Happy New Year!

May the New Year see your resolve
Renewed and your wishes bear fruit.
May you stride purposefully into your
Future with strength and confidence.
May you have trust in your judgement
And have the courage to rise to your
Tests. May you see more light, hear
More truth, speak more wisdom and
Taste real progress.

Happy New Year!

xXx

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Resolutely Futile

So we clock the next Gregorian notch
And reset our lot to resolutely futile
Promises, albeit just as well-intended
As last year’s sentimental whimsy –
As if resolve appears with perfect
Purchase only on the calculated year’s
Last day; as though all others be ill-suited
To self-betterment or harm’s arrest

Because no other day is good for stopping
Smoking, drinking, eating less and exercising
More. And no one’s ever bored by all the
Empty, drunken declarations or the stone
Cold sober tokens, are they?

Why gesture yearly, merely for tradition’s
Pressure just to fall in measure to a herded
Fashion? All that well-meant passion, fleeting;
All that cheated rationale…

Well, bugger that!

But for the want of a perilous crutch, to your
Own drum be tuned – there are much better
Waves to catch.

Britain Isn’t Eating

Britain isn’t eating and it isn’t only fleeting:
Stomachs growling in their thousands;
Weakened bodies, trembling hands – and
Anxious minds in free fall – all at the behest
Of IDS, a petty, jumped-up, self-made god,
Complete with hooves, in gold-plate shod,
To trample underfoot the poorest in the land.

It’s hand-to-mouth, from North to South;
From East to West – ‘existence’ best describes
The lives this bastard government can bring
Itself to muster. Britain isn’t eating and it’s
History repeating: clusters of the population,
Forced to choose between one outrage or
Another, quite preventable – starvation or the
Food bank.

And flanking, frozen Esther, gimp-like, grins
On point from sculpted plinth, to demonstrate
Her eager sycophancy for her hornèd clod.
The only thing upstaging either’s arrogance is
Clear delight in spiteful and relentless
Choreography. The topographic cheating means
That Britain isn’t just not eating…

Choice is all-competing: food or heating; dignity
Or vouchers; servitude or prostitution; charity or
Destitution; empty pot or pay-day loan; feed the
Car or feed the phone; school trip or a birthday
Gift; a haircut or a coat that fits…

Every day new low-pay, no-pay victims slip through
Nets with holes that stretch to endless loops and
Proxy scolds with folded arms and vulgar sanctions.
Britain isn’t eating while the poverty’s increasing by
Command of those in power who care little for the
Pointy end of choice – excepting as it serves to feed
The few in Britain who continue eating very well indeed.

Merry Christmas!

May you be bathed in light and love
May you be where you are at home
And not feel lonely if alone
May you feel warm and dry and full
May you find strength and joy and
Take time to enjoy it all
May you laugh louder and longer than you row
May you be blessed with gifts of kindness
May you know some peace of mind
And please you, have a Merry Christmas!

xXx

Winter Solstice

There came a purpose
On the world
A spark igniting
Lighting
The processional way
Integrity unfurl –
Not just for the day but
Inextinguishable
To Time’s ending
Blending,
Shining,
Earthbound unto
All Potential
Bells resounding
Manifest
Investment in
Bright stars of Hope
With scope
Immeasurable

Universe bow down
Thy cosmic knee
And lend thine ears
To upward lifting voices
Fill the void in Man
With Love and Grace –
Reflect thy beauty in
Our dream-lit faces
Set our hearts to beam
As beacons bright as
Sun at midnight; high
As noon that shrinks
The shadows, knowing
Hope gives birth –
Illuminate the Earth!

Rank Albion

It’s as though a few men got
Together and decided that:
If they really had to share
The world at all, they’d
Need to set a cap.

And so they set their tricksy minds
To shaping barriers and rules
Configuring the size and access
To their superficial gap.

They named this place ‘The Middle’
For to curb the aspiration
So that people rarely climbed
Beyond a predetermined station

Then they patted them,
Their scratchèd backs
And rubbed their hands with glee
Like they’d just invented progress
And the gift of Opportunity

And everybody swallowed this
As though it were the only way
And jumped aboard the caravan
That thinks to mark a human’s grade

Better than and less than quickly
Turned into deserving
So that some got all the baubles
While the rest did all the serving

Then the gap became unstable
And the Middle felt it sharp
But instead of blaming upwards
At the poor began to carp

And the lower ranks of Albion
Eyes wide and minds aghast
Thought of pitchforks blazing up
The higher echelon’s fat arse

Now they’re slipping down the ladder
At remarkably quick pace
As they realise their efforts
May be heading into waste

Yeah, the Middle, it might suffer
But at least it had a taste
Though it may bring little comfort
As they join what they displaced

Now reality is dawning in the
Ranks of all the strata
That success cannot be guaranteed
By merely working harder

But invariably shows itself by
Who you know and where you live
And has become so arbitrary
Something has to give

Like that Upper, Middle, Lower
Have no business still existing
That the ‘representing’ State
Should put a stop to it persisting

Because no one has the right to
Rate another’s economic worth
And no one has the moral ground
By measure of their luck or birth

And no one gets to say that some
Deserve a lesser living standard
Merely by the virtue of the chances
They’ve been handed

No one has the right to look down
On the backbone with contempt
While inequality and segregation
Steadily foment

Irrespective of the work
That middle income, so desired
Is the very minimum of lifestyle
Everyone requires

Civilised Society should not need
Designated levels
They were put there just to keep
A sense of order for our devils

And what is there to say…?

Not one new thought is there
Nor any feeling borne that
Wasn’t worn before
Somewhere

There is no truth unbent
Nor trust unspent
No faith without despair
No boundary that has
Never been abused
Nor tactic left unused
No hope not dashed
Nor good intent not trashed.

And never did this favour
But the perpetrating few
Who bought up all existence
For self-benefit so sick that
Every sell be airbrushed
Every well be poisoned
Every protest hushed
And Liberty forsaken while
Yet liberties are taken.

And what is wisdom’s purpose
If it doesn’t show or tell?
And what is there to say that
Hasn’t been already taught or
Fought
For
What good is a more
Enlightened Way
That doesn’t see the light of day
Because it isn’t seriously sought?