Trick of the Light

Light isn’t all soft love and fluff.
It also pierces, sears and blinds,
To better find the darkest stuff,
The sharper to define.

When fear and hope and wrong and right
Turn inside out, it brokers bright
And what is stirred is why it fights
To air that which it brings to Light.

It shines with omnifarious gaze
That doesn’t favour where it bides
And draws reflection to its rays
From what begins inside.

Light isn’t only safe and kind.
Its ruthless microscopic eye
Is fixed to game the heart and mind
Of what it seeks to purify.

Shadow-shaker, mischief-maker:
Structured play, its grey delight.
Teaser, tempter, teacher, faker:
Doubt and faith give way to sight.

Silver linings; golden threads;
Black light; white night, sharp and hazy.
Tricksy slick to honest wed:
It’s madness but it isn’t crazy.

When is enough?

When is enough enough?
When will it give?
When ornamental plans
And the dead hand of hubris
Berate the precipice?
When is too much?
When the State is who hates?
When fake is the real news
And theocracy an economic startup?
When the individual and collective
Are mutually exclusive?
When is enough enough?
When Overton is the squeaky wheel
And emotion is its grease?
When it takes police with guns
to protect Democracy? And Gina
To remind us who and what it is for?
When the greater mass has barest weight
Yet bears it all
And snake-oil is imposed as fate?
When the coiled springs
Of claustrophobic souls take leap?
Too late.

Who killed Democracy?

In the beginning is the end.

A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
.’ ~ William Blake

~*~

Who killed Democracy?
We, sighed the People,
With our blind eye,
We killed Democracy.
Who saw it die?
I, replied Everyone,
By complacent idling,
I saw it die.
Who bought its blood?
Us, cried the corporations,
With our disregard for nation,
We bought its blood.
Who’ll make its shroud?
We, sang the rich and proud,
With our crony vows,
We’ll make its shroud.
Who’ll dig its grave?
Us, say the governments,
With disempowerment,
We’ll dig its grave.
Who’ll toll the bell?
They, knelling in extremis,
Visioning hell,
They’ll toll the bell.
Who’ll be chief mourner?
We, cried all,
With our heart and soul,
We’ll chiefly mourn.
And the World fell a-sobbing
And a-sighing for a sacrifice
Relying on its hope to be reborn.

*~*~*

[Cock Robin – origin and meaning]

⚡️🌹⚡️

Atonement
A moment
At onement

In the end is the beginning. It is begun.

Forehindsight

All of human history slaps us in the face. Screams

look at me! Witness: I did not end. I am born again and again to grow and shed infinite skins. Potential does not die but can be bound by the drawing of a line.

You, who crossed a thousand Rubicons of shame and hope, for love of my gifts: built walls and prayed for unicorns; slew dragons and mended fences.

The sum of all human consciousness is here, now. Who can contain its conscience? Where shall it be comprehended?

Witness. Else, why are you?

Every age knows fools and visionaries. Filter your vicarious indulgences but all is revealed, eventually. Each, to their unspeakable acts and heroic deeds, be true. By your own lines, rise or fall.

New cans; old worms

Global or local, big or small picture, humans are politically riven with both justifiable and manufactured agendas. Whether as bolsters to old conflicts or newly perceived correlations, contemporary symptoms become the causes of tomorrow, especially when they are misunderstood and mishandled. There and here brews a god almighty convergence of violent complaint. New cans; old worms. History’s harvest.

Some people are still actively relishing the disturbing fragility of our times; they have waited so long, worked so hard for the potential of such days as these. They are the nihilists and the dispossessed, seeking retribution for the state of their lives, real, imagined and relative.

So they pour scorn and claim betrayal as a means to myriad, dissonant ends and invest in the cathartic revenge pictures and nebulous promises of restitution painted by charlatans and incompetents who take the righteous, justifiable indignation of the Commons and genetically modify it with conspiracies, ideological wishes and expedient scapegoats. Free-market patriotism.

Their default strategy is blanket blame by demographic whack-a-mole. They lump together all the characters, functions and effects of establishment, class and information in much the same paranoid, misinformed way as people who think that all drugs are all the same – just BAD, man. Their solution, the Brexit/Trump effect, is no better reasoned than cutting off your right arm because it might make the left one stronger. They turn creative destruction into throwing out, not just the proverbial baby, along with the scummy recycled bath water but also the actual bath.

They became those for whom no proof was either possible or necessary, even in the face of indisputable facts. Until, suddenly, it is. All that certainty was merely prologue to their next sense of betrayal, delivered, wholly predictably, by the capriciousness and ineptitude of their own brokers. And Hell on Earth hath no fury like a co-saboteur scorned.

The sane world watches, nervously, holding its breath.