky

Do you consider yourself unlucky
Do things not go your way
Do you wake in the morning thinking
It's not going to be my day

Do the odds seem stacked against you
Is lady luck a myth
When life is giving you lemons
Do you choke on all the pith

Did the lottery of life forget you
Is there so much more that you want
Were you cursed, not blessed, by the priest
When he dipped you in the baptism font

Be glad that you weren't born a woman
With your salary ceiling fixed
If you breastfeed a child in public
You get eyes with anger transfixed

Be glad that you weren't born in famine
Accompanied by civil war
Hunger a constant you long to forget
And terror just outside of your door

Be glad you can make your own choices
That your life isn't wholly decreed
There's nothing to stop you from changing
Untie self made bonds and be freed

Intelligence

Move on now, nothing to see here
We've let you have your say
But the hardworking intelligence agencies
Have to get back to spying on your day

What we did may not quite be cricket
But we need to wipe the slate clean
We're only trying to protect you
To keep Britain pleasant and green

Though you think you need your privacy
You really need our paternity
To allow you choice might undermine the state
And how then will you be free?

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/mar/10/uk-must-move-on-from-surveillance-powers-debate-says-philip-hammond

Viewpoint

You may call him a casual racist
You may call him a sexist pig
You can disagree with his homophobia
But he has something that people dig.

Does he come across like he's one of us
With a common man's view of the world?
Perhaps it's his sense of causing mischief
And not doing what he is told?

Whether he believes what he says or not
He gives licence to those who hold those views
And despite his public popularity
This petition should be politely refused.

Match

Get the hoovering done
And the dishes out the way
Complete the sleepover run
Settle down for the day

Brew some coffee in a pot
Put a biscuit by your side
Or pour yourself a little tot
With something salty, something fried

Now get comfy in your seat
Keep the rest of the evening free
Time to put up your feet
For there's a match on the TV

Duck

A duck on a river
Surfaces calm
Serene

It seems to float
On the still water
Unruffled

The river flows unmoved
Steadying the duck
Peaceful

But kicking feet go unseen
Swirling undercurrents down deep
Hidden

Colours

The morning sky breakfasts
On peaches and raspberries, accompanied
By puffy clouds of white whipped cream
Golden treacle amber's its warm way in between
And as the sun rises higher
It becomes a glass of orange juice.

The afternoon blue sea mirrored sky
Is filled with the black and white of magpies
Circling like distant whales.
Dotted here and there are aeroplanes
Like silver surfboards, contrails like breaking waves

Then evening draws its scarlet fingers
Across the sky, shading charcoal grey
Then liquorice black shadows of trees
Upon the green dark grass.
Placing the world's palette in mourning for a night
Before painting the breakfast dawn once more.

Reader

She sits
Enveloped by a chair
Too big for her
Armrests like bookends
She is the bookshelf.

She reads
Or at least pretends to
Words are just squiggles
Of fantasy or adventure
Genre is in her head.

She smiles
A feeling of importance
Knowing the knowledge
Of the world can be held
Within her tiny hands.

Garden

I'd love to spend time in Nimoy's garden
It sounds a lovely place
To sit and contemplate
To watch the flowers grow
And die and bloom again
Their fate
Is just like ours
We grow in endless cycles
And put down roots
We develop colours
And shapes unique to ourselves
And with muddied boots
Sometimes we are the gardener too
Weeding out those aspects
Of our lives
Which befit us no more
Planting new seedlings of relationships
With children and wives.
And we must respect the randomness
Of cross pollination
The diverse
Experiences and meetings
Unlooked for that spiderweb
Our egocentric universe.
For our fellow humans may annoy us
May buzz us just like the bees
But none of our gardens could exist
Without interactions such as these.

Phases

Would that you could sleep
Like the new moon snuggled
Beneath it's shadow duvet.

Would that you woke
In the morning with your face
Beaming full
Bright and content.

You run in phases
Just as we all have
Our own rhythms and cycles.

But would that you could
Give us quarter and the
Crescent sliver of a chance
To recover.

Daffodil

Dancing in the
Apple orchard
Frolicking in the
Fern clad hills.
Opening up a
Delighted face and
Inciting from you
Laughing thrills.