thoughts

Newton Heath

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This way to the motion

This way I finally go

God hand me a chance to reply

God deal me a possibility

Grab your thoughts and let’s go

Round our way

Drabness wraps silent days

Buried beneath, I could be

Time to escape this forgotten place

This way to set motions

Pioneering experiences are rife

We should seek our recompense

We should escape to seek luminescence

We slide a pathway downwards

We slip on stones downwards

The supermarket lay dormant

Even the pound shops sag lazily

This way full of emotion

This way we cannot go

God hand a hope in hell

God deal out and show

Drabness wraps silent nights

Dull broken tower blocks sagging

Buried beneath I could be

Dull broken tower blocks flagging

The market is gone

The library fades from thoughts

The canal is filled with unwanted waste

The bars have barred-up broken windows

Long left the football team

The cemetery has been buried further

The old spire stands unsighted

Its stained-glass soul shattered 

The locos are rusting beyond repair

The Vale’s trees collapse in gales

Brookdale, a car park of gas-heads

This way for our motion

This way we finally go

God hand us a chance to fly

God deal us a possibility

Stop the boats.

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Stop the boats. Build a bridge.

Britain is full. Full of talent and welcoming.

Pull back the benefits. Make everything free.

They bomb the hospitals. With packages of flowers.

They desecrate values. Values added by workforce.

They disrepute our creation. Creation of meaningful multicultural love.

“Make Britain great again.” A great big hub of togetherness.

Too many seek asylum. Only lunatics seek asylum in these social conditions.

Our border security is compromised. Compromise: we have shores all around us.

Climate is displacing people. We’re an island and it could soon be us displaced.

They come here just to avoid detention. Didn’t we arrest you for more?

They impact the economy for wages, public services, and debt. A soap opera of lives before.

There is no social integration. Poverty, housing, and acculturation are new, right?

Humanitarian crises are not our responsibility. Are you human?

They create a labour shortage. Nobody wants to work anymore.

There is no political populism. See also: the Internet.

The backlogs are too big. Work smarter.

Irregular migration was caused by war. Stop selling bombs to bomber nations.

Migrants have vulnerabilities. Tell that to the victims of Operation Yew Tree

The journeys are dangerous. Make the journeys fair and simple.

Healthcare is strained. Stop underfunding and selling it off in the first place.

Social services are crippled. Perhaps the fraud cases in the system needs more tackling.

Our national identity is being lost. The identity imposed upon many has had hundreds of years of changes and adaptation.

Human rights prevent us doing the right thing. Until your Human Rights are breached.

Discrimination will rise. You’re doing a great job, already.

These refugees don’t understand us. Welcome and educate all.

They come to divide us. You DIVIDE us.

I didn’t put my right arm up. Yes, sure… Adolf.

Stop the boats. Build a bridge.

Battle.

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Read my eyes. Read them carefully.
I heard you. I really got your gist.
I’m not talking. My words are silent.
I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.

I heard every little thing. I am not deaf.
Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me?
Look at my face. Read the expression.
A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.

Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me.
Look closer. See my body raging.
See that deep upset. I won’t speak.
I don’t want to erupt. I am close.

I have plenty to say. I hold back.
You push me and push me. And some more.
Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate.
Nothing positive to say? Thought not.

Can’t you shut up? Think of better words.
Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me.
You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry.
I count. Don’t I?

Outside in.

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How do you find yourself when part of you seems lost or missing?

What if being different is the thing you ignore: your greatest strength?

How far into the abyss would you go to protect someone you love?

What if the world doesn’t make sense, would you still abide by the conventional rules?

What if the bravest thing you can be is yourself and no-one else?

Can your gentlest whisper say more than your loudest shout?

Where do you turn when you feel that you don’t fit in anywhere?

Who said being a mature grown-up had to be anything like perfect?

When everything feels torn and twisted, can you still believe in hope?

Is there only one way of life (that’s your own)?

Calling

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Farewell to the stars

My eyes blur with sleep

I don’t invite them on in

Nor do I allow their shouts

I couldn’t hear it

A misdeed so true

I couldn’t feel it

A transgression of angst

A silhouette I am

In a pale concrete box

A Pompeii blast-mark

Solitary without you

Unable to see you

Prevented from calling out

Unable to hear you

I could no longer call

No call possible

Answers no longer reachable

Frustrated

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Pause.

I’m married. Yet alone.

So lonely. Not together.

No hugs. No kisses. Just a phone.

Miss you. Miss one another.

Pause.

Apart. Far away.

Cursed. Dreams on hold.

In limbo every day.

Torture. No hand to hold.

Pause.

Painful. Desperate at times.

Denied a shared life.

Treated like a thousand crimes.

Soul screaming. Cruel bastard strife.

PAUSE.

I’m married. Yet alone.

Pause.

I’m married.

Pause.

Yet alone.

Pause.

Alone.

Self-discovery lens.

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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.

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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.

Immigration.

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Wouldn’t mind more migration and less borders.

Wouldn’t mind a little less bombing interventions overseas.

Wouldn’t mind peaceful values and ideals before responses get dished out.

Wouldn’t mind capitalism paying more taxes and seeking less havens.

Wouldn’t mind a shoulder to cry on.

Wouldn’t mind a living wage and more opportunities.

Wouldn’t mind fewer inequalities and a smidgen of hope.

Wouldn’t mind a hand of help reaching out to those who need it.

Wouldn’t mind thoughts before actions.

Wouldn’t mind understanding before judgement.

Wouldn’t mind smiles over frowns.

Wouldn’t mind less wealthy controlling corporations.

Wouldn’t mind a boom in small traders.

Wouldn’t mind dreams and dreamers discussing ideals and progress.

Wouldn’t mind more and more and more and more trees.

Wouldn’t mind water so clean you can paddle and drink in the freshness.

Wouldn’t mind the words and wisdom of the deceased generation that loved us all.

Wouldn’t mind no babies in hospitals, displaced by bombs, disease, and warmongering criminality.

Wouldn’t mind translators and cultural exchange bringing people closer.

Wouldn’t mind change.

How about you?

Christmas Eve

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They’re sharing family Christmas photos;

Wishing you all well and greetings for the seasons.

Yet, here, without you, I’m incomplete.

My family’s come is shattered beyond reasons.

The glimmer of hope like the slim chance of snow on a warm winter’s evening;

The last bus approaches on a pathway surrounded by emptiness.

A lone blackbird sings beneath a damp lamppost;

Touched in the heart, I am not in all fairness.

I envy and feel bitter to those who have it all;

I feel happy for each and everyone enveloped in family.

Yet, here, without you, I’m still incomplete.

For too long now, I suffocate in calamity.

Wreaths hug doors and trees sparkle in light;

Hearing carols on the street, my stomach flutters.

Yet, there and here, I cannot find a way out;

I feel bleakness, struggling to rise from the gutters.

An end.

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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.

Tiles.

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The wrong one may leave you in pieces. The right one will leave you in peace. The right one will find you in pieces but lead you to peace. Or not.

Possibly so: peace or pieces. It’s hard to tell. Much like a party of fools claiming to be a “strong stable government,” tiling floors and walls are not for the weaklings of the mind. Application of a three-dimensional wall covering with sharp bits can tear you apart. Much like a Conservative Party led by too many leaders over a 14-year period. Long may they fall off the walls like loosely grouted tiling! Hip hip hooray!

As one party flops out, the Labour Party moves in, with or without satellite television. Up steps a change that has been coming for years. Forget the British exit from the European Union, and countless money spent on distraction, the Tory government have left Labour up a creak with no paddle. Barely even a tea-stirrer. And then came riots. Far-right insights into their worry and panic. Flags unfurled. Bakeries and phone shops looted. Loose tiles of society.

And now to the prosecutors, the courts, and the overcrowded gaols: their work hindered by foolishness and hate. Their time set back. Meanwhile, social media, or X, or Twitter, sits quietly in the corner in total denial of its involvement. Telegram, and others wander and pander around. Their images on black screened tiles around the world. So, what now?

Compassion for all?

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Is it possible to argue with some Conservatives? Or near-to-far right fascists? I can’t explain to them, without their true listening and understanding, about why they should care about people other than themselves. I can’t explain that people are people, and getting along is something a communal species should do.

I can’t explain that the “what-ho”, “pip-pip” and “down with this sort of thing” attitude of those who fought wars against oppressive regimes, invasive war machines, and Nazi overlords was for good purpose and to allow us as people to grow freely and fairly.

Stories from the bible, the Koran, and other holy books, alongside children’s tales, often educate and inform us about looking after one another. I don’t know how to tell someone that they should have learned how to be nice. Respect is given, not just earned. Britishness, national pride, and flag-waving has its place. There’s room for it. The problem is: are you proud to wave the Union Flag and St George’s cross when it’s claimed as a symbol of “us versus them”? I was brought up by parents, with input by grandparents, to accept people and respect all. It isn’t difficult. I can even respect Man Utd fans.

Yes, there are differences and clashes of belief. Hence, conflict. Conflicts by world powers playing Team America World Police have knock-on effects. The most visible being refugees. If you bomb for oil or to control an uncontrollable region, in an already divided place, creating a vacuum for absolute bastards to take over with unforgivable and inhumane laws, expect a few thousands of people to leg it.

Where do refugees go? The most appealing and tolerant places must appeal more. Off they pop. Through risks. Through high seas. In the back of trucks. Legal routes. Illegal routes. Whatever it takes. Along the way, lives are shed. Lost. Gone. Babies and children die. Ships sink. Boats fail. Lives are torn apart. And then the lucky ones arrive somewhere welcoming. The really lucky ones get support and they contribute.

Yet, a country that fought the Axis of Evil has its own right wing of hatred, xenophobic distrust, and insecurities. Fear spreads. The participants are sometimes unaware of their manipulation by power and money. And it hurts. It divides. It conquers people who want to get on with life – and live. Life is for living. Why can’t we understand that this way is not the way?

Peace and love. 🐝

A seed of hope.

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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.

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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.

Frustration.

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Sometimes, it is easy to want to kick back. To give up. To give in. Buckle under pressure. To push it all away and walk off. Head away from everything. The problem is that it matters. And, when it matters, it really matters.

You can’t switch off from it. There is no miraculous light switch, with an option to plunge away that which matters. Nor would you want it to be that simple. Although, a spot of simplification may make a huge difference. Frustrating as it is, burying your head in the sand just wastes time and brings about a tumbling cascade of further frustration.

No plan ever survives first contact with the enemy, or a decorator, or a trip away. The only certainty in life is death. Everything else is hung on tiny, easily disturbed strings. These variables throw up challenges, barriers, and realisations. They shape expectations and twist the optimistic to the realistic. Deep down the cinders of pessimism, ebb, and flow, waiting for their time to shine. The advice is almost always: don’t let it.

That exclusive advice may seem out of reach. That’s the beauty of pain and the distorted view of solutions: we feel it. Frustration can be overcome. It may not seem that way. Finding your channel out of a stormy ocean is key. Believe. A spot of resilience goes a long way.

Shadow.

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I feel the ache.

It’s like a shadow inside of me.

My mind questions.

It’s as if an enigma wrapped around my soul.

The nervous worry.

It’s an endless shadowing movement walking beside me.

Wobbling legs beneath me.

I feel I’m sliding uphill on ice facing downhill.

Not quite right inside.

As if I am a carpet grip with no carpet.

Every doubt exaggerated.

There’s a shadow, and I feel it’ll claim me.

Daring do.

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Daring do.

Boldness brought about by fate;

The chutzpah of the moment, raging inflate.

Determination by the bucketload;

Jaw strutting out, standing proud and bold.



Destiny unknown, holding your nerve;

Fearlessness to catch the serve at every swerve.

With courage and dauntlessness;

Batting away fear with dabs of recklessness.



Petty safe ground abound and found;

Hopes and dreams sound around yet downed.

Compliance of darkness swept aside, under a mound;

Chasing away gloomy twilight, each and every black hound.

Life (For Living)

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It’s the pull and the push;

The sprinted finish rush.

The days are moving, the days with halts;

The bolt and jolt as nerves send volts.

The twists and turns as drama unfolds;

The seconds of voices delivering their scolds.

The wrestle of conscience whilst conscious;

The admitting of behaviours found stupendous.

The alterations of mindsets and the picking at nits;

The nagging, scriking, and getting on someone’s tits.

The feelings that flow like rivers so strong;

The knowing that we’ll get on fine, get along.

The possibility of possibilities that bubble up and fizz;

The rush, the speed of it, and that wanting to whiz;

The secondhand ticking as the stomach metabolises.

Nerves that swerve and give little of what is deserved;

Results dished out and served.

Only then will we know, which way it shall flow;

But, why oh why, does it feel so slow?

Unseen Variable

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It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.

It’s the shadow across broad daylight, revealed in radiant rays of newness

It’s the stillness of the pond on a windy day and what lies beneath.

It’s the calm skies ahead of a mighty mammoth of a storm.

It’s the drumming of Earth’s heart, rattling along lines far below the surface.

It’s the invisible rays passing from great solar storms passing through unknown to all.

It’s the grit under tyres and the silt beneath that spins the wheels above to new angles.

It’s the push of the wind against the flow of traffic slowing down the morning commute.

It’s sounds unheard yet given to the air, triggering an avalanche of unlocked actions.

It’s the soliloquy spoken softly to an absent audience ahead of silent auditions.

It’s an array of unseen variables that tangle hairs and twist cotton threads.

It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.

R(age)

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Bouncing fists off walls.

Endless unappreciated failed triumphs.

Hurdles leaped, barriers removed, all in vain.

Boxes ticked, copies spoiled, followed by new processes.

Old processes retracted, money subtracted, and added, again and again and again.

No longer stopping, looking, and listening.

Hoping for a fight to be put my way.

Not sharing or caring.

Turning milk sour. With a stare.

Deleted. No longer there. Unsent messages.

No worries. No thoughts.

Switched to off.

Void.

Black.