A morning sky blares a raucous anthem.
Bluejays, Magpies and crows
have gathered to defeat the songbirds.
I look East for any signs of massed auks.
The air is dancing, but it's a crazy dance,
a stamping clamor akin to frontline fever.
A battle is coming, the shock troops
are rattling spears in the hedgerows,
fieldmice are digging new trenches
under old roots.
Look! The storm gulls are here,
and they are bringing the ocean with them.
massed magpies
in a black and white city
united in joy
A petition has intiaton.' On border soverigenity.' Midst angst
And supposition ? In one dimention flow of people..Has
Been a staple, before Noah sailed over the silenced; and hidden
Creations.' Yet subject to conditions i e ( travellers funding
Available craft? the (prevailing tides and seasons ) allowing
Integration, of benefit to any nation.' Any artifice; or abberation
Type's Cannot justify, it is my inclination.' Only in the 1700s
Enslaved peoples in ( massed movement ) mirror of the
Current.' And did such not cause misery.? The 1970's
Was a purging, a cathartic stage' of (that un-normal) un-needed instancy.) driven by such materialistic social engineering originally.!
In a certainty of lunacy.' So in Britian late 2024 a petion is
Now set forth.' To seal all borders for a full five years course.' In normal
Times such would be ludicrous.' Yet in consideration of what we see' with
All the currant human misery..' It now appears most judicious and not at all Im-prudent; to use.' as i can see.)
Like the stray dogs that bark at the elegant elephant
The pessimists taunted you with matters irrelevant
They expounded your wonders as works of the head of Satan.
Did they not know that their hearts were brim-filled with frustration?
Will kingdoms that rise against each other survive? You asked.
You knew, like a house divided, their thoughts were venom-massed.
Did they not know that the finger of Abba was with you?
Didn't destructive thoughts, like hemlock, in them always brew?
Do not turn you, you said, into snakes that secrete poison.
When seas of evil engulf you, you'll find no horizon.
With one evil, you mess many. Isn't this your impulse?
Within you, with your inner self, doesn't your soul convulse?
You crushed the evils that bound the minds and healed everyone.
Did the closed minds know, for the optimists, spring had begun?
They massed on the square,
The army of the masses.
Fists clenched,
Brandishing few swords
And few guns.
Not garbed in combat gears
Chanting war chants.
They advanced upon
The fighting force
Of the deep states
Garbed in full combat gears,
Fist fight ensued.
The fist fight
Turned into a sword fight,
The sword fight
turned into a gun fight.
The fighting force
Of the deep states
Vanquished
The army of the masses,
Melancholy enveloped the land.
Justice and equity
Became prisoners of war,
Accountability became victim of war.
Deprivation
Became companion of the people.
The deep states
Without conscience
Clicked wine glasses
And rode
In siren fitted automobiles.
The roads littered with potholes,
The streets littered with dirts
And emanciated beggars.
Twilight arrived before we could prepare.
The watch fires were cold. Not properly set.
Our adversaries we knew were aware.
But night would fall soon… no time to regret.
Armies had massed just outside of our sight.
We stood beneath stars, all chilled to the bone.
Enemies everywhere, ready to fight.
Together we huddled, somehow alone.
Generals plotted, attack or retreat?
But nowhere to go if we chose to run.
Down in our hearts we conceded defeat.
The battle ended before it’s begun.
Morning would find us all lying there dead.
Unable to fight the fears in our head.
Some claimed that Camelot was noble,
a place built upon the stony ground
of good-intentions,
it was new and fangled,
it was progressive
in a time of little progress.
I have seen it, I was there,
always there was the choking fog
of intrigue,
even the unintrigued grabbed their throats
least subversive thoughts escaped them.
Old King Arthur was deliriously inane,
the people pitied him and did not love him,
some said he was an alien lizard being,
some claimed that he was soulless,
or so it seemed,
and yet he was forever babbling
about restoring the soul of the Kingdom.
Corruption grew like a malignant Ivy.
The women of Camelot were constantly angry,
their anger made them fat with a wishful bile.
Many females wanted to be men,
yet strangely enough they hated the menfolk.
The men were fragile and sensitive,
Merlin had cursed them
with the fey magic of 'Low T'.
Trust me, it was a great day
when the kingdom fell
to the massed hordes of disaffected
and disgruntled Goths.
Fresh blood was drunk from royal goblets,
children with wooden swords
chased the pork out of feral gangs
of squealing hogs
until they were as nakedly pink
as plucked chickens.
This was once a sea of mud
Where thousands bled!
Before it reverted to!
A field of Flanders Poppy Red.
Do lines of ghostly squaddies!
Plough through ethereal mire!
In an endless quest to!
Charge the enemy barbed wire.
Do Mill Bombs explode!
As machine guns bark!
Sending many of the brave!
Into death's final dark.
How many bodies sank
Into that glutinous paste
Just futile victims of
A futile war's waste.
Do those shades fight bravely
Or do they fight with despair
Knowing it was sheer folly
That they were ever there.
The Flanders Poppy thrives
It's vivid scarlet red
An enduring tribute to those
Many brave but wasted dead.
And the massed white tombstones
In their precise lines and ranks
Are tended with love and care
In sincere but inadequate thanks
17 October 1916 the Battle of The Somme enterd its 109th day and had 32 more to run. It lasted 141 day in total. It saw the first use of the tank in battle, and extensive use of air power.
Casualties: British and Empire: 420,000, French: 200,000, German: between 434,000 and 500,000.
It was classed as “inconclusive.”
100 Years On I feel like crying/
It was a day of chaos
The day the pensioners struck,
Massed Mobility Scooters moving
Forward like a Rugby Union ruck,
Blocking all the streets
In the centre of town,
To all intents and purposes
Closing the city down.
The police were very tolerant,
Withdrawing their attack
After more than one officer suffered
From a wielded walking stick's whack.
The atmosphere changed
Soon after that
Lots of bonhomie
Banter and chit chat.
The action was called offi
Promptly at five to three
Thus allowing each
To be home in time for tea.
The action wasn't called
For any cause or good:
No it was carried out
Just to show they could.
Massed Mobility Scooters moving
Forward like a Rugby Union ruck.
It was a day of chaos
The day the pensioners struck.
Daydream: fragile as untempered glass.
Coming to life on clouds' rainy sky.
Building hopes it will at last surpass
other dreams we had and watched go by.
Wind's rustling leaves can nudge a dream,
though often found in bird's lovely song,
dandelion seeds wafting by streams,
sunset's reds massed in brilliant throng.
When you capture a daydream to own,
it will need some substance to sustain;
strength of desire, with future unknown,
don't let strength falter, people disdain.
Hold tight a daydream, or it may fade.
Once released, it may not reappear.
If, for moments, it lingers in shade,
It may become mist and disappear.
November 22, 2022
for Don't Quit Your Daydreams poetry contest
by Craig Cornish
6th Place
Have pity on the Scott’s ruled
By the Brexit voting sassenach
Who don’t seem to understand
We too want out country back.
Arbroath Smokies for breakfast
Porridge seasoned with salt
Kedgeree, Haggis, neaps and tastes
With wee drams of single Malt.
Pints of Heavy Friday nights
The working weeks end
Words of wisdom swapped
With true and blethered friend.
Fish and taties frae the chippie,
Deep fried Mars Bar to follow
Just to round off the night
A sweet delight to swallow.
Then the planning to drive
The Sassenachs from our soil,
Take back all our fish and
What’s left of North Sea oil.
Home Rule For Scotland
Restore our law and Order
Keep those thieving Brits
To their side of the border.
We'll gladly offer asylum
To those few of sound mind
Who want to up sticks and leave
Those heathen Tories far behind.
Let them keep their wee King
They’re always asking God to save
We’ll have the massed pipe bands
Loudly playing Scotland the Brave
Goodbye United Kingdom
Land of thieving Tory
Living on faded memories
Of Passed hope and glory.
Scotland the Brave
Scotland the free
Goodbye puny England
We’re all so well shot of thee
There’s an air of excitement
Amongst most cultured of Spain
Centred around a little hamlet
On the Andalusian Plain.
They are arriving by the plane load,
Helicopter, and even limousine
For the opening performance of
An event never ever before seen.
It’d the Ballerina, late of Barnsley
And her dance partner the Toreador
Who, after months of rehearsal
Are now ready to take the floor.
Every seat has been pre-sold,
Every planned performance full,
For the much awaited Ballet
Sugar Plum Fairy Meets the Bull
The costumes are a mixture
Of Tutus and Suits of Light,
The music is traditional except
During the Finale Bull Fight,
When the orchestra fades down
As though heard from afar
To be quickly replaced by
Massed Flamenco guitar.
The reviews have been amazing
From the international press
Invited to a short preview
In full costume and dress.
Charles the Third and His Consort
Have just entered through the doors,
We leave as the curtain rises to
Thunderous, rapturous applause.
They kill for their namesake
Blinded with visions of righteousness
Mirrored with images of self
Sanctifying, with daggers plunging deep
Crowds gather in loyalty
Massed in fear, assembled in hatred
Adherence to dogmas of a farsighted kind
While master deceivers bloom like orchids
When she crossed her legs,
electric silk
slipped over thigh orientated beguilements.
Her shoulders were disrespectful.
The massed pipes and drums
of her braided hair played upon my mind.
I was alone for a thousand years
drinking her in.
I wanted to ask her
but what?
Besides it was then she looked my way
with a cool ‘muck-you’ stare.
Back at the hotel,
my reflected sun-slapped face,
seemed as unstable as sand,
yet the syllabary of her thighs
had so much more to say to me.
When she crossed her legs,
an electric silk slipped over the jewel-studded sides
of a blushing chameleon.
Sand clung to her thighs,
a tapestry of flaxen crumbs on amber skin.
Thigh orientated beguilements
spread their plush landscapes.
Her shoulders were disrespectful –
I liked that. The massed pipes and drums
of her braided hair marched out of sight -
muted instruments of mutual destruction.
I imagined an emerald turtle born from a native legend
lived in her watchful heart.
I was alone for a thousand years
drinking her inward.
I wanted to ask her
but what?
I guessed that whatever her answer,
there would be no sign of small pink wings
and cutesy fairy smiles.
Besides it was then she looked my way
with that cool ‘-you’ stare.
When I got back alone to the hotel,
not having said a word to her,
I looked at my reflected sun-slapped face,
it was as unstable as dry sand,
yet the syllabary of her thighs
had so much more to say
as my face fell apart onto the wet floor-tiles.
© a day ago
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