Raving

( a sponanteous memory release)

Too many beats per minute,

too much mdma,

too many straight white lines,

as we huddled together in some far away space,

in corners of oblivion,

getting high as the sky,

watching time burn,

as the profiteers counted their cash,

straight sunshine came to catch us ,

before we all came down,

some of us kept on spiralling,

kept on flying, free falling in escape.

carrying traces of ecstasy unbound.

Trespassers

(  dedicated to Boris Johnson among others)

Trespassing over our days
casting splintered division,
vulgar voices of opportunity
transmit conscious ideology,
to pull tomorrow's hope down
abandoning us as days get harder,
because they cannot play out
the role that they promised,
dreams within our reach they steal
taking back all that they see,
storming off with plotted intention
lining grubby pockets with silver,
vacuous morality exposed
wearing gilded smiles,
entrenched deeply
in their deceit and lies.

Halfway there ( a poem for the summer solstice)

      

                  
                        ( in time of rising hate, fear and division, a moment of contemplation)
                                                          happy summer solstice   

Surging through veils,
to enhance, to heal,
recharge, renew, reveal,
time to celebrate,
through spirit, mind, and heart,
the turning of the seasonal wheel,
under the influence,
of a full strawberry moon,
swirl in peace for awhile,
solitary or in company,
kiss goodbye to the last shades of spring,
pay homage to forces of nature we trust,
as earth's darkness returns to light,
and summertime is reborn.

Child of the refuge

( after sadly catching the news the other night, so an amalgamation of reportage.)

                                  Aya is 8 years old,
                                  her home is in  detention,
                                  behind barbed wire and fences,
                                  in a no- man's land,  
                                  a landscape mired in abandonment.
     
                                  Aya is shivering with cold,
                                  her jacket was once white,
                                  now it is drenched with rain,    
                                  and covered in mud,
                                  her brother cries, he  wants the touch of his mother,
                                  her father is desperate as well,
                                  wants them both delivered to safety,
                                  this is not a place where dreams will flourish,
                                  there are no tents for shelter, just seas of misery,
                                  disturbed intersections, between what passes as 
                                                                              a frontier of freedom.     

                                  Aya exists  in this world of chaos,
                                  with her companions, the walking wounded,
                                  crumbling  through the night and day,
                                  as a news cameraman pans in and out,
                                  relays images back to safe European homes,
                                  to be easily digested,  in the comfort of sanctuary.

                                 Aya one fragment of many shattered journeys,
                                 the nagging pain of humanity's pulse,
                                 the drifting sadness  of frightened children, 
                                                                               terrified people,
                                 with broken hearts and broken homes,
                                 four thousand refugees stranded and abandoned,
                                 within yards of the European Union.
                                   
                                 Aya I am truly ashamed, 
                                 of the despair that follows your journey,
                                 wish I could point you in the direction of paradise,
                                 support your tiny soul, strengthen your arms,
                                 stop the  nagging persecution, detention, trauma,
                                 release  you from the tears of seperation, anxiety and grief,
                                 clasp your wishes,  send you protection, 
                                 allow you to  continue your journey,
                                 to a land of security and hope,
                                 anywhere from this grim wasteland,
                                 no place for an innocent child.  

https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2015/10/29/cild-of-the-refuge-by-dave-rendle/
                                   
                             
                                     

Cabinet of millionaires ( A Poem)

The cabinet of millionaires, dining now on the misery they cause
filling their guts with the carcasses of the people,
the richest parasites in Britain, gathered in one place
guarded and protected in their ivory towers,
eating from silver spoons, gorging from golden troughs
negating and abusing with denigration and labels,
calling their undeserving victims layabouts and scroungers
rejects and lazy bastards, this all from a self serving elite,
drunk on political power, running wild and amok
spreading pain, and broken promises, for own personal gain,
plutocrats gaining from capital and corporate shares
bankrolled by big business and multinational strength,
in the spirit of their ideology, continue to plunder all that we possess
making the underclass below their feet weep, as obscenity is spread,
but the people outside have grown weary and tired, and have had enough
time now to subvert their authority, after all we have nothing left to lose,
apart fromour poverty and chains, and self respect,
so take back what's been stolen, from their piggy bank
singing bread and roses, people not profit, Tory's out.

Brian Jones ( 28/2/42 - 3/7/69) His light shines on in some Painted Rainbows

Psychic T.V - Godstar

The pact he made was never ordinary
lucky or mistaken we shall never know,
behaviour fell off the mark
promises failed in stormy weather,
under the influence
out ov time,
nearby magic tearooms
and melodramas,
played under setting suns
rich in chemistry,
indolence raged
as Pan mischieviously led.