Aberystwyth Town

Attack after attack;

Balls whipped in deep;

Every game an opportunity;

Running down the byline;

“You’re not fit to referee!”;

Seasiders giving it their all;

Tref am byth!

With black and green, shirts we all dream;

You can do it for our Town;

The past is in books and the future in boots;

Here in Aberystwyth, the teams are all ready.

The women, the men, the boys and girls are ready;

Over to the tea hit for Bovril and Wagon Wheels;

Win, lose or draw, loyal greens forever roar;

Now, where do we begin?

Football at Park Avenue is back;

Our floodlights drape the field in rays;

Our stands sing chants beyond the valleys and hills;

Together we stand and cheer on the teams of Town;

Ball after ball shooting at the goals;

Athletic warriors wear our dream badge;

Loyalty, love and destiny’s results follow;

Let’s feel the mighty movement of Aber;

“C’mon Aber!”, shout the voices from the terrace in the sky.

Look at the linesman and laugh with the fans;

Up, up, and up the table we desire;

Be here now and be there forever Town.

The Daily Shooting.

Ban the gun! Guns out, suns out, less harm done! Less guns, more fun! Save our son!

Selector on, side by side, slamfire slips suddenly and suicidal.

Abandoned seats by the parade, spilled over bottle leaking Cherryade.

Rate of fire, red dot sight, ricochet off the rifle bedding, and rolling blocks of rounds per minute.

It’s our right! Shoot out the blight! Aim the sight! No need to write.

Obturate an open bolt as it delivers a sudden jolt.

The screams and shouts, as brutal horror discounts.

Length of pull lever action, muzzle to muffle to massacre mode.

Banners flip in the wind, farewell funerals and victims of the sinned.

Iron sights jammed by jackets shot out by jeweled bolts of kicked leading.

Guns must go! To guns we say no! Why guns, why so? Guns we don’t know.

Half-cock, hammer bite and hang fire as this horrid hiss delivers a headstamp to his headspace.

Walking without worry no longer, the will to cry much, much stronger.

Feed ramp, field strip and fire forming. Forget the flash suppression and school lesson.

Right to peace at work! Safe from the berserk! Another stupid cruel jerk!

Disassembly, discharge and dummy in a dust cover. Ear protection just be worn. Eye relief? None.

Every time history repeats! Same old reply, same old beats.

Chambered choked clips clash into a class. Close quarter combat. Take that!

Blame the games and video controllers. The right to arms since civil war told us.

God Bless Browning, Colt and Magnum. Bullpen, bullshit and bullying breech pressuring.

Walking the walk, like little toy soldiers. If it’s good enough for them, why will no one stop us?

Ballistic coefficient, user deficient. Blowback on bluing with no go back. No way back.

N.R.A. or N.W.A. this isn’t working properly, won’t it go away? Capitol Hill silent. Streets blooded and violent.

Cross hairs, ammo, backbored barrels of delights. Adjustable sights, automatic trigger fingers, cordite lingers.

How long must this go on? How long must history repeat? Repeat, repeat, repeat…

“Bang! Bang! You are dead! 50 bullets in your head…”

Hey adventure, where are you?

I’ve been waiting, patiently and impatiently. Where are you? Perhaps, you missed me here. Hey adventure, where are you?

I know I’ve been distracted, confused and upset. Where are you? Just maybe, you’re too busy to call by. Hey adventure, where are you?

These days have been testing for me, unsure and hanging on the help of others. Certainly, you know where to look. Hey adventure, where are you?

I looked back at last year and the year before, and one before that. How come you didn’t visit me yet? Hey adventure, where are you?

Is it something I did, said or thought? Am I not the same person as before? Hey adventure, where are you?

When you call by, bring some tissues and a shoulder to lean on. I’m sure you’ll return. Hey adventure, where are you?

I’m feeling so low, blue and deep in shadow. You won’t see me outside. Hey adventure, where are you?

I need to feel the sharpness of lemons, taste the sweet cool air and smell of green life. Instead, you’ll see me between these walls. Hey adventure, where are you?

It could be worse I guess, cast off and unwanted? No letter of recommendation or wave off. Hey adventure, where are you?

Hey adventure, where are you? I need you. I need. I need you. Need you. You. Come get me. Hey adventure, where are you?

Hey adventure, where are you?

Blue. K.B.O.

23 days since the need to first go to hospital. That first wrap and support. Those X-rays and CT scans. The pain and self-annoyance. The fracture. The immobilization. The inconvenience. The anger. The rage at one’s self. The self-pity and self-loathing. The humiliating feeling. The worry. The stress. The tears that built up but haven’t yet released.


6 days since the doctor said another 28 days needed; maybe 21 to walk on the foot again. Hope is around the corner by to get there crutches are needed, and some hopping. Avoid the wet floor. No slipping. No placing your right foot down.

Keep it elevated. Keep up your spirits. Pain for a week. Codeine for a week. Bone setting traditional Chinese medicine. Maybe it works, maybe not. Support wrapped again. And again. One trip out. One barbecue. 23 days. 13 journeys to and from work. Avoid the wet floor again. Still no placing your right foot down.

For God’s sake! It isn’t bloody COVID-19! Grow up! Dig in. Dig in deeper. No pain, no gain. Call it a challenge. Growth experience. Aches without ibuprofenbfor a week. Bones grinding and aching. Mosquito bites under the bandage, maybe not so fun. Support from friends. Glorious friends. One trip out. One barbecue. 23 days. 13 journeys to and from work. Keep avoiding the wet floor. One chicken meal nearby. Coffee delivered. Friends. Support. Still no placing your right foot down.

22 more days? 15 more days? Keep going forward. Keep going. Forward. Keep buggering on. K.B.O. Without putting the foot down.

Spheksophobia

How many old dreams of the past are dormant? How many dreams of the future are yet to be realised?

The flocculant rain falls, and the howling wind calls, as he bangs his head firm on walls.

How many days drifted in and out? How many hours in light? How many in night?

The foundations of the house shake, they ripple, bend and quake, all the while his feet flip, slip and bake.

How many lights shine out bright? How many rays cast no shadow? How often does light fade to black?

The will of a man is tested, his head ill-rested, broken undigested, wasted hope scattered and shattered.

How come comets flash and zoom by? How do meteors find their way? How often do they evade all sight?

The feel of his feet grow rough and sore, unable to walk no more, lost on a map with no detail, cast off to sea without a voyage.

How does a guide find a route? How do you define what’s in a suit? How often is a path well-trodden?

The life of Riley, the hidden Eden, the leadership skills of Christ all the parts of Paradise’s Elysium far, far out of reach.

Eh?

We’re all writers putting pen to paper, typing night and day;
Singing love songs come what may.
Banging out letters of dismay;
Giving our opinions on hearsay.
All in front of us, our display;
Making sure we have our say.

Place down your head, just go and lay;
Eyes to the left, eyes to the right they bend and neigh;
Come month end’s wait for our pay.
Should I go or should I stay?

Passing our eyes over the latest play;
Heartfelt causes won’t go away.
In hard times, we kneel and pray;
Write that letter to the girl called Fay.
Oh sweet Fay, the next day your name is May;
Life moved on and we found our way.

Children rejoice, they jump and say, “Yay!”
No more waiting, no such delay.
Watching movies until we hit the hay;
It doesn’t really matter if anyone’s gay.
Dipping our toes in the deep of the bay;
All around the sound of that lovely jay.


On cloudy days grabbing each ray;
Talk about football on the Saturday.
Watching movies until we hit the hay;
It doesn’t really matter if anyone’s gay.
Dipping our toes in the deep of the bay;
All around the sound of that lovely jay.

Streetcat.

I feel like a roof won’t cover me.

I can’t busk under a tree.

Jobs will pass by me.

Nothing here, nothing to see.

The big issue is deep inside of me.

Confidence is my absent key.

I can’t earn this, unreachable fee.

Teaching, reaching and beseeching thee.

Fetch no path my way to feel glee.

Absence and opportunities aren’t free.

The other side: as a rotten wasted bee.

B.D.

I’m going to explode. There’s a simmering rage. It’s rising up and ever closer to spilling up and out.

The mountain of hills and volume of small plenty is what this is all about.

I sense walls and fences stand only to be broken. Each panel a temptation to clout.

Leaning forward, I imagine a shattered wall, crumbling and littered with flaking grout.

From the wall windows litter with broken glass, alongside a sagging spout.

I look to the sky and beg, “Why? Why? Why?”. Each word grows from whisper to shout.

I stumble. I fall. No one hears my call. I snigger. I grip the trigger. Should I squeeze?

Yes, yes, God please. Do it. Do it. End it. End it all. Time to say goodbye. Time to go.

But, I take a deep breath. I focus my tired eyes. The black dogs snap at my feet. I throw them a bone.

You are not alone. You are not in company. You are not your own. You are not the company.

Twitches replace stitches. I fiddle less. I flick the pages. Reading makes me feel better.

The books are my escape. The escape is what I need. The last legs. The leg. The finale.

The fear never departs. The delay must stay. Keep it all at arm’s length. Control it.

Never ever give in. The black dogs can’t win. Snap all they want. Never give in.

Hard rain.

Trapped, twisted and descending; landing seemed so far; never ending. Flushed from on high; plummeting from cold beginnings to the warm decks below.

When it rains, it pours. The heavy hard rain begins as a gentle drop here. And a small drop there. Booming on the surface. Shattering outwards. Explosive force on almost microscopic scale. The end of the flow.

Drifting by influence; winds pull and push; tugging at the deluge and its wild rush; and unending battle of elemental force; tectonics in the sky; ending the moment of dry. Neither fast nor slow.

What started out condensed; freezing and crushed together; slid out and fell; spiraling like a dog fight; drifting and shifting; catching every light; warmer now. Hot snow?

The mind’s eye. Cry. Cry. Cry. Bellow out the yell. Roar in pain. Not now. another again. Victor slain. End of the game. Ended flow.

“Freedom!” – Really?

“Freedom!!!!”, shouted William Wallace as they drew the axe over his head. But what exactly is freedom, and how do we express it? Are freedom of speech and freedom of speech two different matters? What should we class as hate speech? How fine a line is the difference between abusive expression and creativity? How should be express ourselves to each other? Did Lenin come down the chimney at Christmas, for Marxists?

The 21st century is a time of flux for humankind. Was this any different for previous generations? Perhaps not. Civilisations have come and gone. Manners have been taught and unlearned. Nations have grown together and drifted apart. Wars have torn the fabric of perceived time and conscience into pieces, only for peaces and treaties to reaffirm calmness. Humankind’s communities and their individual personal breadth of histories have delivered humanity to a lens unique in time. Those discoveries, explorations, migrations and have led to a wider acceptance of expression. Gone are the chains of slavery, mostly.

The relationship to others through interconnectedness of individuals and civilisations offers both a global and local perspective of humanity’s varied interpretation of freedom of expression. The Oxford Dictionary defines it as ‘the power or right to express one’s opinions without censorship, restraint, or legal penalty.’

Freedom differs from place to place. As does expression. The homes and journeys an artist in Beijing, Tehran or Moscow may differ to that of an artist in Berlin, Paris or Manchester. Many so-called free countries such as U.S.A. will argue freedom is quashed in China, Iran, or Russia. Censorship to protect ideals, culture and people or nations is not a new thing. The word treason finds its origins in Latin. The Latin equivalent is traditio, from tradere (a verb meaning ‘to hand over’ or ‘betray’). Every empire or organised culture, since the dawn of mankind living in groups, has perhaps experienced the handing over of something to a rival tribe or clan. This was not a word invented for the two 20th century World Wars.

Democracy allows freedom of expression to grow and develop. Society can flourish based on access of information and hold those in power to account. From Emmeline Pankhurst and her suffragette movements to the formation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (Article 19) laws, rules and legal systems have evolved to support voices. The systems and cultures surrounding criticism and opinion needs to be an environment supportive to a voice. There must be the right to assemble, gather and share. Libraries and print go hand in hand with allowing debate and discussion. Some western and civil countries, like Australia and the U.K., threaten the rights of protest and questioning. To remove the ability to stand together against something a person truly believes in, is not seen as democratic, yet democratic countries are doing just that. Football manager Sir Alex Ferguson frequently banned journalists who asked questions relating to footballer Ryan Giggs concerning a court injunction and his reported affairs. That was his right, in a democratic society. But, was that withheld information something that people should have had the right to talk and express opinions upon?

In 1982, the Chinese government passed a constitution that guarantees freedom of speech. They also have clauses to cover ‘subversion of state power’ and ‘protection of state secrets’ with imprisonment a tangible possibility for such threats to their state. Many find difficulties with China’s image of their interpretation. But, are democratic nations perfect in their treatment of freedom of expression. The UK has a long-standing tradition of censoring theatre, movies, and the press. Reporters Without Borders, an international independent non-governmental organisation that safeguards freedom of speech, added the UK in the top 24 of global nations. The British Broadcasting Corporation prides itself on being impartial, yet many criticise the corporation for a growing list of bias.

“The free expression of opinion—even of opposition opinion, I do not know if you are prepared yet for that much freedom here.” – H.G. Wells, having met Joseph Stalin in 1934.

Je suis Charlie” (“I am Charlie”) is a term that has caused division in France and the wider world. Charlie Hebdo‘s magazine headquarters were attacked by extremists. The mass shooting on January 7th in 2015, by al-Qaeda’s Yemen branch perpetrators killed 12 and injured 11. They objected to the prophet Muhammad ibn Abdullah being drawn in cartoon style alongside a phrase translating to ‘all is forgiven’. The ripples of time gave rise to much attention including South Park influencing the ‘Everybody Draw Mohammed Day‘, and countless pieces of journalism that could raise questions about the safety of journalists.

Liberalism allows movies such as The Whistleblower be filmed, based upon true stories like that of Kathy Bolkovac to be told. The rights of the individual, their liberty and consent allow equality before law. The Nobel Peace Prize is nominated and awarded for such things. The continued debate of Confucianism philosophy keeps Kǒng Fūzǐ (孔子) relevantly rock and roll. Liberal thought continues to influence freedom of expression and finds its niche welcoming for continued proliferation.

“If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.” – Obi-Wan Kenobe – Star Wars: A New Hope

Censorship in media can take many forms. It could be substantial or partial. Whether it’s blocking Premier League football from copyright infringement or Tunisia hacking an individual’s Facebook account. Pervasive overseeing of the world wide web may require the use of a VPN (Virtual Private Network). Social media can often be a hotbed of freedom of expression and sharing of materials. The internet is full of information. Disinformation, misinformation (fake news) and malinformation can be used to cause harm or detriment to others. Much like putting your faith into a higher power, the believers, armed with false information may not intend to cause harm, but may muddy the waters and cause it nevertheless. Leaks, harassment and hate speech could follow.

“If you open a window for fresh air, you have to expect some flies to blow in.” – Dèng Xiǎo Píng (邓小平), reported by Torfox.

World War One and its poorly organised sequel World War Two saw a huge rise in hate speech between nations. Races of people were referred to as cockroaches. Something that history repeated in Rwanda, the Yugoslavian wars and probably happened long before The Great War was born. Discrimination has been around a long time, and sadly in the 21st century it does not appear to be disappearing anytime soon. Race (or colour) division: Kick it out. National origin is dividing. Age. Gender. Disability and ability. Religion. Sexual orientation. Animosity and disparagement has been targeting individuals and groups for as long as humanity has disagreed. Freedom of speech arms and disarms both sides of the divide. That’s where responsibility could glue together these problems.

“With great power comes great responsibility.” – Voltaire A.K.A. François-Marie Arouet [not just Spider-Man]

Nazi flags belong in museums as an example of what was, what went wrong and an alarm bell for the future. Students should be reflective – and caring enough to want to change the future, to avoid the negative history from repeating itself. Whether students at Tungwah International School (TWIS) or Chapel Street Primary School, or any other educational institution, the environment of learning is important. The right to seek information should be nurtured and encouraged in positive ways. Inquirers work towards being knowledgeable. Ideas can be received and expressed freely in the classroom. Thinkers should become communicators. They should remain principled and open-minded when doing so. Expression can allow balanced students to become risk-taking, by showing different shapes and forms. Likewise those who study should feel privacy keeps them from harm. Their freedom to learn must be a safe haven.

Wall Art, was once titled Peckham Rock. Artist: Banksy.

The street artist Banksy has been awarded great artistic freedom. Negatives of expression his work includes dissent towards his work. Peckham Rock was placed into the British Museum. Like all matters concerning freedom of expression and speech, the world is full of examples and sources to both support and offer facts about the subject. In explaining the subject briefly, a simple conclusion can be drawn. The debate of freedom of expression is open to interpretation and can be supported or argued against through varied means and ways. Research and examples can only stretch do far.

The notion of freedom of speech should be a fundamental global goal, both in democratic or autocratic societies, in order for change. The world is constantly changing and over a great period of time, evolution to adapt to ever-mobile conditions is a necessity. The mind must also progress. The Great Pyramid of Giza forms part of the ‘Seven Wonders of the Ancient World‘, factoring in a small region of the Earth. It completely ignores the far east, the northern areas of Europe, huge sections of Africa and countless other world places. There are examples globally of other wonder-worthy titles, yet these other ancient advances and constructs make a varied and broad set of cultural lists. Politics and idealistic perspectives shape views. Views need to be expressed. Expression is a tool of progress.

“Because it’s there.” – George Mallory, survivor of the Somme, former teacher and mountaineer

The ability to say no, or to filter our Twitter retweet opportunities is something embedded within our personal philosophy. We can each ask questions, perform reasoning and impart information and knowledge whilst taking into account values, the mind and the existence of others. Whether you aspire to be Malala standing up to the Taliban for education equality or Emily Davison jumping before a horse to raise a voice for women’s voices or Pepe Julian Onziema fighting for sexual minorities, freedom of expression will act as a tool for freedom of speech.

For further reading:

Free Speech Debate.com

Morphogenesis vertigo.

Enclosed at the face;
A covering for all;
A covering in part;
Worn as a disguise;
“I am Batman!”
This one is to amuse.

Industrial melanism in evolution;
From one code of darkness to natural selection;
Pollution and solution across generations;
Soot deposits and sulphur dioxide making way;
But, in better times it did not stay.

The fibre, the gauze, the fitting;
Bringing laughter, applause and teeth-gritting;
The wearer or a surgeon, or that of the patient;
Bedraggled non-conformity latent;
Attitudes infect and vendettas follow;
Collaborate via masking tape bridging the hollow.

A shield used to frighten;
This veil;
The shaped false face;
Fancy dress?
The vizard. The visor.

Bound together, hidden from all;
Abducted and placed up against a wall;
The collector hidden, concealed and camouflaged from sight;
Lovell’s telescope uncloaking the night.

Turing screening the enshrouded Enigma;
Overlooked by figures with their stigma;
How did the cell know what to do?
Sent messages of Morphogenesis vertigo.

Boundaries.

The wall doesn’t keep you inside
nor does it stop you escaping.
The range of the boundary’s grasp sit inside
refusing to ruffle or fold ever slightly like two ever strong shoulders of foundation.
The fences you make prevent you living and pay sacrifice to the freedom out of your longing reach. Barriers change in time and
ruins rise to fall, with temples and churches spilling outwardly, full of prayers for one such deity or another, seeping your skin’s
inward desire to be led and let go,
while forever knowing you carry the
weight of slumping shoulders
bound by boundaries of the mind.

Scale.

It isn’t the panic
that draws you ever closer
within its tumbling realm of vision or that tremble in your loin,
dancing upon the shaking shoulders of sacrifice.
It is the bite that remains forever itching failing to heal and settle,
a ruin which ever leaks over your skin
intoxicating the inward desire
while forever guilty mite weakens
slumping from shoulders
into the abyss.

Kicking this habit?

Hello! 你好! Nǐ hǎo! S’mae!

“A book is a gift you can open again and again.” – Garrison Keillor (author of The Lake Wobegon Virus)

I read a few chapters before bed. I carry a book in my pocket almost religiously. I aim to have books on my desks and near my bedside. The bookshelf I have is full to bursting despite attempts to forever re-home unwanted texts. If I can read on a walk, at lunch or between classes, I do. It has always been my way. Reading is a lifelong pleasure and habit. It helps me to feel relaxed and whenever I have felt tired, alone or under the weather, reading has been my medicine and friend.

“Literacy is a bridge from misery to hope.” – Kofi Annan (Late UN Secretary-General)

Having a to do list is seen as normal in many households. Why not create a list of texts and books to read? Mine keeps getting longer. It never reduces. That’s the joy of reading: there’s always something new to expand your horizons. I find my television and movie viewing list also remains quite lengthy. By being balanced and principled, I can reduce my screen time in favour of reading. I often use TV as a reward for completing a reading target.

“One of the greatest gifts adults can give – to their offspring and to their society – is to read to children.: – Carl Sagan (Scientist)

Pale Blue Dot: food for thought?

I recall the joy of Mum and occasionally my Dad reading to me when I was a child. Those bonds and memories never fade. As a child I listened to it as we shared a reading habit development together! Such quality time is essential for reading habits. I recall how my Mum used to log when I would start and end a book. There was a list of great books we read together, those I picked up at school and some I had read all alone. Reading can instill self-esteem.

“Reading should not be presented to children as a chore or duty.  It should be offered to them as a precious gift.” – Kate DiCamillo

The library was a weekly excursion. It was a few hours outside of the house to explore new worlds from the pages. And, on occasion, Mum would ensure I had a special trip to buy secondhand books or new books from stalls at Manchester Victoria railway station. There, I’d often find books that gripped my attention and make me want to read. Not everything read must be a masterpiece. Those books would make for a wonderful day or hour here and there. Having a day, every month set aside just for reading has become a way to slow the pace of life down and enjoy new works. Mum gave me lots of choices for reading. That’s important. What interests me may not interest you. You can recommend reading materials but giving a child a chance to pick will always work best. 

“Books are a uniquely portable magic.” – Stephen King

reading with parentsset times
always carry a bookexplore bookshops
create reading listsreduce your screen time
log ituse the library
find compelling bookschoose a quiet & pleasurable place
Ten possible steps to positive reading habits.

“We read to know we are not alone.” – C.S. Lewis

Some of my favourite places to read: the old Levenshulme Library; the domed Great Hall of the Manchester Central library; hiking towards Everest Base Camp (at various points); a really cool tree in Songshan Lake park (Dongguan, China); my apartment office; on train journeys (especially The Cambrian Coast line in Wales); a rock at the Old Man of Coniston; near an abandoned cabin in Yunnan; and my bed.

Goodbye! 再见! Zàijiàn! Ta’ra!

The Fall Within You

It doesn’t take much to trip and slip when the angry dogs are snapping at your feet. They’ve invited wolves this time and they’re agitated in ways you knew as frequently possible m yet could never escape. They howl and snarl drawing nearer without ever getting close enough to sink their sorrowful rabid fangs into flesh. Their dirgeful salivating pus-filled gums drip oozing brown liquids across the foot of the bed. You feel heavy-hearted panic for a moment. Chapfallen fear.

A white hot cold like steel pressing against your mind’s eye, sliding all senses beyond control, the rage simmers and bubbles threatening to erupt to the heavens above, bringing hell to the day’s gloomy sky. Yet it won’t and can’t. You’re in a mediocre state. The best that can happen is average. The worst is equal to the best. Flailing and flat lining just above terrible but far below lugubrious pleasure. A monotonous gray scale of simply not good enough. The dour silent rage.

You know you can’t escape the wretched day that hasn’t come, but woebegone, you know it is soon to arrive. The fed up walls will fold in and the ground will crumble. You’ll slip, fall, down and tumble. The saturnine strives you had and the live you lived will be gone. The forlorn ashes of the fires burning around you will blow in sepulchral raging winds from north, east, south and west before slamming doleful thunderous bolts of lightning into the parched remains of your skeleton. That morose skeleton itself, fused and beyond mobility. Useless mirthless blue.

Hope knocks at your dejected door but the disconsolate door’s hinges have long dispirited rusted and welded to the wall. The wall has been long-covered by grim vines, rotten downhearted hanging nooses, despondent witch trial posters and fragments of a long forgotten camera obscura lens. The crestfallen wall’s dusted windows each produced Pepper’s ghosts no longer. Their cast down faded glass panes are grimed and moulded beyond shape and figure. Faded features hang weary and low, tangled in slim twine macramé. Downcast melancholy.

Star Wars: Episode II.5

Ideas for Lucas Film and Disney to explore as a comedy sketch show.

#1 Spoof title reels. Scrolling text locks. Error 404 pops up. Various screen credits from other shows intersperse.

#2 Classic Obi Wan K opens his robe, and pulls out his light saber. He activates it but after a while drops it. He picks it up again making noises to indicate it is too not. Finally he drops it and Darth Vadar comes and chops his head off.

#3 Chewbacca makes his usual sounds whilst looking in a mirror. After 30 seconds he coughs up a fur ball. He speaks looking at the camera, in a strong Aberdonian accent, “At bloody last, that has been getting on my nerves for years.”

#4 The scene is the far moon of Endor. The camera pans in on a house and inside Burn Baby Burn by The Trampps is playing and two ewoks are dancing with glowsticks.

#5 Droids roll down a corridor chasing Jedi knights. Suddenly they stop and act rather crazy. The camera pans to two kids playing with drone remote controls.

And that’s as far as I got before I got bored.

Goodbye

Stuck in a Sigh

It seems never ending. I’m trapped. I’m surrounded by a bubble. Happiness and joy have no way in. I’ve been stuck in this sigh for far too long.

I used to be active and mobile, and all the things I wanted to do, I did. Not now. I look on and see them pass by. I’m stuck in this sigh. A seemingly continual throng.

At times I see the sunrise and the sunsets. I feel it like before but it’s as if I’m outside, looking in. The great rays cast no heat my way. The sigh sits on my tongue.

I smell flowers and sense nothing. I watch butterflies dance and flutter and I sense them crash into the ground with no sound. The sigh begins but fails to fade like an endless song.

I pick up pens and they slide from my hands. The words they could and should write gather no sight. They never exist. This sigh is drowning my wish to cry out louder than King Kong.

How long can this sigh go on? I long for those sigh to fade to black. I wish this hollow pocket in the sigh would leave my tongue. I dance and smile outside but inside the sigh strangles me. It feels all so wrong.

Sigh. Silent sigh.

Life.

Life is for living; it’s for seeing; it’s for feeling; it’s for playing;

it’s for kicking a football in a field; it’s for stumbling on stones and slipping and breaking some bones;

it’s for smiling; it’s for crying; it’s for…

…missing home; it’s for feeling that tear. That tear building in your eye; and that moment you look at something so stunning, you’re overwhelmed with feelings.

You try to find the words, but the words aren’t there. They’re out there. They’re in here. In your head. But. You just can’t pick them up and place them in the right position.

Life. Life is beautiful. It’s pretty, it’s witty, it’s exciting, it’s frightening…

It’s staring into the abyss and not knowing where you’re going.

When you want to go somewhere, you go somewhere. Having a plan is all fair enough. Having no plan: just as good.

Just live the way you want to live.

There’s only one way of life.

And that’s your own.

Poem and tattoo inspired and influenced by The Levellers and their song One Way
The original recording made at Abuji Cuo in Yunnan (29/7/2021)
Details of Abuji Cuo (29/7/2021)

Live, breathe, hope (Draft #1)

Muck in your eyes, surging cries, looking at then falling skies.

Pain straining your train of thought, hate free world sought, avoiding a day of distraught.

Stress says take a rest, your chest days you’re not your best, can’t even get dressed.

Stumbled upstairs, fairs not so fair for your cares, time to go get some stares.

Off we went, full consent, not worried about the rent, feeling less than elegant.

While I live, I breathe, I hope. Those hospital superheroes got me off a bad slope. Those hospital heroes helped me cope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Up once again looking down life’s telescope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Those hospital heroes helped me cope.

Knees a quivering, head all shivering, doctors and nurses delivering.

The news was confusing, my listening cruising and choosing, what it’s using, musing and infusing.

Shook by the broken heart, given a start, by way of observation chart.

Rating the flurry of worry, compared to a filling of slurry, bitter taste exiting in no hurry.

Human resources steadying, off for further readying, yet in a place unsteadying.

While I live, I breathe, I hope. No need to duck, dive and mope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. I cling on to the shipping towrope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Walking together on every tightrope.

After the manic half hours, the room drained of flowers, friends turned away after hours.

Left with my thoughts, my personal dreadnoughts, gunshots casting lots and lots.

The demon at the foot of the bed, fear felt instead, I could have been brown bread.

Jabbed and prodded until sleep, a peak that weeped in heaped seep, knee-deep in thoughts that go deep.

Slipped in and out of shut eye, thoughts indivisible by, unable to oversimplify.

While I live, I breathe, I hope. Reach out for the good bathroom soap. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Thankful for the stethoscope. While I live, I breathe, I hope. Knowing today is just a kaleidoscope.

Poetry: Quicky.

Good whatever time it is there,

Why do we think that the unit or the selection of topics will be interesting?

Poetry helps us understand and appreciate much more than the usual normal mundane and daily lifestyle or things around us. It can be deep, meaningful, silly or relaxing. It’s an art form of self-expression by words. It can be presented in many formats and it doesn’t always follow conformity. A good poem can make you feel sad, angry, delighted or make huge belly-laughs in just a few sentences. They can bring civic pride. They can symbolise unity and they can mark resistance. From my early discovery of poetry through comedian Spike Milligan and Now That Days Are Colder (Bowmar Nature Series), a certain Eric Carle and his hungry insects, poetry has reached out to me and worked its way into the very fabric of my skin. I enjoy a bad rhyme or Limerick but take deep meaning from tragic poetry like Paul Celan’s Todesfuge (translated from German as Black Milk). I do of course come from the city of Manchester, famous for Dr John Cooper Clarke, JB Barrington, Dame Carol Ann Duffy, Lemn Sissay and Argh Kid. We also have Jackie Kay on loan from Scotland and deployed in Salford. This is the place.

What do students already know, and what can they do?

I guess students have experienced poetry via movies, traditional primary school texts (Chinese or English), and other exposures through popular culture, perhaps even advertising.

Are there any possible opportunities for meaningful service learning?

Linking in with poets via online interviews or guest appearances in our classroom may be possible. As a class the potential to collate a poetry book from favourite poems, created examples and so on will be possible.

How can we use students’ multilingualism as a resource for learning?

The possibility of translation, interpretation and analysis opens a few doors.

Take care and ta’ra!

Who am I to tell you what to believe?

Who am I to tell you what to believe? When I can’t picture the ideas you conceive. Every day you bend, kneel and pray, but here I am with thoughts hidden in grey.

What do your Gods speak to you? How can you have faith in if it’s true? Do animals and plants have belief? Perhaps they’re all to lucky to avoid grief.

What is wrong? What is right? When does darkness stop and become light? How do the lost become the found? Must it take circumstances so profound?

Who are they to tell you not to believe? They can’t feel the life we’ll all leave. Resurrection, dedication and minds so set. Always believing, no sweat for regret.

The hum of the crowds all drowned out. Knowing how and where, never in doubt. Eyes to the sky, devout until the last. Shadows of worry forever outcast.

Their words, choruses and hymns echo. Through halls, walls, valley calls they grow. How did the lambs find their leader? Must they nod or bow before their reader?

Who are you to tell me what to believe? My mind is free like the air I breathe. I pass with peace but no direction. Each duty comes with no selection.

What I choose I can’t quite grasp. The paths I lead cannot all clasp. The roads I drive cannot all go on. Each lane merges and bends to one.

Destiny and fate call my name. I don’t know the end of this game. How did I get to be so alone? The decisions alone were mine to prone, groan and bemoan.

[scrawled in Kumbum Monastery, Xining, Qinghai on 19th July 2021]

Ride forever.

I once knew a man on bicycle who could ride forever.

He’d ride into sun, storms and every kind of weather.

A puncture one day hit and tested him.

He found himself lacking the spring and vim.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

By the roadside, he tolled and slipped into woah.

Up he got, took a moment and dreamed of the roads he rode.

His wheels could feel the steel of his hand.

As he screamed and crammed the bike back onto the land.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

But he got himself taped up and back all together.

Out he headed off back into the ferocious weather.

His seat squeaked its old crumpled leather.

It whistled along the thick purple heather.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

The ride outside is a long old road.

But when all is truly told:

The wheels of the soul spin over and over again.

All along the plain the eyes focusing on the main campaign.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

Riding out far, hands over bar, music in his ears:

Waving away notions of his fears and tears.

Gears into set, helmet into position and off he flew into transition.

The clothes hemmed his angular position as he set forth his mission.

Ride on. Ride hard to a fashion. Ride forever. Ride with relentless passion.

Bitter taste.

Some things were not made to be enjoyed;

The bitter tastes they leave on the palette;

The framed emptiness they draw not toyed:

The forceful thump of Thor’s mighty mallet.

Ever cringing nails on the dusty blackboard;

Piping rumbling ghostly marching skeleton bands;

Darkest nightmares suffered and explored;

Murky creatures move through dense moist wetlands.

When hope and love do not arrive on your booking;

be sure to recall that time of overlooking;

a subordinate word at the theatre of the absurd;

for entitlement to a smooth passage is unheard.

Grasping doubt.

Maybe I should, maybe I shouldn’t.

I wish I could but I feel I couldn’t.

I look deeply into my dreams.

They all don’t seem what they seems.

Parts of the perfection have no direction.

Each and every ambition is littered with defection.

So, I sit back, relax and just float along.

Knowing the words and tunes but making not one song.

My actions, my words don’t let me show it.

There’s music in my soul I know it.

Doubt bites at me, it knifed into my soul.

Black dog edging, tearing away at my lifelong goal.

So, what’s stopping has stopped the beginning.

My head is no longer a fit place for winning.

Stop.

Carry on?

Fly Like a Bird of Prey.

Do you recall Kim? Before her Evangelia. Wasn’t there a Jayne too? Nikki wasn’t too quickly. Shirley not? Wendy house? Didn’t you once meet unrequited love? You said you wouldn’t carry on or try again. But, you did! And, who now? Who do you fancy? Is it that Nancy? Or Daisy who drives you crazy? Or Spring, Summer or Autumn? The seasons of choice? Dance with your dreams.

Do you remember that Karst mountain? It rise from the ground like a camel’s hump. You said to yourself it was the most beautiful mountain you’d ever seen. And then you set eyes on Everest. Then Ama Dablam. Then Annapurna one, two and three. Fishtail Mountain. Snowden again and again. Always Winter Hill, but forever dreams of new peaks unseen.

You said you wouldn’t read after Jon Ronson. Wasn’t Jurassic Park the book to end all books? Then Airframe, the Animals of Farthing Wood should. The Jack Reacher series could. Ian Fleming gave you the spy that ended all spies. Pages of love, lies and cries. Yet, you close your eyes and there’s no disguise. Your bookmark never hides.

Back in the day wasn’t Ghostbusters always your favourite? Gremlins and Goonies, two you’d never forget. Watching Jaws, again, without regret! 007 live and let. Leslie Neilson going on and on, I bet. Movies like Gemini Man and iRobot to watch once – no fret. The minds eye full of Skynet.

Things are said one day. Things come and go away. With each passing birthday I say, never betray your display of child’s play. Each day we find a way to convey the driveway of life. Hooray! The outlay does not outweigh what we repay on our stairway to our breakaway. Fly like a bird of prey.

Written in January 2020, in Nepal, on a notepad. Before COVID-19 became annoying.

Refresh.

Craning my neck: stooped harshly.

Deep inside the bowl: placed hands partially.

Turning the pressure to flow: seeking coolness.

In my Chinese house: undrinkable cruelness.

The water here: causing neshness.

Flowing slow water in Manchester: enhanced freshness.

Upstairs at the bathroom: Broom Avenue childhood.

Drinking fast to slow: glug, glug, should, would and could.

Cooler than air, fresher than fair: my share.

After teeth, before sleep: my answered prayer.

I miss that tap: we were raised together.

The tap of life: water from Lake District weather.

Night rider.

The leap of faith: a frog darting between wheels.

The ray of light: shining beams and how it feels.

The foot on pedals: energetic pulsing engines pumping like pistons.

The gripped handlebars: spinning cogs unheard for all who listens.

The rush through dark: air rippling over and under.

The night time cycle ride: a wonder of a wander.

Darkness enveloping: hot air strangling the pathways.

The slick of the wheels: gliding along, down and up every raise.

Trees looking on: witnesses of the rider in the night.

Snakes hiding away: not their chosen spectacles of sight.

Cool air nowhere to be seen: the slick ride of the bicycle abound.

Night rider: over ground, uncrowned and without a sound.