People People People

 I am sitting watching the TV. It's Wednesday so that means PM's question time. I usually start to watch it mainly because I would like the opposition to challenge this selfish, lying and greedy government. They rarely do. Anyway today there is also a budget announcement from the Chancellor so I begin to watch that to. At the same time I am reading the latest edition of Private Eye.

You will deduce from what I have written so far that I am  Socialist. That is not an easy admission these days as it often evokes anger and violent accusations. Any way I protect my health by turning of the sound on the TV. 

I want to continue reading The eye, I really do, but how depressing it is . It seems that 90% of MPs  and  Christ knows how many CEO's and whatever men (mostly men) in business and large corporation in fact anywhere there are huge amounts of money involved are crooks. Well there is no other word for it. The things is, what we are talking about really is Tax Payer's money being stolen. It seems that the whole nation that is assuming we all pay tax are being ripped off. 

So I hear a noise outside and open the door to investigate. The window cleaners are busy cleaning my windows. My first thought is, is it really a month. How time flies. I go out to warn them to be careful as the builders haven't finished putting in my new French windows and there is a lot of rubble. By the way it is also raining.

"No problem luv," "Don't worry about it," "You take care now,". They are all young men. They always work quickly no matter the weather and are always pleasant.

These Mr Johnson and cronies and all the Men who think it is OK to steal, yes steal from are the salt of the earth and they are the ones who create the wealth which you steal.

 

Thoughts about writing

 Reading  this morning in a book of articles about gardens I had some thoughts about writing. Melanie keeps sending me links to courses on writing and advice about writing. It occurred to me that as my writing, especially poetry comes from my soul how can anyone else help me with that.  Also there are so many rules/forms  in poetry.

Blank Verse, Rhymed poetry, Free verse, Epics, Narrative Poetry, Haiku, Pastoral poetry, Sonnet, Elegies, Odes, Limerick, Ballad, Lyric, Soliloquy and Villanelle !!!!! 

THAT'S 15,  YES 15.

You know what? I don't give a fuck because I don't care.  The words I feel come and I am satisfied if they portrait my feelings and thoughts accurately. I rearrange them to increase their efficacy then I feel satisfied with that. So if I enter a competion does my poem have to fit one of these forms? Why?

It's the same with people. We are not all the same shape and size and colour. Difference is abhorred.  That's the problem with the world.  Who is doing this to us? If we are not careful and we obey  "the rules" then we are doing it to ourselves.

What happens if we don't know the rules? I think I am writing poetry but I don't know the rules. So-----------? Where  does that leave me?

There are lots of people I have found who are willing to teach me the rules, for a price. Yes and normally a high price. Do I need to pay someone to help me to express my feelings, my inner thoughts, in fact my very soul.

You know what? I long ago realised that the reason many people who suffered from "mental illness" it was because they couldn't conform to the rules. They couldn't play the game. Some people seem not to care about conforming and many learn/pretend to play the  game knowing that it is necessary but deep inside they keep their own council. 

So damn it. I write what and how I like and fuck your rules. They are not my rules. I can't and won't play the game. 

Woodland scene with animals

 I would like to paint a woodland scene on the green wall in my "Garden".

Today's Problem

In Memoriam

Hungering to hold him,

Yearning to enfold him,

To my hollow breast,

My outstretched arms ,

Find only,

Emptiness.

I crave the cessation

Of the endless pain.

Standing barefoot on cold marble,

Feeling hard ebony, 

But falling through clouds.

Kneeling, my cheek caresses,

Not baby soft skin,

But hard as iron, 

His oaken coffin.

The History Game

The History Game

Next the famous flowing river, Old Father Thames,

Stand edifices, evidence of everlasting, heritage.

Naval college, now museum, environmentally protected,

But no campaign can prevent its eventual downfall.

Floating to and fro, next Greenwich pier,

In the lapping tide, lies putrid, polluting, plastic.

Bobbing, lost and probably missed, 

Float, not one, nor two, nor three, but four footballs.

One of real leather, three of plastic.

Evidence of this century.

No need to protect their existence.

They will remain evidence

Of the beautiful game, 

For ever.