THE END OF THE WORLD IS NEIGH
The end of the world is neigh
Said the sandwich-board vendor
The word is ‘nigh’ my friend, I replied
And anyway it’s not due until next November.
We’re all cowboys on this burnt out lump in space
Searching for a spark in the dying embers
The world has already ended many times
The latest one was in the dog days of last December.
MY NEW PLAY – JOHNJO – IS NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK ON AMAZON
JOHNJO EXTRACT
scene one
A darkened stage. We hear the sounds of a busy building site. Then a voice…
VOICE: Jaysus, Blondie…that’s a…a…
Then another sound – an explosion.
Silence.
The light’s come up, to reveal JOHNJO sitting on a rock on a hill. The hill looks down on some windswept, craggy fields, and, in the distance, faint outlines of farm buildings (unseen). Johnjo is in his fifties, weather-beaten, but well-dressed…(suit, polished shoes etc) He is singing softly at lights-up.
JOHNJO: (THE ROCKS OF BAWN)
Come all ye loyal heroes and listen on to me.
Don’t hire with any farmer till you know
what your work will be
You will rise up in the morning
from the clear daylight till dawn
And you never will be able
For to plough the rocks of bawn
My father was always singing bits of that song.
I don’t know, maybe he didn’t know any more of it,
but those are the only words that stick in my mind…
(pause)
I suppose, though, they had a certain ring…
Plough…Rocks…Bawn….
(he gets up and looks around)
I mean, look at it…
More rocks than bawn…
By God, if I had a penny for every stone we picked…
For every furze bush we cut down…
(imitates his father)
Fifty acres, boy…and five of them is a hill.
What good is a lump of limestone to a farmer?
You can’t feed beasts on rocks. By God, if I
had my way, I’d blast the whole lot to kingdom
come…
(laughs, sings I AM A LITTLE BEGGARMAN)
I am a little beggerman
and begging I have been
For three score and more
In this little isle of green
With me sikidder-e-idle- di
And me skidder-e-idle-do
Everybody knows me
By the name of Johnny Dhu.
That was his favourite song
He would sometimes sit me on his knee…
Johnjo ‘hears’ a woman’s voice calling.
‘VOICE’: Johhny, Johnny where are you?
Out there in the cold with the child!
Come on in now and milk the cows… Continue reading
WORMWOOD
Wormwood isn’t here
The sign said, rather waspishly.
It wasn’t the Wormwood I remembered;
Scrubs Lane on a wet Sunday
The outback in West London
No buses, no cars, no people
Just limp grass, acres of the stuff
And, oh yes, the finest redbrick edifice
Victoria’s henchmen could construct.
No rotting bodies in here, my friend.
Not Newgate, not by a long shot
Though debts must still be paid
And some may still get laid
Lord Alfred Douglas lay here,
As did Charles Bronson,
Keith Richards, Leslie Grantham.
And George Blake
Scurrying along in his traitor’s gait
Till the day he pole-vaulted to freedom
More or less
Before waving goodbye
To his English life,
His liberty and his wife
And all those Wormwood scrubbers
NEUROPLASTICITY
You can teach an old brain new tricks
Neuroplasticity is its name
The mind is what the brains does – they say
But the reverse may be true, just the same
There are no lights, sounds, colours
Or smells inside the brain
Only patterns of electrical information
And our sense receptors
That help the brain to sculpt itself
To rewire itself, as it were, and keep you sane,
By conscious habits of thought and action.
They say machines can’t fix themselves
But what of the power of mind over matter?
I think, therefore I am isn’t just idle chatter.
A couple of days ago I invited contributions to complete this poem. I guess is was an experiment really to see if several different poets could find the same emotions to make sense in a joint effort. I am delighted to say that Michaelnjohns did just that, and he finished my poem better than I could have done myself. Thanks michael
THERE WAS A TIME…
There was a time which was Much better lived than told There was a time we were much younger then And growing up held more sway than growing old Then one day all that growing was done And the long slide down that Imaginary hill had begun…
I’ve slid, lost my hat, what’s worse, I’ve gotten fat, But if, at the end of it all, I could choose,
I’d say it’s been a good slide; I’d go again-
Through every bump and cut and bruise.
And I still reminisce now, of life back then
This poem has always hit the spot for me.
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE TV
Talking gets harder each day:
Smokeless zones and telephones
Have killed the conversation
Now our lies, laughs, truth and tears
Have all been swallowed whole
By another monster
In another shiny console
Rocking-horse to rocking-chair
And somewhere in between
The fireplace has become a flickering screen
Glowering at the world
Insisting on silence as it reward
Granddad spat in the fire;
I spit in your face;
Old lies die hard.
PRISONER
The ticking clock is silent
Articulating emptiness
Mainspring not busted
Just not required.
Time gulling it over the horizon
Speckled in the distance
The residue left behind
Not worth a light
Over some visionary hill
Virtual reality is real enough
More and more scream the worms
Turning every which way but one
More length, more depth
More leisure, more pleasure
More love, more life
Bur mostly more coin
Nothing prepares us for this
The hand that held the answers
Trembling now before new idols
Knowledge bootless as experience
New waves have old beginnings
But tired dogs own no snap
It’s the rut we’re stuck in, see?
Slow going forward but no going back
Sitting by time’s window
Waiting for the daily rebuff
To come winging by
Sifting little crumbs of comfort
From the embers
Screaming all the way……
WITNESS
If I bear witness of myself
That witness is not true
There is another who bears witness
And that witness is you.
You are a burning and shining light
My only reason to rejoice
You gave me hope where there was none
You brought sanity to my voice.
If now you should wish to leave me
Where is there another who will believe me?
When I shout out to the heavens up above
That what saved me then, and will do so again
Is nothing other than unconditional love.
GWYNETH STEAM-CLEANS IT
Gwyneth steam-cleans it
A powerful internal cleanse
That balances the hormonal levels.
This boil-in-the-bag kind of technology,
Brought by your Guru to you,
Where you sit on some kind of apparatus
And absorb a combination
Of infrared and mugwort,
Is all the rage
In this gadget-filled age.
Methinks this vaginal steaming
Gives ‘getting all steamed up ‘
A rather eye-watering meaning!
My Writing Life 