And what can I say? Yes,
I am moved by kindness.
Moved by the visibility
that eludes us for three
hundred and fifty three
days of the year. And yes,
in spite of my cynicism
I strive to stretch the twelve
days of Christmas into months.
Imagine, twelve months of
human kindness; the very best
of human kind.
This land is your land,
this life is your life
and yet it’s my land
containing my life.
This land is home to
a living people;
do not leave without
the seeing and feeling
of as much reality
as you can bear.
hold out your
We can all go down
become a raft
Before you go
The dark night of the solstice
comes around, brings around
it’s own brand of need.
Tis the season for charity,
the season to shelve suspicion
in favour of the pity-eyed
offers of assistance; money
swelling the salving coffers as
normal gears up for the fleeting
season of goodwill, of kindness
and uncommon generosity.
Surely you’re not complaining,
It’s only one step.
It’s only one joke.
It’s only this once.
You don’t mind do you. Being
It’s only one meal
It’s only one joke.
It’s only this once.
It is only ever once.
Surely you’re not complaining
I can only be who I am
and who I am is incompatible
enough with who you think
I should be that the one
way ticket sits whispering
on my shoulder even while
I argue for the right
to a dignified life.
Don’t push me.
I’m not sick.
I’m not ill. Just
made room for…
The battle for equality plays out daily,
the right to be on the street, the right to enter
shops, restaurants and cinemas. The right to roam
for the price of a pair of shoes and a square meal.
Batteries, two, at two hundred and fifty quid
every eighteen to twenty four months, rather less
value than shoes. And the hoist for the chair doubles
the price of a cheerful runaround car. Equal
How many denials does it take?
How many obstacles along the way?
How many rude remarks?
How much intolerance?
How much thoughtlessness?
Before protest can be deemed
I sit somewhere in the middle of a maze
disabled, like any regular person,
by my personal preference, my desire
for a cleaner, kinder, better, fairer world;
by choices acted on and the consequent
powerlessness of my ever decreasing,
financial, vote. Somewhere behind another
hedge, a clash of massive forces lock antlers
as the rutting stag of capitalism
evades democracy and charges head on
into its nemesis. I sit in the eye
of the storm, choosing the ideology
of less. Proud now of the movement of people
against market forces, of people against
the destruction of society by the
inequality of the Great Capitalist
Delusion. The rotten boroughs, the giants
of acquisition, rut, roar on the brink of
extinction, the catastrophic fall waiting
on their blind side. While we, still in the centre,
go our own way, refusing to move, or buy
our way out with a lifetime indenture to
greed, intolerance, violence and hatred.
I sit with such great sadness for the hareem
of innocents eager to avoid the clash,
unaware of fuelling the inevitable
with their own brand of whimsical choice.
I remain, still but not silent, and ready
to be counted.
It may not be democracy that fails us,
rather our politicians who cannot find
means to protect us from the ravages
of a capitalism that has found its own
way to circumvent the democratic process.
And our own whimsicality fuelling a need to follow;
fuelling a media dangling, willy-nilly,
from that same capitalism’s coat-tails.
A media so desperate to ride the wave
it goes to any length to invent the wolf,
the diversion that will feed the culture of blame
and hatred that strives to enslave us,
distract us from the poverty of helplessness;
bribe us with the annual corruption of giving…
Walk in my shoes one bright autumn morning
when the crow mocks fleeing swans, wingbeats white
over meadow and rivers of fallen copper.
Where apples blush high in the overgrown
tree, walk a mile in my shoes under wild blue gleams
and gentle sighs of a whispering fall.
Roll a mile on my wheels and reap the confusion
of knowing little but the preordained
constraints of inaccessible access, eyes down
seeking level pathways and matching pairs
of dropped curbs. Eyes down and focused on the wander
of shifting feet, the speeding and slowing,
the turning, the stopping, the suddenly backing
of fragile flesh ready to roar insult
and condemnation. Rolling a mile on my wheels
will show you nothing but the merest hint
of mechanical revelation.
Your eyes still not open.