The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive
The Poetic Warrior Returns to his Poetry after Illness Welcome One, Welcome All
A short story for kids as Susie Swan saves the wood from General Snail…
This is about my father County Councillor John Wilson a native of Scale House Farm Galgate Lancaster who died in 1973 suddenly age 44 yrs wouldn’t mind it read out sometime sadly missed.
God preceded time, we invented divisions of time. As we evolved but we need not think of ourselves as clever, it is when one goes to sleep discovery is made being conscious in a troubled world is burdensome and extreme, we find peace somewhere else, some are yet to discover. Remember we are all transient beings much of our own invention and reinvention in a living world. No man is above another. We are driven, driven by primordial instinct. It is difficult to achieve but very easy to forget in a vortex of emotions.
In 1957, the Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan told a Conservative rally in Bedford that the people of the UK had never had it so good. It may seem as though we are more distant than ever from the days of the post-war boom, just before the swinging sixties crashed into the seventies and on to the demolition of industry under Thatcher. For example, now more than 100,000 people have lost jobs due to the impact of the government’s response to the corona virus pandemic. Young people see dreams crushed due to failings in the exam system and the prospect of a no deal Brexit is written about in the pen of the doom-mongering journalists.
Yet, I will argue that, despite the tragic trail of the virus, we have, in fact, never had such a great opportunity to reflect, rebuild and restore this country as a centre for industry and to build a much fairer and more socialist state. We need the government to commit to a policy of buying British; supermarkets to be encouraged to invest in UK produce, which is guaranteed by stringent UK quality control. Our universities have shown magnificent flair in working towards finding a vaccine for the virus and distance learning opportunities have flourished. We need to invest further into research opportunities and technology. With technology comes all the requisite sub-industries and trades. Our young people are willing to work and need apprenticeships that lead to jobs. The care sector can flourish if its staff are paid better for the hard work they undertake. Yet this renaissance needs to be centrally controlled.
Now we have left the EU and learnt how unwise it is to have a country that depends so greatly on the service sector, we can repair the damage done over the past fifty years. In 1957, we may have had a flourishing economy, but it flourished largely because nationalised services and industries formed the backbone of the economy and led to a robust infrastructure. If we aim towards the instigation of a more socialist government with a policy for egalitarian investment and nationalisation then once again, we can have it good we can have it very good indeed.
Counting cod liver oil capsules, the bottle is so large my heart will never see it through. I often wonder if this is the plot, keep it going till we find a solution of which way to go. Oh the golden ovoids of these capsules oiling my daily internals, if I become fed up there is always my bike chain to consider.
If gravity brings me down then I am doomed and ecological opportunists will have their way with me. In time I will decay and spread from beneath the trees that grow, from my rotting benefice. For they will stretch their limbs crack and grow in own time, I respond in seasons we still count the falling winter leaves. We will dance rise and fall in vortex round and around all trees. It is music made for tender ears of young emergence, for I only have words and wait for what sound nature transmutes in me, as one we shall be the tree and the dry leaves amongst new nature.
Comet, oh ye force of resistance, through the universe you go, with orders kicked back from a sun that didn’t tell you where to go. With eternal tail power so great and in wonder, power would be a small word energised by an absolute power you are fired to another world. With bursting plasma for a remote beach, upon a virgin planet unknown to earth. Or so I’m told in my ear. With that we have hope for new life and reemergence to re materialise on other world’s and my prayer has ended now.
I am old to the young and young to the old, I am that. Not much more than that, I breath I am conscious, well aware of the clock. But the hands are sticking they wearily move forward and can just about talk in these days of rusty language. I am bold for what have I to lose but another day, in an ever anxious and faithless people. In orbit some of us will fall off, spun to who knows where by degrees. Three hundred and sixty of them and do you know that the world never stopped, to let me off and there was no one to ask why, as the world which I’d left rotated in the non speaking universe.
From seed to glory consumption and death the seed, returns blowing and landing random. If it can the seed and freedom go together, perfect unit of production given by the grace of our creator. Its journey and locations prolific if not always ideal, but it shows that in abundance it can beat man and his symmetry of controls, upon a benevolent earth. An earth that continually forgives, that provides new green shoots beyond the darkest times beyond all wars that ravage the spirits and souls of the good lonely warriors of the mother earth.
You are not allowed to have your eyes shut when daylight comes, denial of life it seems or depression has disallowed life. Not a curtain is twitched, life’s camera shutters are down, disowned, in a dampened day. Today we have a problem a common expression of populations. As violent dictators weight your lives with horrors that defy the description of human. But it is they that should be in fear, fear of the mighty sun exposing their deeds. So blinds can be lifted and righteous acts enacted for those with their eyes still closed on a sun kissed day.
Rustling bushes upon the track, in the Forrest at last, on my own. Everything past or passing, no-one else there, thoughts; My mind open to receive, I am fortunate to see all this for another day. Mist evocations in early morn, a woodpecker taps the tree. Echoes emanating from movement. Travelling in etheric form. I am caught in this feed consuming of mind, a break, a gap in mixed green fauna. I determine a face there within. I travel across to see there is a face, familiar in vibration, a shadow on the cheeks, a sun and shadows bring me dimension and form. I turn away, for I know you in sadness. I will say no more. I shall gently walk away and continue upon this journey till I hear the cuckoo’s call.
My fear for the smile and where it has gone. For it is now elusive but for the breathed of a whisper of a hair, blown away by chance, as random, as indiscriminate, rain on a half covered wreck of a roof. The faces now of concern but only for itself. It exists to survive in the millions of earth’s unhappy inhabitants, if the head had pounds painted upon them, then everyone would smile well at least once.
The great void I’ve found is nigh, but where’s my bridge? I hear a calling for which I try to answer. The lights won’t go on in the room; it is dark. I shout, “Where are you?” but no-one replies. It is all room-by-room, semi grey. I keep calling out, but there is something wrong with the room. A door is open there is a bed, sheets rolled back crumpled and distressed. All is in grey. Where am I ? Where is anyone? I don’t know this is past. I have yet to move on. I am within a holding station of sorts. I am with others who appear as shadows of their former selves, but no-one I identify with, for this was life. Where do I go now and what of others living, who by now know that I have gone? That desperate void is here with light as assumed not quite within and a window to be opened.