1915

Guns have won

            Childlike show

God listens no more 

      Debased figures rot

                              Angry

Shorter indented lines

            sense of grim     order

Monstrous ANGER claiming victory

Ripped from life.   Unfriendly

                                    Bittersweet

Disappointed nature of war.   Unobservant

      Ultimate victory of foes by cold steel

The devoutly religious with no time to pray

Ineffectual begging given no moment

                                    Depressed

Order gives way to chaos     loose     unreachable

No survivors walk       the squalid trenches

GOD cannot listen

            Your voice unheard

                                    Helpless

The unfolding scenes of death.     Stripped away.

Erratic sounds in battle

Frequently breaking patterns.

Disruption coupled            to disorder

                                          Tortured

The pain goes on.

Divided We Fall?

Never once heard a left-wing leaning leftie say the Union Flag is offensive to anyone. Heard a few republicans call for the abolition of the monarchy and the U.K. flag, and a few Welsh ask for an update to include Yr Draig Goch in it. Honestly, every time I see a post about the U.K.’s Union Flag causing offense to Muslims, and it usually is Muslims, it annoys me. Social media posts, of this hateful kind, being shared look to divide people. Nobody is offended by that U.K. flag. Proud of the flag? Less and less, yes. It represents the majority, born here or drawn here. Perhaps, minorities would display it with pride if the U.K. was a little more friendly.

So, where’s it all coming from? Decades of stretching the haves from the have nots? Year upon years of a widening gap between salaries and costs of living? Or, perhaps tge rich get richer and the poor get poorer? That old cliche. In 32 years since 1990, the top 1% of the U.K. billionaires have seen their wealth grow tenfold. That collective wealth is almost exclusively out of circulation and likely adding to their ability to pull in more pennies. In 2024, according to Oxfam, U.K. billionaires gained £35 million a day. Is that £182 billion a year fair? 70% of the population barely equates the top 1% of the U.K.

Mind the gap. Income inequality may remain constant but the wealth of the richest and poorest is a chasm. Inherited wealth over generations may help the rich keep their titles and banks healthy. The poorest leave behind little and in many cases can’t even add gravestones. Disproportionate tax policies supporting the well-to-do through low taxation of dividends and capital gains benefit the wealthy. Inner city kids have no chance. Should we accept our place? Fodder for Lord Amazon and Co.?

Is there truth in Russia pushing immigration towards the U.K.? Well, many Ukrainians have sought sanctuary in Britain. Wars in Syria, Palestine, Yemen, and unrest across other global regions will always add a demand to find safer shores. Gangs exploiting trafficking for profit and increased ability to find weaknesses in U.K. laws following Britain’s exit from the European Union have certainly raised numbers.

The Royal National Lifeboat Institution (R.N.L.I.) are lifesavers. Volunteers who respond to sea emergencies and pluck the needy from near-certain death. They even rescue sheep and goats from time to time. Life is precious. Their sole purpose: to save lives at sea. A combined crew of 9,800 and 2,000 or so support staff make that possible. Since the 4th of March 1824, the orange livery of search and rescue have been around British and Irish waters, doing their incredible humanitarian work. Never discriminating. I always thought that’s how the U.K. should be viewed: a place of sanctuary and love for life. Perhaps I was naive and should have laughed at the picture of the RNLI boat full of Muslim-looking men heading for the Dover cliffs?

Then again, my Mam has always taught me not to be a knobhead.


When they came for the asylum seekers, I remained quiet; I wasn’t an asylum seeker.

When they came for the transgenders, I stayed silent; I wasn’t transgender.

When they came for the Free Palestine supporters, I kept my mouth closed; I wasn’t a Free Palestine supporter.

When they came for the free press, I didn’t utter a word; I did not write for the free press.

When they came to add internet censorship, I felt conflicted and hid; I did not act against them.

When they came for the library bookshelves, I stood tall and defiant…




Inspired by German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) and his words below (English and German)

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I kept quiet; I wasn’t a communist.

When they came for the trade unionists, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a trade unionist.

When they locked up the social democrats, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a social democrat.

When they locked up the Jews, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a Jew.

When they came for me, there was no one left to protest.



Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.

Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.

Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.

Als sie die Juden einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Jude.

Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.



Farewell friend.

I want to thank you.

Thank you for opening my eyes.

Opening my eyes to a new lens.

A new lens capturing moments of time.

Moments of time caressing tender memories.

Caressing tender memories that led to this day.

Led to this day when we said farewell.

Said farewell to you and thank you.

Thank you for being here.

Rest peacefully. Good night and God bless. 🕊 🐝

Self-discovery lens.

We each have bad habits, and it isn’t my place to judge.

I ain’t ever smoked a cigarette, although I’ve breathed in far too many.

My not trying drugs is an issue I won’t ever budge.

Sometimes, my focus loses its antennae.

I am not an alcoholic although I do enjoy an odd drink.

I wouldn’t say I look to fight, even if I feel ready for a hit.

I like to avoid conflict, passing on kicking up a stink.

I can not tell a good joke or come across as full of wit.

I try to give more than I take. Whatever it may cost.

I prize friendship over profits.

I treasure memories but worry about opportunities lost.

I get frustrated at times. Throwing all kinds of fits.

“I’m not a racist but…” No. Not all all. I hate racism.

I’d like to protest but found my hands tied up.

I question capitalist ways, leaning my ears to socialism.

A bully bullies because they’re bullied and hold no club.

I am, however, a disappointment.

I am a disappointment.

I am.

Drawers.

At the bottom of the unit lies a spring-loaded drawer with all my deepest and darkest utterings and thoughts.

Above that, another drawer, less-sealed, more-opened to tuck away memories warm and cold.

On top of the metaphorically wooden system, a drawer for the here and now. It has future dreams, brewing, and stewing.

One drawer shut tightly contains a world of marvellous thoughts.

Above it is an open shelf of optimism. A sliding glass door keeps in contained. Often, it is open just a tiny sliver.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I can keep everything, but what I need closed.

Mostly, however, my drawers are left open with socks and underpants spilling all over the floor.

If I were Napoleon, I’d shut the drawers and nod off.

I’m not Napoleon.

Words.

Letters jumbled together to make some sort of sense.

Until they don’t.

Some make you sit up straight, late at night, tense.

Go away, they won’t.

Some are favourites, warm and welcome.

Others are demanding.

A smattering of words you’ll see seldom.

Many are descriptive waterfalls of meaning.

They drop delightfully.

A few unlock secrets and ideas gleaming.

They drop frightfully.

Sentences and words arranged not from simplicity.

There to baffle you.

Newspapers spew words of publicity.

“Words can’t hurt you.”

The toxicity of a word’s elasticity.

Yes, they FUCKING can!

Ferociously delivered weapons of choice.

Venomous sounds.

All the way at you as one voice.

Good old words.

Northern Rail

Points failure. Delayed.

Late from the depot. Cancelled.

Staff member unavailable. Denied.

Leaves on the line. Complained.

Due to a landslide. Declined.

Snow, ice, fog, and high winds. Failed.

Extreme heat and railway line buckling. Inconvenienced.

Overhead line equipment failure. Uncovered.

Signal failure. Terminated.

Poor Victorian planning ahead for population expansions. Unconvinced.

Heavy volumes of rail traffic.Backlogged.

Overrunning engineering works. Poorly planned.

Speed restrictions in place. Underdeveloped.

Trespassers on the line. Stupid.

Telecoms failure. Apologised.

Animals on the line. Departed.

Lineside fires. Transpired.

Death on the line. Expired.

Another tannoy apology by a robot. Delay repayed.

The good old commute.

To be found.

I used to smile.

Instead, my face creases like contours from a map.



I used to laugh.

Now jokes pass over me like Arctic winds on the tundra.



I used to chuckle and gleam.

It’s all replaced by a seemingly eternal cold emptiness.



I used to preach hope.

But for all its worth, I let go of that dream.



Before today, I was strong.

I slink down beneath a door frame, unable to open the handle, and let myself in.



Before today, I sought new songs.

Yet now most seem overplayed and all the same: repeat after repeat after repeat.



Before today, I had ambitions.

They slipped away, leaving an endless string of survival day by day.



Before today, I loved the rain.

Now, I greet umbrellas and raincoats and wellies as sanctuary.



Where is the old me?

Lost, maybe.


To be found.

An end.

Stones roll inwards;

                Passing fiercely;

                                Slamming down violently;

Smashing all in its pathway;

                Tossing and turning;

                                Without discrimination;

                                                Rupturing creation.

Turning solid shapes to shards;

                Presenting passage;

                                From life to the beyond;

Savage and cleansing constructs.

                                An end.

Streets Apart I

Soap Street needs a wash.

High Street is looking low.

Bank Street took my dosh.

Fast Lane is moving slow.

Maine Road has closed down.

Swan Street is full of geese.

Paradise Close makes me frown.

Winter Hill, I wore no fleece.

The Road With No Name has a sign.

Sandylands is grassy still.

Bendy Lane runs in a line.

Calm House, what a thrill!

Scotland Hall Road, hall-less.

The Soapbox, stood down.

Ice Rink, only at Christmas.

Circus Walk, devoid of a clown.

Welcome to Manchester.

Now get out!

Test.

It’s like there is nothing left. I’m drained.

Between the breeze and the wind, upended.

Struggling against the tide as it drifts away.

Pushing on, step by step, yet sinking and never gaining ground.

The sapped life comes and goes. A moment’s joy evaporates.

I could have been better. It could have been better.

But, it’s not. It isn’t. It could be. I know it could be.

It could also have been far worse. It Feels this way.

Nothing worth doing is easy, right? So they say.

It hurts. It really bloody hurts. Like loss. Yet there’s no loss. Just hurdles.

The sky glows under a bright moon as lanterns drift upwards.

A glimmer. Just a flicker. That hope.

That energy I see in their faces. I can do this. I must. I will.

Just as faiths test their masses, I must believe. I have too much to lose.

For this, I am lucky.

Drip, drop, drip.

Drip, drop, drip, rain begins to fall, 
A soggy blanket over us all. 
Pitter-patter, drop, drop, plop, it’s quite absurd, 
Each raindrop whispers a moistened quiet word.

Many flowers giggle, the trees all prance and dance, 
Worms pop up, taking their chance. 
A puddle forms, a tiny sparkling sea –
A stranded haven for boats made of leaves, yippee, yippee!

Splash, splosh, splish, what a watery flowing treat, 
Raindrops tip-tap-dancing over the street. 
Forget not your brolly, dear old chap, 
Or just you might drown in your very own lap!

The rain it mocks, it rattles, it laughs, it jeers, 
Sneaking down necks, alongside strands of hair, tickling ears. 
But oh, dear rain, you do as you must, 
For without you, we’ll be dry and towels trust.

So drop, drip, drop, and have some fun, 
For when you’re gone and done, out comes the red hot sun. 
But until then, I’ll wear a joyful grin –
And a very large bucket hat to keep you from getting in!

Pour the next coffee

Pour the next coffee

When the cup gapes open

And the mouth yearns for another filling.

Let us know how it feels

When the drops flow with warmth

And flow down the gullet

Each ounce a production of love

Stimulating rapid growth of irises

Sharpening senses and awakening the mind

How does it feel to feel the heat?

The steamed milk and familiar fragrances

The deep brown darkness of hope in a cup

The riot of swirls as milk blends to coffee

The sound of a sugar lump dropped deep into an ocean

The reflection of soul upon the surface’s light reflection

The handle proudly standing out

Grip me, it calls loudly to you

You reach out, and the joy begins.

A seed of hope.

A Muslim hand could hold a Jewish hand.

White van man, Audi driver, and all around us should be survivors.

Creation and creatives devour words and art, feeding us new days and ways.

A Palestinian should be born under safe skies.

No guns, no knives, no fear: just lives.

The Scottish, English, or Welsh must walk together.

Whatever you believe, be able to show it. Be able to grow it.

Let the music of Bob Marley show one love.

Switch of the division. Let videos and lies fly away like fireflies.

Their dreams and plagues will no longer taunt and haunt us.

Together is always better. A community of unity.

Failure to success; pain to redress; broken to fixed. Live forever.

Some day we’ll find a brighter way.

It starts now: I give you a seed of hope.

RIGHTLY SO.



Does that make sense?

                Does that sound right?

                                Why did you stop?

Shall we try that again?

                What else could we do?

                                What else could you do?

Does it look right?

                Does it make any sense?

                                Do we really understand?

Really?!

                I’m not so sure.

                                Maybe it isn’t right, right?



Something wasn’t quite right.

Through The Leaves

Through the leaves, voices call out loud;

Beyond the tufted grasses wraps ivy thickly.

Through the greenery trees stand proud;

Along the jagged walls, bramble juts out prickly.

The murky Lancaster canal flows towards the sea;

A summer’s gentle breeze casts along its top.

Tits, swifts, and sparrow fly alongside bee;

Blackbirds hop along the mud and crop.

Feet slapping in the mud sinking slightly;

A fragrance of wild garlic hangs in the air.

Through the gaps and spaces, sun rays beam brightly;

Galloping dogs along the path they share.

Chattering and nattering creaks as trunks rub one another;

Regal flowers attract buzzing and zipping flight.

A ripple waves outwards from cygnets’ mother;

From Lancaster to Glasson Flight, a path wrapped in sights of delight.

The Beautiful Game.

Where do I begin? Half and half scarves.

Following a player just for their win. Or Jack Grealish’s calves.

When had it all changed? Facebook, Twitter, X or whatever.

A platform to say anything, deranged. Modern supporters whatever the weather.

Except no. Not the rain. Not even what they call a small game.

Being begged for final tickets, which makes me insane. Fulham, Madrid, Stalybridge Celtic treat all the same.

King of the Kippax, not anymore. Game pin badges rare as rocking-horse dung.

Paper programmes up-priced to four. Your team wins, “It must be a bung.”

Image right charges, sponsors inflated. The big four, five, six, twenty.

Listen for facts, stop being deflated. No Cup replays, goodbye to plenty.

Entitlement and bitter disappointment. Park football understanding sacrifice.

The faded smells of changing room ointment. Out with the old, no room for advice.

Fields and pitches become housing estates. Bitter chants about empty seats.

Number 47 after traditional 8s. There is no room for crisis, cost of living: no eats.

The modern game for the working class. Prices go up and up and up and up.

Saturday? No. Sunday afternoon? No. Monday night? Pass. Dare you to question what is up?!

Toe the line, stand in line, pay the fine. Point deductions bring into disrepute.

Games from July to June, from Plymouth to Tyne. From five to nine, another substitute.

Automatically offside by the skin of a toe. Away, third and fourth kits in all varieties.

Again, VAR is stealing the show. Dates chugging along as corrections in diaries.

Loyalty bonus? Leaves in a year. Win, lose or draw, never gifted a process freeze.

Question their passion? Falls on deaf ear. Captive audience prices that cause you to wheeze.

Football reformation and regulation without invitation. Bills for teams, fans, agents, and players.

Time to question the rule makers’ instigation. What game will be left for the naysayers?

The beautiful game? The beautiful game. Our beautiful game? Our beautiful game.

Your beautiful game? Your beautiful game. My beautiful game? My beautiful game.