A futile plea!

I want to see smiles when I walk in the town,
I want to hear laughter and banter and joking.
I am sick of the everyday face and its frown
I am tired of the way all that is good is now broken.

I want to stand should to shoulder with men,
I want to feel proud of the people we are.
I want to hear positive news once again
I want to know peace in this world near and far.

I want to feel safe wherever I walk,
I want to know all men are happy and fed.
I want to listen, and to be open to talk,
I want every person to sleep sound in their beds.

So an end please to profit, and to greed and to pain,
Let's all work together for contentment again.

(c) 2ndwitch 02/01/17

An Ode to Jeremy Corbyn.

It is the day, only the day, today.
No matter who you are, for now, today
Is the only day there is.
Wherever you are, there is no change, your
Day is just today.
Tomorrow is in the future, and
Yesterday is in the past, so
Today, all we have is today.
Today we may not eat,
Tomorrow we may have bread.
Today we may shiver by an
Empty fire, ashes cowering in
The bent and broken grate,
Tomorrow we may have coal.
Today we may huddle in an
Old and threadbare blanket
By the back door to an office
Building, that no-one uses,
Tomorrow we may have shelter.
But tomorrow is in the future,
And before we can be in
That future, we have to live
Through the endless todays.
Politicians speak, and no-one
Listens, other than the sycophants
And party faithful who wear
The blinkers or red, or blue, or
Purple, or gold, or every colour
Ever known to mankind, and more.
But reality is monochrome.
Reality is deafened by the cries of
Its children, its starving children.
Reality stands in the queue to be
Sanctioned and humiliated
Again and again and again.
Again and again and again
We live through this endless
Today, and hope that one day
Something might change.

© 2ndwitch, 08/10/15

Jonny, or Jimmy perhaps?

Feather-frosted tendrils reach their insistent fingers
Into all the nooks and crannies, and slowly and gently
Siphon away all the warmth, leaving behind an empty
Blue chill, a lack of colour and golden light, and
Replacing it with a silver sliver, a razor-like
Blade of cold, of ice and crystal-flowers, and
Welcoming lazily the wandering snowflakes as they
Swirl and drift in the wind.
As the seconds go by, the ticking clock measures
The inch-built-snowdrift, and the world
Fades into a muted soundtrack, muffled
And dull, the passing tyres caressed
And carried on the white carpeted road.

And do you remember, you, sat by your fire?
You, with a beer by your side, and your
Cigarettes ready rolled in a tin?
Do you remember the man you walked
Past, today, at the bus station?
Do you? Do you wonder where he is now?
Is he huddled in a doorway, or lying,
Past shivering or caring on a bench
Somewhere?
Because we all forget. And we should never forget.

© 2ndwitch, 13/01/15

Written as a sort of memorial to someone I read about, and to express a contrast that often strikes me. It is not the very rich, secure and immune to the pain of those with nothing, that provide the harshest contrast - but it is the working man, the working woman, who are only a few steps from the doorway themselves, it is he or she who present the contrast to me.

Trying to make the grade . . .

I try not to see only myself, but
To look beyond, to the horizon, and
To see
The real colour of chameleons.
The cries of those who cannot speak,
The tears that blur the vision of those
Who cannot see,
For them,
There is no hardship in seeing
The real colour of chameleons.
The shouting from the voiceless,
The music that taunts the ears
Of those who cannot hear,
The time for those who are
Dying,
For them, it is easy to see
The real colour of chameleons.
Those for whom pain is an
Everyday existence, they
More than anyone, are the ones
Who can see
The real colour of chameleons.

© 2ndwitch, 18/10/14

(With thanks to Jim King, whose song 'Colour of Chameleons' inspired this poem. See http://www.jimking.me.uk)

Cadence

Grey clouds jostle with each other in a crowded sky,
Rain vessels in a bargain bin, waiting to be selected and
Allowed to cry crocodile tears for the summer that has gone.
The tree outside the window sways slowly, imagining the breezes
That earlier stirred it to life, and waiting for the autumn to send
Winds of change and cold breath. Birds pause, waiting, waiting
Also, for reason to call, to fly, for feathers to stroke the air and caress
The softening harbinger of velvet and silk studded night.
All is suspended, life has halted and now sits, quiescent but
Powerful, the sun arrested in her heavenly orbit, a still point
When around the universe spins and speeds towards an
Untimely end. Even the stars are silent, their light hushed
In expectation. The countdown has begun.

© 2ndwitch, 15/08/14