Totally unaware

Totally unaware,

two young lovers 

sat in the front seats of a brightly coloured 

sky blue Volkswagen,

discover each others lips.

Sat on a petrol forecourt 

under the canopy

a petrol station on a street 

down the main carriageway 

totally unaware 

off the seafront

past the railway station

up the hill

past the Co-op 

all on a Tuesday evening in a seaside town.

Fish and chips

seagulls and parking wardens

in the watery sun of a late April evening

an evening like any other - yet totally unique.

Humans debating which carwash program to choose,

tapping on screens,

totally unaware 

buying chocolate 

listening to radios

all of us balanced on a rock

in a solar system

totally unaware we are spinning in the nothingness of space

round a huge illuminating street lamp - our sun

all tucked up in the milky way 

itself contained in a single bubble 

trapped in a bottle of washing up liquid 

placed on the side of a vast 'cosmic sink'

awaiting the next dirty plates

around which 

flow the electrons in the circuitry of a cheap 'street light' powered calculator 

the one that was used to work out

how much 'the totally unaware young lovers' bill added up to,

the calculator 

totally unaware 

wanted to know who it was that was pushing it's buttons

performing those calculations

and why it too was at this petrol station 

but not in a sky blue Volkswagen 

and why traffic wardens were eating fish and chips

whilst the washing up liquid was totally unaware 

as to who agitated it to make the bubbles in the first place -

was it a higher being?

Maybe this higher being lives outside our milky way

maybe it's a traffic warden

would they like some fish and chips too?

...it seems we're all just - totally unaware!

(Haiku)

Do I release; to 

do battle with nature, the 

poor trapped ladybird?

(Haiku)

Why is it that, when 

neighbours play loud music, it's 

not a track you like!

(Haiku)

The carwash. It worked,

it broke, was mended, worked a 

bit, then broke again!

(Haiku)

Little rooms, little 

houses; on little streets. Life

in our little minds

The sneeze

The sneeze is a feral creature

to see it is very rare.
You'll hear them out in the wild; so

...you'll know a sneeze is there.

You'll start to feel a tickle

deep inside your plumbing

You're going to need a tissue; 'cos 

...you know a sneeze is coming

You mustn't try to suppress it

for your head is sure to explode.

You must let this sneeze run free

to help your nose unload.

They begin by tickling your passages

You've many tucked out of sight

that often fill with thick green slime

But that's a poem I've yet to write

The best suggestion I would say

is to fill your lungs with air

and celebrate the impending sneeze

and go for it - without a care!

If you've heard a sneeze from a along way distant

whilst walking - what can I say?

It's probably me; 

setting one free

from many miles away!

​The Schoolyard General

The hunger is the same:

a fragile ego wrapped in an offensive T-shirt,

the science of dominance where

one man’s status requires another’s silence.

It’s all a learned rhythm—

the pulse of insecurity disguised as strength,

a desire to own the air all others breathe.

​Look closely at the General’s stars,

and you will see the classroom ghost.

The big kid, the "mouthy" one,

trading the tarmac of the playground for a country’s border,

the grass for a graveyard.

​It begins with a clenched fist

and a slow diktat muttered through clenched teeth:

“It’s my ball, so I decide who plays.”

It ends with a finger on a trigger:

“It may be your land, but my gun is bigger.”

​From the playground scuffle to the scorched earth,

the logic never matures.

What was once minor friction

swells into a worldwide dispute

a fight over oil, or water, or land.

The world is just a bigger playground to lord it over,

a larger area to hold dominion.

It’s my playground. It’s my ball.

​History remembers the names:

the bossy children who never grew up,

who bullied siblings in quiet hallways

before they silenced cities with harsh,

soul-less warnings.

The "perfect storm" is rarely a mystery;

it is just the shadow of a small boy

stretched across the world’s surface,

turning all into night.

​Aggression is a hollow victory;

an imposition is never a resolution.

Whether in the soil or on the map,

the bully wins the game

but loses the world.

Wasps I don't like

Despite the rain

I couldn't take the train

the man; softly-spoken

wouldn't take my token

so was walking from Dorking

though I might have be seen

on those miles in between 

for then; that sound

made me look around

but I carried along 

under the bird-song

then a buzzing commotion 

me; out with no lotion!

What will I do

if this nightmare came true

monitoring the sky

something caught my eye

once more the sound

so tumbled to the ground 

hiding by the track

feering an attack 

a wasp and his mate

there laying in-wait

I rose began screaming 

the sky began teaming

this advanced crew

knew exactly what to do

'must have ordered back-up

time to pack-up

with my arms up; screaming 

thought I was day-dreaming

my old legs a blur

away from this whir

like helicopter blades

nightmare in the everglades

I tripped and fell

this was complete hell

those biting little things

with noisy little wings

wasps are my foe

wherever I go

I don't mind a bee

or a fly following me

a worm in my hand

or a crab on the sand

A car or a train

a bus or a plane

I don't mind a bike

...but wasps I don't like!

(Haiku)

Old fat and wrinkly,

grey slow and thick skinned; but we 

still love our husbands

Forgotten Souls

We drop their bones and ashes into the ground

'neath the lush green grass.

Time passes imperseptibly.

Quietly

tired gravestones lean

some support each other

some relent and just tumble

as if the gravestones that once remembered those now departed - have themselves forgotten

like the lettering once etched across their faces,

now forgotten too

slowly being wiped clean by the hand of the unforgiving wind and rain,

forgetting - like human memories tend to.

Who brings the flowers

trims grass and wipes the slate headstones clean,

and who simply comes no more?

For who could forget a loved one,

one who once walked with them

one who once belonged?

...sleep well you forgotten souls 

Is this the beginning...

People ask; "Is this the beginning of the end - or end of the begining?"

But of what?

Maybe this beginning has just begun

or maybe it is just about to end!

If this is the beginning of the begining,

what was going on before it had begun?

Who set it all going - and why?

Maybe it's nearly the end of the end

but...

how long did the begining go on for?

What is so special about the beginning anyway?

I feel this poem is now a long way passed its beginning 

which means it's about to end

but I haven't answered my question yet.

Can you?

When I'm Hungry Later

I shouldn't wear black clothing 

it shows up all the crumbs

from the snacks I ate; bits from my lunch,

I'm simply all fingers and thumbs!

 

Saying that; I shouldn't wear blue

or white

or red

or green

there's always a mess whatever I wear

in every colour I'm seen...

But there's always a plus side

for I am my own waiter

and can pick bits off

when I'm hungry later!

The transmogrification remains

A miscalculation 

causes deep frustration 

the subsequent cancellation 

lead to many an accusation,

thoughtful speculation
and much discombobulation.

An observation

after more frustration

and agitation 

uncovered new information 

brought on by much contemplation,

a little speculation, 

and a planned abliteration.

The lack of cooperation

and responsibility abdication 

brought accusation

of misappropriation,

condemnation,

a rising conflagration 

and an enforced disembarkation 

but despite no coagulation 

the transmogrification; remains

(Haiku)

Irrespective of

the propensity to use 

too many sylla...

(Haiku)

Protocol. After 

a kiss from your loved one, to 

wipe your mouth or not? 

Steve Rosenberg: The View from the Kremlin

​Who would want it?

Who would choose to be the BBC’s Russia Editor in Moscow,

acting as a senior foreign correspondent,

covering all the internal machinations of the Kremlin

and the relentless toll of the war in Ukraine?

​Working for the BBC in Moscow - reporting the "wrongs"

is a precarious path to follow!

Being the voice of a world-renowned broadcaster,

but being so clinical at it;

his work is widely praised and resolutely objective.

He operates with a rare blend of courage and control,

all within the high stakes of a tightly monitored,

hazardous environment.  

​But who'd want it?

​Steve Rosenberg:

Born in Epping, 1968; raised in Chingford.

Educated at Chingford Senior High, 

then the University of Leeds,

where he earned a first-class degree in Russian Studies.

Driven by his Russian-Jewish descent, he moved to Moscow,

initially teaching English at the Moscow State Technological University, 'Stankin'.  

​His BBC career began in the Moscow bureau as a producer.

Then came New Year’s Eve, 1999.

With no journalists in the office when Boris Yeltsin resigned,

Steve stepped into the breach to write and broadcast his first dispatch.

The producer became a correspondent,

going on to cover the Kursk submarine disaster,

the Nord-Ost theater siege, and the Beslan school massacre,

as well as securing rare interviews with oligarchs like Roman Abramovich.  

​But who'd want it?

​As the air grew thin,

concerns for his safety in such a hostile climate have intensified.

State media personalities have publicly targeted him;

figures like Vladimir Solovyov have branded him an "enemy of Russia,"

leveling personal insults at his appearance.

Rosenberg himself acknowledges the shifting sands,

noting that the risks must be "regularly reviewed."

​Who'd want that!

​A BBC Panorama documentary laid bare the reality:

the physical attacks on his crew,

the constant,

suffocating

scrutiny!

Yet, he remains committed to staying "on the ground"

to interpret the real Russia and its people.

​His continued presence feels like a calculated move by the Kremlin,

a decision to allow a handful of Western journalists to remain

to project an air of strategic indifference.

He stays,

he watches,

and he reports.

​...but who would want it?

The Echo of the Fen

​Only one person shed a tear.

The woman who wove his bones,

the woman who finally reached out a hand

to flick the switch and silence the machines.

A savage end delivered by a member of the same trade - one dark shadow striking another

all within the high-walled silence of the state.

Even a mother’s mercy had run dry.

She whispering to the air that it was for the best,

given the hollow shell that remained.

​And so, the public ledger closes.

We, who paid for the iron bars,

Now pay for the fire and the urn.

A final tax on a devious life.

The man who thought a change of tyres

could wash the blood from his hands.

​The man beside who; stood the shadow of a shadow.

a woman of the classroom,

a keeper of children who kept his secrets instead.

She who wore her lies like a second skin,

trading her freedom for a traitor’s peace.

Now carrying a borrowed soul

with a borrowed name,

just a ghost bought and paid for by us; the people,

vanishing into the crowd behind a brand-new face.

​

​Does a case like this exhume our best side or our worst?

When the monster falls, 

the old cry rises,

"An eye for an eye - a life for a life!"

The gallows haunt the public squares once more.

For; in the quiet of the heart - the questions ache.

What would I crave if the children were mine,

if the lights of my life were snuffed out in such a manner?

​And what of the one who killed the killer?

Does a murder in a cell wash the world clean,

or do we just need another yard rope?

Is the rage of Anthony Russell a different shade of black

darker than the darkness that fired those first blows?

​

​Who could break someone's world so completely?

Who could steal the breath of two ten-year-olds?

The mind is a labyrinth of mis-meshing gears

a fever-fed nightmare of power; pride and screaming ghosts.

It is a cocktail of the conscious and the void,

where empathy is a language never learned,

and control is the only god to be served.

​In the end there are no winners in this mess.

A murderer is murdered by his mirror image

behind a locked door in a darkened hall.

All we are left with is the heavy weight of forgiveness - a bridge too far for many to cross.

​If we say they are sick - we acknowledge the wound.

If the wound cannot be healed,

then let the walls stay high; bars shut and the locks stay fastened,

keeping their darkness at bay

for all our sakes

and for the length of their natural days.

In case you don't know

Toads in cars
fought drunks in bars

whilst walking dogs

on leads with frogs

as the strain took the train

full with fish - a first class dish

there in the sky

learning to fly

the music plays

a skirt hem frays

Could; gales

be the farts of whales?

Black and tan

cocktail - or hard man?

You choose 

which one to loose

a peaceful dove

or a purple foxglove?

Options had - some good; some bad

black or white - neither's right

avoiding the fools

'Google' the rules,

an annoying half rhyme

like "frog on the Tyne"

or clanking one

like "a hot-cross-bun"

the lamb had Mary

an ending quite scary 

Little Miss Muffet

had to look-up; 'A Tuffet'

and; what is 'Myrrh'
do confer!

Myrrh is an sweet scented, bitter-tasting, reddish-brown; resin

well that is what an internet search came back and; says-in case you don't know

I say; in case you don't know!

Conflict - the perfect recipe

Ingredients:

​A revolution, aged and volatile.

​Falling markets.

​A large selection of well-educated people.

​A bitter slice of the Iran–Iraq War.

​A whole country transformed into a theocratic state.

​A pinch of the death of a president.

​Billion-dollar B-2 bombers.

​A severe economic strain.

​The entirety of the I.R.G.C.

​A century of cold distrust with the West.

​Several spikes in oil prices.

​Drone attacks, garnished with counter-attacks.

​A large supply chain shock.

​Tensions, specifically with the U.S. - ground to a fine powder.

​Cancelled flights and intercepted missiles.

​Reparation flights in hand.

​Hundreds of deaths.

​Failed plans intending to liberate a people - now shaken liberally around the world, left to find whatever life they can.

​Missiles, for both sides to launch.

​Seasoned with death and misery.

​A handful of despair to decorate.

​Method:

​Preheat the area (it’s already warm). The ships alight in the Straits of Hormuz will help with that.

​Marinate a people with a deep and ancient heritage. Place them into an impossible situation.

​Simmer half of the million-dollar Tomahawk cruise missiles in the skies above the capital - save some for later.

​Reduce to total chaos. Choke the shipping lanes until the oil thickens.

​Say no to nuclear missiles. Julienne the borders until the humanitarian, economic, and security consequences spill out.

​Search for the end game. If one can’t be found, simply whisk up widespread displacement and increased migration, then dribble on risks of global financial instability.

​Moisten with a squadron of F-35 jets if required.

​Rest for five minutes. Iranians can’t.

​Blanch a civilization which goes back thousands of years.

​Warm aircraft carriers ready to dispatch and knock back this rich tapestry of a country. Pull it apart—bit by bit.

​Add destroyers, warships, and maybe a few "boots on the ground."

​Turn out this objective of a deranged President onto an unprepared work-surface.

​Finally, cobble together a complete regime change—from the skies above, if necessary.

​Serve:

​Pour out this once-proud culture, once profoundly shaped with poetry, hospitality, and a complex social etiquette of politeness and deference. Display a rich, diverse culture with a mix of Persian, Azeri, and Kurdish traditions.

​Alternatives:

​Try replacing the war with a long-lasting and comprehensive two-state peace deal.

​Try ensuring security for Israel and a viable, sovereign state for the Palestinians.

​Add a splash of regional stability and the cessation of proxy conflicts.

​You might even try a couple of crumbs of humanitarian recovery.

​Nutritional Warning:

​Ask yourself: Who am I fighting? Who am I in a conflict with? Surely not the ordinary Iranian people—haven’t they suffered enough?

Warning: May contain traces of lost generations. Results are permanent. Not suitable for human consumption.

(Haiku)

Eight cans of cider

and another air fresh'ner.

Who is he fooling?