What Have We Learned ?

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Hope by George Watts

What Have We Learned ?

I know it doesn’t feel like it,
Especially on the news,
But the world is getting safer all the same.
Wars are killing fewer,
Though it’s hard to spot the clues
In the endless rounds of jingo, spin and blame.
But there, buried in statistics,
Proof is waiting to be found
That murder, rape and violence are down.
We’ve never had a world so good
As this world here, right now –
Better than our hope could dare allow.

It never was forgone,
It’s taken so much hard work to achieve –
Work we never knew that we could do,
Was going on.
So ev’ry time we heave,
It seems we get a little calmer,
And we get a little kinder,
Though we need the odd reminder to believe.

And yet,
We know it doesn’t feel like it,
Especially on the news –
For all this peace, there’s not that much about.
We’re killing people daily,
And ev’ry time we do, we lose –
So war is down, but war is far from out.
Our angels may be better,
But our angels still fall short of best –
The world is getting good, but not yet blessed.
Our progress may be progress,
But it’s coming far too slow –
We cannot wait for fairer winds to blow.

It never is forgone,
And all this work could quickly fall apart –
The darkest days of our old ways
Could yet be set upon.
Let’s hope that we are smart –
We haven’t time for shock and awe,
We haven’t time to settle scores –
We need to stop the wars before they start.

Flying the Flag

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Photo by Somchai Kongkamsri on Pexels.com

Flying the Flag

Come and join the army,
Risk your life each day,
Occupying deserts
For below the av’rage pay.
Politicians praise us,
They’ve always got our backs,
But then they go and sub us all
A pittance, less the tax.

Come and join the army,
Buzz off all your locks,
See the world, then shoot it,
And spread about the pox.
Tabloids love us, lefties hate us,
Locals try to make us bleed –
So hire us cut-price killers
For the cost of chicken-feed.

Macaroni

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Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Macaroni

Patsy Doe, a girl that I know,
Hates semolina second to none –
She find it just so stodgy-slow
When puddings are meant to be fun !
Her mamma tells her “Patsy, really !
It’s only a bowl of unmolded spaghetti.
Just think of it as chopped-up fusilli,
And eat up all your dessert already.”
(Ah, poor mamma, you’ve no idea just what you’ve done !)

From this moment on, young Patsy
Becomes enamoured by dried clumps of wheat –
She reads gluttonously, so that she
Can understand each straw and sheet –
Strings and pens and pipes and worms,
Shells and wheels and butterflies –
So many forms, so many terms,
She wants to try them all for size.
(Ah, poor mamma, so many types to cook and eat !)

So Patsy learns the difference
Of tagliatelle and fettucini,
(Like how her brother can tell at a glance
A Maserati from Lamborghini.)
She tells her fam’ly of how Columbus
Ate up his pasta dry, of course –
Until he discovered the tomato, thus
He finally created the perfect sauce.
(Ah, poor mamma, too much pasta means no bikini !)

Patsy Doe, a girl that I know,
Finds carb makes her grow up faster –
Time to shake up the status quo
And swap her olive oil for castor.
Enough of the childish alphabetti,
And ravioli parcels with loot in –
With Atkins, maybe she’ll be less sweaty,
And none of the cool kids are eating gluten.
(Ah, poor mamma, with cupboards full of uncooked pasta…)

Red Like the Poppies

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poppies
poppy wallpaper by Maurice Verneuil

Red Like the Poppies

In 1911, in Britain, the dockers walked out –
And sailors and railwaymen too, across the nation.
Union membership soared, and so did the shout
For something more than this endless pent-up frustration.
A growing awareness had bloomed in the men –
They were no pack-mules who just bleat and cower.
These literate workers had realised then
That labouring hands now held all the power.
The following year, the miners struck –
A million men refused to duck
When facing-down bosses for pride in the pocket –
They wanted a minimum wage – and they got it !
What did they care of the Kaiser ?  Why did they go ?
Ev’ry November, I wonder.  I think I might know –

In 1914, in Britain, the soldiers marched out.
Many were raw volunteers – no draft had been called.
Some were patriotic’ly spurred, I’ve no doubt,
But shoring the empire must have left others appalled.
Yet the labourer’s life, while improving, was hard –
The same old drudging as yesterday.
Who wouldn’t swap for some public regard
In a smart uniform, with travel and regular pay ?
They trusted their orders and killed as commanded,
So can I be angry, if I must be candid ?
I don’t know.  It was lots of things bound-up together –
So either I wear the poppy, or the white feather,
And honour those scabs who refused to be naive or quailed.
Perhaps.  But why hadn’t they joined-up, those Glorious Jailed ?

First Love is Always the Hardest

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The Young Astronomer by Olivier van Deuren

First Love is Always the Hardest

I’ll gladly say I love you,
If you don’t ask if I love you
More than all the stars above –
For what mere girl can stir up so much love
To turn the sternest head ?
Nuclear fusion, supernovas, black hole cuties,
Diamond-cored and shifted ruby-red –
It isn’t fair that I compare you
To the very heavens’ beauties
Turning all the inky velvet pearled –
For they are truly gems from out this world.

I’ll gladly say I love you,
If you don’t ask if I love you
Till the saline seas run dry.
For what mere girl can draw out such a sigh
To spring the harshest heart ?
Continents crashing, mountains leaping, plates migrating,
Magma-cored and slowly wrenched apart –
It isn’t fair that I compare you
To the very land creating
Granite, quartz, and crystals, forged and furled –
For they are truly gems within this world.

I’ll gladly say I love you,
If you don’t ask if I love you
Even more than life itself –
For what mere girl can equal so much wealth
To spark the jadest eye ?
Bejewellèd beetles, primrose blossom, eagles soaring,
Helix-cored and left to multiply –
It isn’t fair that I compare you
To the fruits of blind exploring –
Trunks and scales and proteins tightly curled –
For they are truly gems upon this world

I’ll gladly say I love you
If you don’t ask if I love you
Like a this or that or other-hand –
For what mere boy can try to understand
What all this wonder means ?
Ricochet rapture, all things quickly, nothing mildly,
Empty-cored and barely out my teens –
It isn’t fair that you compare me
To a firefly flitting wildly
Through the endless lures in which I’m swirled –
I’ve never known such gems for all the world.

’Tain’t the Season

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vivid autumn leaves scattered on ground
Photo by Tomas Anunziata on Pexels.com

’Tain’t the Season

November, November, you come in with a bang –
Enough to shake the leaves down from the trees.
The effigies are burnt, although by rights they ought to hang,
But then drawing strews their stuffing to the breeze.
Remember, November, the trenches and the mud,
And the generation buried underneath –
Then wince at all the pageantry, the polished clasp and stud,
And just pray they lay down more than just the wreath.

Now is not the time for carols,
Robin cards or gay apparel.
Don’t start rolling out the barrel –
Ah, sweet November !

November, November, the Leonids are streaming,
And also comes the frosty Hunter’s Moon.
Aurora too, if lucky.  Old Orion’s up there dreaming,
And Sirius is seen late-afternoon.
An ember, November, of Autumn’s final rays –
The sun can still remove a coat or two.
Across the pond, they’re Giving-Thanks, so let us give our praise
To the month we shouldn’t rush to hurry through.

Now is not the time for holly,
Mistletoe or red-fat-jolly.
Let’s enjoy without such folly –
Ah, sweet November !

Succession

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Succession

The President is dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?

“I” said the Vice,
“I am the next in line,
For the order is precise
And this is my time to shine
A cool head and a steady load.”

But now the Vice is dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?

“I” said the Speaker,
“I am the next in line.
All other claims are weaker
And are junior to mine.
I get to tread the royal road.”

But now the Speaker’s dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?

“I” said the head of the Senate,
“I am the next in line.
For that’s how the framers pen it –
And their penmanship is fine.
Let it be said, I am bestowed.”

So now the matter’s put to bed,
He gets the nuclear code.

“Wait !” said the new head of state
“Who now is next in line ?
I must appoint a running mate,
A brand new Vice to guard the shrine,
To rule instead if I explode.”

“But hang on, boss” the new Vice said,
“Hand over the nuclear code.

For you are still a Senator,
And only acting next-in-line.
I’m number two, you’re number four –
I clear outrank you, so resign !,
Before the Feds reach panic mode.”

So, now all logic’s fled,
Best hide the nuclear code…

America, We Need to Talk

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It’s Time to Build a Stronger America by James Flagg

America, We Need to Talk

Look, we get it, you’re still young and brash
With passion and guile of a sort we remember
From out of our youth, from cutting a dash,
When the world was in Spring and our credit in cash,
And watching you now, we still feel an ember
From deep in our hearts that we thought were but ash.

For we are the empires who strutted before you,
Who drank the same honeydew now on your lips –
With vassals and tributes to praise and adore you,
And patience and prudence to hassle and bore you,
So manifest destiny festers and grips –
And no wonder it finds you when none can ignore you.

We’ve all been there – we British and Roman,
We Persian and Aztec, we Mongol and French –
We each were as mighty, who answered to no man,
From horseback and gunboat, with longsword and bowman,
And bloodlust and mistrust we never could quench,
And the cripple’ing burden of being the showman.

It never quite goes away, of course,
As our never-set suns stop their beaming –
The memories built up in temples and wars
Which we cherish in secret, still keeping the scores.
The dreams we’re still dreaming at twilight’s last gleaming,
So some day shall all this be yours.

Breaking the News

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Newsboy by John Brown

Breaking the News

Roll up !  Roll up !  Come hear the news
From your soaraway BBC !
You can’t resist, you can’t refuse,
Your eyes belong to me !
We’ve plenty from America
You didn’t need to know –
For there, they make the news a star,
And telling-it a show.
Their politicians sure ain’t grey
When spouting crazy claims –
You cannot vote for them, but hey,
At least you know their names.
We’ll dish the goss on slebs for you,
We’ll squeeze on ev’ry wart
Until the news is turned into
A grand spectator sport.