An Avenue of Blackbirds.

The earth has been financed, every square inch of it. Everyone is in debt, the big debt is here. It puts a seal of debt on every human being. Stocks for guns are up, human beings are down*, so why not keep shooting them?

The financial world says of love, it’s no good, get a job. So you get a job and then the financial world sees you as a useful item, you are on their radar. Should you stay off radar? Would you be poorer? The poor can live happily – until they have to pay their taxes. I don’t mind dirt roads with holes in them so long as the sea is blue and the birds sing, but the mess of finance makes the sea and the air polluted and our wildlife numbers grows fewer.

It was a great experience to hear the blackbirds on that one summer Sunday, last century. I still remember walking down Burdett Road, listening to the blackbirds, they were singing in every tree I passed, and on both sides of the street. I ran the gauntlet of blackbirds, until I got to the traffic lights in Limehouse. They had maybe quarreled with each other, they had probably smoothed out the wrinkled cloth of their territories for the privilege of  their own tree to sing in; nesting season was over and now it was their singing time. There was no war of extermination, there was no hierarchy. Each blackbird could sing with exuberance and love.

Then came big human political decisions and the world of blackbirds collapsed into the empty purse of mankind; their numbers collapsed as human debt rose; they collapsed because humanity has no love; except for money, and their greatest skill is war.

And each winter humanity has the privilege of helping them to survive; instead the reality is humanity – will do what it does best.

*Erica Jung, Fear of Flying, I think

The Colours of Life

The Colours of Life

There is a thick fat yellow that glows more warmly than gold
There is an unconscious dark blue so dense that it supports your weight as you walk
There is a deep dark blue-green that oozes like a swamp of essential life
If I could drown the world with these colours, all governments would cease and eyes would see

The Cupboard under the Stairs

drawing cupboard under the stairs

They hated him for suddenly growing up like a target spriging up on the firing range.

With the drowning mother falling into the whirling sea of rejection; with the bad tempered father having to face a self truth reflected in a sons eyes.

Mother had not foreseen this day of his growing up, but she became reconciled to loosing him and that one day he would run away and leave home. Her life seemed to hold no promise, no happiness. She’d found comfort in a loveless marriage in her only son even though they were never close. She was a doll in an unearthly joke shop. But her belief in the marriage vows and the way she honoured them was her glory.

Father hated him for his passive love; for his shiny reflective surface where his abuse came to nothing. At every opportunity he tested him out, searching for the violence that he felt in himself and that he fostered in him and he ended up punching at clouds. The son had built a defense of childlike love, not a wall of anger towards him.

But the son was angry none the less; he began to hate the world for what it had done to people like them – for how the echoes of war deafen with loud ringing bells down the generations of the poorest families. The branding that passes on down through the generations like an unlit fuse.

Since My Hurt Went Wrong

20181112_133936.jpg

 

We don’t seem to talk anymore
We don’t seem to meet every day
We never make plans for a trip
It hurts in every way
Since this change in our friendship
I wonder where I belong
Since this lull in relations
Since my hurt went wrong

You’re more preoccupied than ever
I never know who you are
You told me all your history
You really are a star
Since you told me all your worries
You seem not to belong
And all your pain and suffering
Has made my hurt go wrong

If you wonder where this is going
You see I wonder too
It always seems to be snowing
Will the sun ever come shining through?
I’m trying to be your best friend
But I’m not so very strong
I can’t say the things that I’m thinking
Since my hurt went wrong

The honey melts down

virgin mary and kitchen.jpg

The honey melts down and reveals the wire grill.
An old love is a faceless icon of the Virgin Mary;
I hear a tremolo as the voice demands obedience.

Who am I to be cared about? I am nothing but a grain of sand in your life;
A bit of grit on your tongue, but you are the full orchestration in the lung playing.

As the honey melts the cold steel mesh is seen, gone is the dream.
The skeleton walks onto a film, birds drop cluster bombs,
And then run and tell their moms.

How hard it is to answer questions in your sleep:
To be confined from the help of family and friends,
To stand there in the thundering darkness as meaningless as a shadow,
To have your memory challenged by a caster of spells.

Peace in the East

Please click on the link to hear an impression of the song

The remembrance of the end of the great war, a war to end all wars, except the politicians lost the point of with the treaty of Versailles. A documentary on TV showed how the Allied politicians wanted to punish the German people and cause them pain with sanctions that caused the new generation humiliation and resentment.

It was the alliances and the treaties between the different nations of Europe that brought each nation into conflict after the assasination of the archduke that grew into a world war. Nation rising against nation and kingdom against kingdom.

Can present day world politics cause another collision of interests .

This November month is the centenary of the end of the War To End All Wars. This song I wrote fifteen years ago around the time of the mid-east “conflict”.

Peace in the East, lyrics

chorus

Peace in the east, peace in the west
Peace for the poor, peace for the oppressed.

bridge

These could be such happy days
These could be our best
Talking peace from north
Talking peace from east to west

Peace in the east, peace in the west
Peace for the poor, peace for the oppressed

verses

If you were cast adrit my friend
Upon the open seas
Could you steer the boat my friend
And make all people free

Peace in the east, peace in the west
Peace for the poor, peace for the oppressed

If you were a farmer
Whose ground was very tough
Could you reap a harvest
To feed the world with love

Peace in the East, peace in the west
Peace on the right, peace on the left

 

 

 

Is Love like Gold Left Behind

They say, do not compare this to spiritual love. But love is a palette of colours; love is a compass of points; love is the circle from night to day; love is the lifetime and more.

Can they say: you are not allowed all the colours?
Can they say: you cannot travel to the four corners?
Can they say: you must be awake in the day and be asleep at night?
Can they say: you should only live half of your life?

Is love a picture half finished?
Is love a journey never started?
Is love like gold left behind?

Love is good news and bad news
Love is the whole twelve notes
Love is the whole chart of the elements
Love is the leader and you are the follower

What’s left of love is still light
What’s left os love is still food
What’s left of love is still love
Love times love times love

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the Time that I’ve Known You

This is a piece of light music I wrote on a music programme. Please click on the item to listen.

The Frog and the Sensitive Boy.

He was disconnected from life but did not understand the disconnection. He was cruel to life not having any empathy. He was at one within himself but he was not at one with life. Oneness with life is about respect for life, the pool of life, the family of life. Life is bigger than us all, it moves through the days and nights like a turtle climbing a beach to lay her eggs, one step at a time.

Life, we are reminded, is sighing and groanng all together, man kills man, animal kills animal, the earth pushes and shoves against itself. Within life, there is the cruelty of the single minded psychopath, the sociopath, the hunter, the manipulator, the spoiler. Life doesn’t need an organiser or a manipulator, it needs a referee, an umpire, someone to stop the arguments, the disputes from turning into conflict.

Sensitivity to life is not oversensitivity, it just is. It has accepted that life is far from perfect and that things can go wrong in a big way, which means the extinction of life, the driving away and the hunting down of life. Sensitivity to life is normal, it’s the hunters and the slayers and the ones who like to annihilate and who defend their status by saying or accusing the sensitive one of being too sensitive and confusing them as to who is in control of life and what is allowable in life.

You’re being too sensitive says the little boy who stabes a frog or picks the legs from an insect but he doesn’t like sensitivity. Sensitivity in another is a threat to his higher than thou status; his belief in his right to be in control over life and death and if there is no God, who is there to reprimand him. He feels supreme, he feels like god and that is what he lives for. But life isn’t living to be supreme, to be seperated from God, life has to deal with death everyday and knows from experience that life needs to be protected from those who are insensitive and who permit themselves to be like gods.

We were children outside school in the dinner break. We went into the gorse by the canal and there was a frog minding its own business. One boy in the group stabbed it with a stick and staked it into the ground and then exalted over his action. The group as a group said nothing because children aren’t taught about Life, about how life is vulnerable and needs to be protected. It was left to die there. But after school I went back alone, I pulled out the stake and put it back into the canal. I partly realised it would probably drown there, I wasn’t saving it from its slow death but I felt I was putting it back with its family, back into the enviroment that loved it.

You’re being oversensitive said the self appointed leader. But I was not being oversensitive, I was being as one in life, I was arguing for sensiivity as the norm’. Without sensitivity to life – life would be torn apart by the hunter, the psycopath, the one who likes to be in control over life and death.

 

I Live on the Streets of Windsor

Please click on the link to see a PDF of the music.

i live on the streets of Windsor

Lyrics to I live on the streets of Windsor

I live on the streets of Windsor
But they want to take me away
And leave me in the graveyard
Where life is not so gray

I saw a band of soldiers
With a marching band
Ev’ry man there he was ready
To die fighting for his land

I’m sleeping under cardboard
I cannot get to sleep
The rollers drive right past me
They make me quietly weep

I live on the streets of Winsor
I sleep on paper and card
They’ll move me to the graveyard
Where life is not so hard