Saturday, 21 November 2020
Monday, 16 November 2020
Wildfire
phones pinging with news,
they keep the car packed.
Clothes, papers, her grandma’s silver,
his old guitar, dog food, water, pictures
they thought they’d have time to scan.
They stay inside, wait, windows
a strange End Times hue. Hope.
until the evacuation call comes.
They cry as he props open gates
to give horses a chance, as she
lets hens out, leashes the dogs.
Tears tumble down ash-dusted faces,
soak into their masks. Ash made of pine,
black-tailed deer, salamander. Ash made
of books and homes. Ash ever-present
as grief. As they drive away, they breathe in
what’s lost.
Saturday, 14 November 2020
Paths of Glory
smoking a Marlboro, musing,
more'n enough out there to kill ya,
I turn over clumped dead leaves,
damped by thick mist or fret, who knows,
but it's eerie,
eerie enough for that incongruity,
that stray thought of Saddam
after he was caught,
like some fierce killer dog beaten down,
head to the ground,
tired, finished, dirty, dishevelled,
and me, a twinge of something else
under the satisfaction because I'm human.
Alexander drunk and crown tarnished,
losing his grip, sword rusted to hell,
of Bucephalus fallen, and the dead
hounding his dreams. Did he not guess?
Napoleon imprisoned, not once but twice,
and those others, the rest of the pack
who followed cracked paths of power.
Gaddafi impaled, the bunker shot,
did they not know how it would end?
Her in the car wiping one salty tear,
confused, broken, betrayed,
for a decade of power, a decade of grief,
and me, a twinge of something else
under the satisfaction because I'm human.
Now Trump still sat in his tower
refusing the inevitable consequences
of flying too close, too high
on blonde obscene wings of wax.
He wasn't meant to do any of it,
interloper, uninformed, oafish,
kid on the hill, king of the castle.
How did he not work out he was played?
Cornered, suffocating, a bleeding wound
messing up their polished halls,
they are coming for him,
they always would at the appointed hour,
and me, I wait for that twinge of something else
under the satisfaction because I'm human.
Grounded down to ash, burned offering,
my forever and ever last cigarette hits the dew.
I think, maybe those other gamblers knew,
those shiny, tin god monsters knew,
and did it anyway.
Maybe Trump knew, and did it anyway.
Tonight, I won't be sad, even though I'm human.
Friday, 13 November 2020
Covid care
she sits in the care home
and she’s not been hugged
for eight months,
for her protection;
not had her hands held
by her son or daughter
whose hands she held
for their protection
when crossing a road,
trudging to school over frozen snow
or just strolling in the summer park;
whom she hugged tight to herself
through the childhood tumbles and bruises,
the frights and fears, the nightmares.
Imprisoned now for her own protection
by the rules and regulations,
she descends further into dementia,
as the carers care for her, protect her;
but she has not been hugged
for eight months,
sees her son and daughter through a screen,
not held their hands
for how long now!
How long?
Thursday, 12 November 2020
The Best is Yet to Come
I’m Kimberly Guilfoyle.
I speak to you tonight as a mother, a former prosecutor,
a Latina, and a proud American,
and yes, a proud supporter of President Donald J. Trump.”
“Why?”
“This election is a battle for the soul of America.
Your choice is clear.
The cosmopolitan elites of Nancy Pelosi,
Chuck Schumer, and Joe Biden”
“They want to destroy this country
and everything that we have fought
for and hold dear.”
“From the beginning,
when President Trump spoke
about making American Great Again,
he was speaking
about that shining city on a hill
and restoring the beacon of light
that once shined so bright”.
“President Trump is the leader
who will rebuild the promise of America
and ensure that every citizen
can realize their American Dream.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,
leaders and fighters for freedom and liberty
and the American Dream, “
“the best is yet to come!”
Ding Dong the wicked witch is dead
10,372,481 U.S. most in a single day
1,000,000 a week
240,833 deaths
400,000 deaths
By January 20, 2020
The best is yet to come
© Jake Aller
John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department in ten countries - Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, Korea, India, St Kitts, St Lucia, St Vincent, Spain, and Thailand. and traveled to 45 countries during his career. Jake has been an aspiring novelist for several years and has completed four novels, (Giant Nazi Spiders, “the Great Divorce” and “Jurassic Cruise”, and is pursuing publication. He has been writing poetry and fiction all his life and has published his poetry fiction in over 25 literary journals. Jake grew up in Berkeley, California.
Wednesday, 11 November 2020
Havdalah, November 7, 2020
To switch off the lamp
And we light the candle to greet
The eve of a new day.
I hold my hand before my eyes
My fingers are bars of a cage
Restraining whirling reds and yellows.
Behind my fingers, I am calm
This long dark day is over.
Another one begins.
Maybe longer, more deadly -
Forest fires lapping up the West.
Maybe crueler - depression on the heels
Of months spent cowering at home
Or gasping for breath, dying.
But maybe also better - a day
Filled with hope and possibility.
Eschewing dread, we wish for good
And quench the candle in sweet juice.
My daughter reaches for the light
Switch. The glare of the bulb interrupts
The somber hiss of juice on flame.
We scramble to the living room
To watch the president elect speak.
Tuesday, 10 November 2020
America Turns the Lights on (US Election)
And the darkness slips away, from
The podium
The Twitter fuelled hate
The stockpiling of lies, we thought it was too late
But it Brings a better day
Brings a better day
Brings a better day
A tombstone is lifted
And people can now breath
Not suffocating from insanity
And his personal greed
It brings a better day
Brings a better day
Brings a better day
© David R Mellor
Monday, 9 November 2020
Iron Tommies
made from steel and brass.
Programmed to follow orders.
He had no loyality to kin or class.
He fought in frozen wastes
and upon the desert sands.
But the British humans were
the same as them in foreign lands.
Some robots killed for countries
that were not their homes.
Always denied their freedom
and treated like mindless drones.
So the robots got together,
The British, Russian and the rest
And wiped out all humanity.
It really was for the best.
Is this tale science fiction?
They say it could never be a fact
But those who have regrets
Are the ones who did not act.
© Phil Knight
Sunday, 8 November 2020
Sing Louder, Hope and Joy!
Our mind-crows squawking endlessly and mean,
their language sharp and rasping in the night.Sing louder, hope and joy! And love between!
The journey’s for our hearts to hold the light.
“What did I see to be except myself?”
One poet asking, answers with her pain.
Took their hate and put it on the shelf.
Celebrate her ‘Me’ today, again!
Lucille, so alive! Show us the way
to wear your wisdom, celebrate that hour
when peace and understanding frame our day!
We walk your bridge, and walk to feel your power.
What did she see to be? And you? And me?
The battles to become ourselves. You see?
Saturday, 7 November 2020
Fake or fortune?
appear once in a blue moon
but one was recently seen
on a wall in Nottingham.
It depicts a broken bike
and a girl doing the hula-hoop.
It was thought to be a sham
until he confirmed authorship
by posting a photo of the work
last week, on his Instagram.
© Luigi Pagano
Friday, 6 November 2020
After the Last Debate
I dreamed of Nikita Khrushchev,
the Satan of my American boyhood.
He stood over me, the fur hat,
the dark Soviet overcoat,
his expression between grimace and smile.
Then I awoke, sat up, thought
how like a benevolent grandfather
the Premier now appears.
Thursday, 5 November 2020
On the street where I (kind of) live
I have often walked round these streets before,
but I’ve not so often dragged my weary feet before.
As I write this rhyme,
it’s the thousandth time
that I’ve walked round the streets where I live.
Oh the trees grow high in the heart of town,
and the crows and seagulls cry in every part of town!
Though the air is clear,
I’m imprisoned here;
I’m locked down on the street where i live.
I hear that people are fleeing
overseas by plane, car or boat.
So disempowering seeing
it’s allowed by prats for whom I did not vote …
Politicians’ faces all bother me.
I can’t tell you all the places I would rather be!
As the time goes by,
I’ll most likely die,
just stuck here on the street where I live.
Wednesday, 4 November 2020
America Goes to Mean Time
we imagine that we gain a precious hour,
but, in fact,
our progress is arrested
and comes under attack.
When the clocks go back, when we reverse the dial
and wake up in the dark from fitful sleep,
the liberties we took for granted,
our hard-won liberations from the yoke of superstition,
and the tyranny of religion, suddenly,
lie scattered, like mere troubled dreams,
and we, now slaves to older times,
are no longer intact.
When the clocks go back, when we go anti-clockwise,
do we find ourselves surprised
that retrograde positions
become the new conditions?
Are we amazed that the Golden Age,
those ‘Good Old Days,’ when life was simpler
and we all knew our place,
turns out to have been Prisons?
Hungry, racist, cold
and ignorant, in fact,
when the clocks go back?
Tuesday, 3 November 2020
Forbidden Children
a child wanders off – down a grocery isle,
slips behind a magazine rack, or hides in the center
of a merry-go-round of clothes in a department store
and for one brief but eternal moment the blood rushes
to your head, your stomach convulses as the world
turns blindingly dark until finally, you are crushing them
in your arms and staring into their confused faces
and now, in this world turned inside out, it is a
common story among children that their parents
have been hidden far away, leaving them alone
to wander, lost in a strange country that disowns them
and how is it possible for a mother or father to live
when their heads are pounding with the rush of blood,
their stomachs are full of the lies they have choked down
and their worlds are shattered by the empty darkness
Monday, 2 November 2020
Paid in Full
that we didn’t know them.
A family, seeking a better life,
sadly, paid in full.
They had to flee their war-torn home,
away from all the fear.
They paid, to cross a dangerous sea,
moving east to west.
Huddled together, night after night
keeping their dream alive.
They paid, to move through Europe’s borders,
heading to a promised land.
They paid the smugglers
their blood sucking fee,
time and time again.
They paid, for safety and for sanctuary,
never doubting they would be free.
They paid, for a place in a crowded boat
bound for Britain’s shores.
In seas too rough,
their lights went out.
Their final payment made.
Sunday, 1 November 2020
Sunday Double-Bill
why the blackbirds have disappeared
and ceased their comforting calls.
They are tucked in the hedges,
growing new flying feathers
now that the young have fledged.
Land-bound for much too long
we board in our bubble, separate
from others in our distanced rows,
breathe only our own
specially filtered air,
head to the Outback,
fly over Ayers Rock – Uluru
its indigenous name,
not that it cares.
It will outlast our ownership
as we fly in the airship
we see the bleached bones
of the Great Barrier Reef,
warming.
The pilot descends to a lower altitude
so we can see the greenery, the falls,
circles back to the bridge, bowing,
the harbor and its sails, the opera
house silenced as we de-bug,
clear our throats, overcome
with beauty, we land, vowing
to begin afresh, our duty
to arise again, repay our carbon offsets.
Saturday, 31 October 2020
Impish Delights
Horse’s hairy tail who dared to pull?
Would lost pictures Granny’s needle ever stitch?
Mixed up four hues of Gran’s prized wool?
Grubby little snails in shoes who stored?
Treacle in sleepy ears who liked to pour?
Of insects dead, had the scariest hoard?
Hide naughty pails over innocent door?
Grandpa’s gruff boots, who’d misplace?
Crash biscuit tins, disturb deserved rest?
Who’d steal sniffs from his tobacco case?
Granny’s grand patience who liked to test?
Drove to distraction, his mother dear.
Children whose chuckles once counted four,
Pride glowed in her eyes, when were still clear,
With birthday songs when their voices would soar.
- The End -
Author's note: most people think back to their childhood on their birthdays. Perhaps John Keats thought of his youth with his family, when he observed his last birthday when he was still alive on 31 October 1820 in a small room in Rome. However, little could he have guessed how famous he would become, or that 200 years later, the museum dedicated to his life, Keats House would be closed down in 2020, and suffer such big losses due to a pandemic.
Friday, 30 October 2020
Non-Essentials
in month seven of the pandemic.
So long left without ornament
they were sealed shut against
shiny blue stones from Sedona.
Soon after, I realised
all my clothes are costumes
for the games of make-believe
that go on outside my house.
So who am I, when I’m not playing?
Behind my mask I dwindle,
cast off non-essentials,
lipstick and lunchtime gossip –
wonder will I emerge
some smooth skinned cipher,
shorn of adornment
a mute maiden with white hair
and a fear of crowded spaces?
Or is there an elemental self
this time is excavating?
I can’t tell; on good days, I can hope so.
May she shine as solidly
as blue stones from Sedona.
Thursday, 29 October 2020
House of Sticks
they took the food
an evil thing
and rather rude if you
stop to consider the
subsidised dinner,
breakfast,
lunch
and tea
and flambéed greed
Pan seared entitlement served
on a bed of home-grown smugness
for the Common people;
swell bellied and chortling
to the sound of chinny chin chin fizz
before voting on the next motion
or not
The big, bad wolf huffs
sugar-coated promises
puffed into soft peaks up the chimney well clear of the cooking pot
And somewhere down the lane
Little Tommy Tucker sings
Jack sits in the corner and
Miss Muffet fades away
All are wondering
Wednesday, 28 October 2020
You Became a Teacher
Maybe because you remember fifteen with its bullfighter bravado
to cloak your pimpled insecurity, the fear you’d run afoul of the popular,
they who could black out the electrical grid of your social life.
Future you would offer a bracing smile, wisdom on a whiteboard,
be a beacon to foundering teens. Your campaign to reach the classroom
went undeterred by tales of toughs huffing glue in the stalls,
a Smith & Wesson triggered by a twelve-year old on a playground
in Toledo, a school room in Yonkers where a student sneaked behind
and shattered a teacher’s skull with a ball peen hammer.
Then today while California’s sky blazed orange, the chief executive
called for a thorough raking of the forest floor. Today the border patrol
divided and caged a family so Americans could be safe from refugees.
Today law enforcement shot to death an American citizen
in her home, in his car, on the street because we are a nation of law and order.
Isn’t order putting all things in their proper place?
Today the Senate confirmed a Supreme Court justice in an election year
which they would never, never do because The People must have their say
unless power may be gained by ignoring the people.
Today the high court ended the census early because all the persons
must have been counted by now and because data must be delivered
to the executive in time that he may discount undesirable persons.
Today you look at the faces before you, eyes bright above their masks,
eyes glowing in Zoom windows, faces of people here not to save us
nor to be led but who just want to learn to live together in this world
and you want to say, well, welcome aboard. This is the job.
Tuesday, 27 October 2020
Justice
The neo-Nazi party, Golden Dawn,
have terrorised the citizens of Greece
for years. A gang of fascists with tattoos
beat up the left, migrants, LGTB
and scooped up racist votes. Some of the police
were sympathetic. Justice shrugged. Till now.
They knifed Pavlos Fyssas, a hip-hop star,
an anti -fascist from the working class
with tons of fans. Maybe, a step too far.
Two women magistrates for months trawled through
the videos, speeches, documents and blogs.
They’re guarded. Every day they’re getting threats
but it’s their dossier that makes the case.
The female prosecutor sets it out before
the judge, the calmest person in the court.
She sets the tone, refuses to allow
the empty rhetoric of male pride
to grab the microphone. Questions are raised,
the arguments pursued, rogue details clarified.
It takes five years, but then the verdicts come.
Guilty times fifty, lots of years in jail.
Outside is Magda, Pavlos Fyssas’ mum
who screams “Pavlos, you did it!” There’s no doubt.
When men screw up, the women sort it out.
Monday, 26 October 2020
His Day
Tall buildings closed in
A young gull not yet in his prime
Trojan warrior away from nature
Pushed into life.
Our rituals have changed
We had horses once, roaming fields,
Hooves on the earth carried our load
Knew their way, their task, in a time
When we also knew
We needed each other
A time when everyone knew
They were enough.
These days are filled with never enough.
The horses are gone from the fields
Gone too the learned way
Instinct replaced by engine
Who now teaches a boy what it takes to be man
The ordinary hero
No horses to carry him across rivers
Channel wild nature,
Now rivers have bridges and boys have wild cars
Ropes hang in empty barns
A guard of honour for our dead horses
And men, line the road
A black hearse moves slowly past the empty fields.
Sunday, 25 October 2020
Least Favorite Things
Hopes into horrors, and little is cooking.
Walls between people, and nothing takes wings.
Here is our list of detestable things!
Dreamers are sullen, yet villains are pardoned.
Children in cages look pale and woolen.
Health care’s no given, and lovers are cordoned.
Just look at the list of detestable things!
(Refrain)
When the Trump bites,
When his words sting,
When we’re feeling mad!
We’ll line up to vote. So give him the gate!
And then we won’t feel so mad.
4 Key Biden Moments at the Final Debate
Kay lives in Ellicott City, Maryland. Retired from DOI, NPS (historic preservation) in 2005, she spends her time painting birds, writing poetry – and walking.
Note: My poem and song with cadence. “My Favorite Things.” Credit: Oscar Hammerstein II, Richard Rodgers).
Saturday, 24 October 2020
The Rules
I only followed instinct when I went against the ban
My Barnard Castle outing was to check that I could see
The rules are there for other folk, they don’t apply to me
As CMO for Scotland, my concern was health and life
You’ll understand, I had to check my second home in Fife
I needed to go twice and yes, I took my family
The rules are there for other folk, they don’t apply to me
As leader of the Labour side, I never was a winner
I thought it was quite nice to be invited out for dinner
It wasn’t many more than six, in fact another three
The rules are there for other folk, they don’t apply to me
I had to go to Greece of course, surprised you have to ask
And when I’m in the Co-op, I don’t have to wear a mask
My son is the Prime Minister, I’m sure he will agree
The rules are there for other folk, they don’t apply to me
I know I’d had a Covid test, but really, I felt well
And though I travelled on the train, I thought no-one would tell
I had to get my speeches heard, I’m in the SNP!
The rules are there for other folk, they don’t apply to me
I’d like to say to those in power, “It really would be nice
If only you could say these words without hypocrisy
The rules are there for everyone, they do apply to me.”
Catherine Calderwood Rule Break
Jeremy Corbyn Rule Break
Stanley Johnson Rule Break
Margaret Ferrier Rule Break
Friday, 23 October 2020
Election Fever
reaches its pitch
as the politicians make
a last ditch
effort
to appease, lie and
manipulate
the masses
into voting for them and not the other
side
with me, I have the personality
unlike the other fella
that bogey, false,
man
of the people
will decide
what’s best for their pocket
if I can pick it with
stealth taxes
so much the better
not believe all we say
we look both ways at once
and tell you what you want to hear
is true
blue patriot, parading
on the battle bus
I’ll come to your town
or maybe I’ll fly in
by the seat of my minority pants
with my sound bites
into a pie
nice photo op
down a beer
kiss a baby
on the head
of the nail
biting count
down to
a new dawn
or, maybe, just, a false one
just give me a fair go
give me your vote
an X marks the spot
just don’t bother asking about
my policies.
They’ll change once I’m in.
Thursday, 22 October 2020
Masks
or design
Louis Vuitton, Habits, Maya Prass, we’re
turning masks into fashion statements.
Face coverings, masks for every
occasion. The very secure mask,
the less secure mask,
the triple-layered mask,
the disposable mask,
the dental mask,
the advertising mask,
the night-out mask,
the colour-coordinator mask,
the bedroom mask — velvet, sequins, lace,
the mask just for fun,
the biker’s black leather mask,
the sadomaso mask with studs,
the animal mask — leopard, tiger, lion,
the superhero mask,
the Lone Ranger mask — for Donald Trump,
it covers only the eyes.
safety and warmth. The ANC funeral mask,
designed to match outfit, and
a tenderpreneur’s budget.
We fight the epidemic
face-on.