Here's another eight - I wish I know what I was doing
However, got to put them somewhere
Is this way of life changeable?
That seems to pervade all the globe.
That speaks out against refugees
To preserve our place in the world.
Can we learn to live with it, independent of class?
On the railway I saw a perfectly dressed woman
Sitting on a dirty box drinking from a chipped glass *
But this was only a minimum of the social tensions I saw.
Perfection was the best that could be afforded
Irrespective of the effect on environmental purity
In another place gates are put on the housing estate *
To maintain the ‘standards’ of the community
My family, friends, and our religion
My Club, town or city, and my county,
And my countries international place,
Are the background to the decisions I face.
We were lucky enough to be born here.
Why should we allow someone hell-born
To struggle here and share our luck with us?
It might reduce a little of our privileged norm.
The really fortunate have it all their own way
And defend it as their rightful sate and norm.
But they are only as lucky as the rest of us
Until they can choose the parents to whom they are born.
Jacb Oct 2020
*I know this is racist, nationalistic, colonial, snobbish, but I saw it for myself on the platform of Delhi railway station when we visited India in 1980. The ‘another’ place is middle America.
my first fiddle faddle
When the grandchildren tell me their travels.
Why is it that “getting on to” a bus
And “getting on” a bus sound good to me,
When “getting off” a bus sounds OK, but
“getting off of” a bus really gets me!
IS THE PAST MY FUTURE
Do I have a memory of the future?
If I have been here before, I do.
But it would be much too much for me
To live a life of déjà vu.
The Question of Poetry
Is it my age or is it too late?
The only question that is important is Why?
Is the heart more important than the voice?
Is the creator more important than their creation?
Can a different voice carry the meaning?
Is a repeat a process of understanding?
Does it matter?
Jacb 9th May 2016
Climb along to consciousness
Climb up to wakefulness
Climb out of somnolence
Climb into lifefulness
The Sound of Rain
Silently, oh so silently,
The tiny drizzle droplets fall.
‘Cos it hasn’t rained for ages
They darken the bricks of the wall.
Pitter, patter, pitter, patter
falls rain on the roof’s clear plastic.
The drumming on the extension
Makes reading an act heroic.
Then splosh and splash and splish and splosh,
The noisy rain you cannot miss.
So much rain hits the wet pavement,
The beat becomes a sharp-edged hiss.
Jacb Oct 2020