IT’S ALL A RUN FOR THE MONEY

The slippery world of politics it’s all a run for the money, the reds are dead they followed the house and the money and became as the blues following the hours and the money, your money not necessarily their own nor the banks but they followed it. Rule Britannia drinks all round.
The greed the self-aggrandisement the penchant for more, forgetting social cause and worst of all a lack of conscience, being good, getting your gong, for the non-speaking community is tipping the money not the time.

But most of all for however much I listen nowadays, it seems answers from the not-so-great minds of those who remind me of bearded men from the Victorian era, do I say and not as I do a principal still carried by the political class to this day.

And so, from the mouths of often so very aggressive types, they require a social conscience not just me and mine , Britain you are beyond help and mere small words from the likes of me won’t help. What about the social housing, don’t trap, politically trap the less well off, to the Tory social plans for the mortgage. Which will trap the vulnerable in unconquerable debt and misery.

Labour knew this and to gain power they milked it for all they could. Despicable people they are well they have confirmed themselves to a wilderness forever in a greedy selfish flag waving aggressive country, that thinks more about media stars than the greater cause of repairing humanity and covering the green of this country with good housing for all as most definitely the policy of non-affordable homes being built carries on like an express train, with stereotypes of families driving cars like missiles and running around like aggressive rodents with brain disorders.

BROTHER YOU ARE NOT AT PEACE & BIRD LANGUAGE

Brother you are not at peace, there are so many brothers not at peace at this time. Even in this moment too much emotion not enough stillness, I can’t yet hear the pebble in the pond nor the energy wave that emanates from the fall. My sonar says slow down man, slow down woman we cannot capture any time. We move so fast, we don’t know one another anymore that is so sad played as commodities, we all rival our minds, burn high. But the flames die, slow them down and watch the dancing spirit flames and take a long deep breath. We all must change remember we are all guests of mother earth.

For brother it is not a world not becalmed of itself, it continues apace but only humans who run the wheel like this are told by their masters they cannot get off till three score and six has gone, but nature is far more relaxed for we are but guests upon the crust over the mantle, but we will be spun off into infinity turning and screaming as we go. Not even time to say goodbye made lived and absorbed beyond the planet earth, fools are we to believe otherwise.

Bird Language

Bird language and me, I’m stood here trying to sort it out, a little bird rattles on in bird garble amazing. Trying now for half an hour and I still can’t translate the bird, it was different tonight I think it was angry with me all I can guess is that the bird was annoyed that I couldn’t communicate, maybe we should just call it a song for now a bird song…

FOR THE TREES

For the trees in the Forest I breathe, I’m in the centre of life and ground energy in my breath. I’m within, I am subtle, I lay down and look to the sky between the tall trees. I blend, I’m harmonised in synchronism. I be, I live and I am, slowly I sink into the ground I’m absorbed, I am with and within nature. As in death, I am absorbed. The darkness then light I become for I am now within nature as one within. I am accepted by earth, I vibrate down to rise with the tallest light to grow I am free.

In the words of the Bard…

F’r the trees in the f’rest i breatheth, i’m in the centre of life and did grind en’rgy in mine own breath. I’m within, i am subtle, i did lie down and behold to the sky between the tall trees. I blend, i’m harmonis’d in synchronism. I beest, i liveth and i am, but soft i sinketh into the did grind i’m abs’rbed, i am with and within nature. As in death, i am abs’rb’d. The darkness then lighteth i becometh f’r i am anon within nature as one within. I am did accept by earth, i vibrate down to riseth with the tallest lighteth to groweth i am free

Halo The Martian

Halo, the Martian, sits by the pond he had found us many years ago and knew we wouldn’t harm him he would sit cross-legged staring through the bulrushes his ovoid eyes said it all he wanted to go home our world was too nasty and cold for him.

We first encountered Halo when his scout craft crashed in Turkers Wood twenty three years ago nothing else followed him he came alone, we only began to notice Halo when he projected between the clumps of fauna and the ancient trees in the evening time seemingly alone but busy his nerves frayed he never really made an effort to connect.

He was not fearful of our presences . But we were beginning to exist in a sort of viral demonology people of the world possessed a toxicity that medicine could not attempt to cure, we were confused Halo had always said to us in the wood that the future was much brighter than now and that the sun would light our lives in greater hope one day.

But this hope was dimming and it was Halo’s mournful eyes that told us, in the wood, that our time was limited also. We didn’t have many days to wait for on one cold earth Sunday evening lights came for Halo and he was gone not long after we were gone, the wood and the world was now empty then the the light was turned off only God knows what comes next.

HERE WE GO AGAIN FOR ANOTHER POETRY ROUND UP

The Stream

I’d reached the life stream pick up point, the pineal transfer register was high and the light would soon open to astral flight through the ether, it could begin was there life after death.? I would soon discover the next life would lead to another planet I was overjoyed that I didn’t have to start from birth I was re-born in another life stream halfway and so happy with that was I .

The Stream in the Manner of The Bard

I’d hath reached the life stream picketh up pointeth, the pineal transf’r regist’r wast high and the lighteth wouldst anon ope to astral flight through the eth’r, t couldst beginneth wast th’re life aft’r death. ? i wouldst anon discov’r the next life wouldst leadeth to anoth’r planet i wast ov’rjoy’d yond i didn’t has’t to starteth from birth i wast re-b’rn in anoth’r life stream halfway and so joyous with yond wast i…

Angels In Clouds

Are angels in the clouds I have thought about these possibilities every day God has given me the gift of life I look up more and more the clouds are busy their forms more varied and possibly spiritual in nature we have the science behind them but should we forever believe this as I continue walking with my eyes to the above . Occasionally I believe I have witnessed something new shapes in between heavens formations is this by any chance heaven I think the angels are up there they are so busy now just waiting for the moment you will soon feel their love and energy pray may it be upon you in the now and today I go.

The Soldiers Of Your Souls.

The keepsake soldiers of your souls the miniature models carried perfect in the pockets by you and I all your relatives what a collection the good the bad and the indifferent who will I carry today to remind me of yesterday and that of do long ago you will be kept safe in the sanctuary of the harbour of souls from where spirits will roam freely forever.

The Soldiers of…In The Manner of the Bard

The keepsake soldi’rs of thy souls the miniature models hath carried p’rfect in the pockets by thee and i all thy relatives what a collection the valorous the lacking valor and the indiff’rent who is’t shall i carryeth the present day to remindeth me of yest’rday and yond of doth longeth ago thee shall beest hath kept safe in the sanctuary of the harbour of souls from wh’re spirits shall roam freely f’rev’r

A Little Box

There’s a little more than just death, oh yes a little model of you and me. Buy before we are forgotten, hand them down in a little box or keep them in your pocket. It’s not grim for we are so small as not to bother anyone, a keepsake of sorts if you like they can be used as key fobs let your lover in with your model husband, dangling on a chain. Coming soon to every shop a new way to remember so don’t forget little me or little you. A most convenient way to remember all done in the handiness of scale.

The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive