New …..

New year’s
New ideas
New initiative
New imperative

New lengthening days
New electronic ways
New layers of complexity
New views on the unnecessary

New fake news
New unseen danger
New even more, the murderous stranger

New medical wonders
New political blunders
New personal losses
New harrowing faces

New contracts to consider
New reasons to be bitter
New lies from the bosses
New tightening your belts

But somehow

New longer day light
New unwillingness to fight
New environmental eyes
New children’s smiles

New glimmers of hope
New gadget’s to help us cope
New ways to laugh
New friends down the cafe

New resolutions done
New sunshine to come
New spring days ‘round the corner
New dreams that come true to make your heart warmer

Wishing A Happy New Year to you all !!

© David Rollason January 2018

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Observations, post Christmas

Christmas – done

Well, Christmas is done
It might show on your tum
If you’re really unfortunate
Sneak round to your bum

The turkey is curried
Cold sprouts for the birds
There’s a limit to the times
Hot sauce makes it less worse

The tinsel’s less shiny
Baubles fall from the tree, more easily
The Christmas cards are curling
‘Cus the heating’s still turned on full

The once green tree, now brown at the edges,
No, let’s be honest it’s actually dead
and is soon to be dragged round the back of
the greenhouse, or maybe the old garden shed

Unseen and unloved and unfed here
It will languish, all lost and alone
With last years, as each year, you do mean
To try and recycle but again, No

The days are getting that little bit longer
‘Though the sun’s not really very much stronger
hopefully the snow, will stay, well away
But you take it only, day.. by day…. by day

Aunt Maisy wrote you a thank you
For the present you bought with such clarity
But you get the distinct inkling that
It might have been passed on to charity

With the loft now fully restocked
Everything quickly, but cleverly boxed
In pne of them, but you forget which
A voucher for a course of guess what, Botox!

The revenge buying from dear aunty Maisy
But you keep it as it might come in, some day
For a raffle or someone more needy
Or maybe, next year’s last-minute present, emergency.

Then suddenly it’s all done,
Twelfth Night’s knocking at the door
And you happily welcome him In
To help sweep up the needles from the floor
And polish away the dust
Now the mantle is clear
And wonder what will replace
Those echoes of spent festive cheer

But, don’t worry Too much only 354 days (or so) till it ALL happens again,

Yes, This Year!

© David Rollason January 2018

A Christmas Wish

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To everyone and all
May you enjoy the season’s call
With much hope and best wishes
For a world that so misses
The peace and fraternity
Lost in hate and modernity
Take a minute and think
Between the glasses that clink
Of what’s best for us all
After you have decked all you halls
Be generous of spirit
But make sure people hear it
Share the love that’s within us
Don’t leave it to someone else


Marry Christmas and a Happy New Year
To everyone!


Refugee

Recently I was part of a group of writers asked to share our thoughts at an event to raise awareness of refugees, although I don’t have any direct connection or involvement in such things, one can’t help but feel for their plight, refugees that is and not just economic migrants trying to ride the same road.


Refugee, now on the move,
Refugee, now off the road,
Refugee, now face down, in the water
Refugee, now lying still, lying cold

From the sands of the desert
through the salty lips of the sea
not all faces will make it
everything good, can never be

Looking out into the darkness
praying help is at hand,
craving only a little warmth
from a blanket or a friend

Landed, those who made it
Firm, the hopes that survived
Rough, the reception of strangers
Hard, any new life on this side

Refugee, now sits behind wire mesh
Refugee, now clings onto life
Refugee, now finds scant compassion
Refugee, reflects on all this strife.

Refugee,
Refugee,
Please, just let them be!


There is a short story that was written at the same time on a similar theme, you can read it here, ‘One Boy’s Day Out’

The Cross

This is a piece I have written, originally for the christian festival of Good Friday.
I hope you enjoy the piece and the recording, even if it is not of your faith.

croos6 Click on the image to listen

The Cross

Rough hewn, now old and battered wood lies blood soaked and splintered,
punctured with holes and stained rotting sinew all foul stinking and sintered.
Thrown to the ground after being dragged stuttering up the final hill…
now a scourged arm is stretched, full length, a soldier’s grip holds it still.

The crowd simmers for the hammer that’s lifted for only the first of the cruel blows,
their cries ring out in cold, misplaced, blood lusted thirst, while the carrion crows…
watch square forged nails, their mangled tips glint, being once more sharpened,
but when that first blow is struck, the mood changes, now more real, more hard, more darkened.

No cry from the victim of this harsh, homicidal, capital, attack,
but his hand clenches, eyes roll and an arch rises along his back.
The nail drives through his fine skin, into bone right and down to the wood,
what worse fate can human lay on human, who honesty ever could…
imagine worse, but then the second arm is pinned and last, the dirt dusted feet….
crossed to receive pain while soldiers ranks sound a tattoo on their shields, a steady, steady beat.

Then it stops….. but still no victim’s word as the cross is hoisted up on high,
the only sound now from a mother, but only then a small and muffled cry…
for her son who had not been given long in this savage, unremitting world,
she could only watch as the pain showed now, through his fingers as they curled.

As if it wasn’t enough to contend with, during this vile humiliation,
one warder, feeling guilty, takes a small sponge soaked in a libation,
obnoxious and crude, the guilt’s compounded as he offers it up with a snigger,
spiced unkindly with molding sourness, in the form of rancid, acrid vinegar.

With the victim’s weight overcoming what little strength he might have left,
comes the first cry, not pain but pleading, it would leave him hanging, bereft,
‘Why forsake me my father’, comes the cold, heart wrenching exhortation,
‘Forgiveness for all men, please’, a last wish for our lives, his final act before total decimation.

Thunder cracks, his crowned head falls, thorn pricked bleeding now stopped,
lightening spears from the heavens and to the ground, the fearful onlookers dropped.
Dressed in her blue, a mother pleads for the shattered body of her boy,
not even with this travesty heaped upon her, could her love for him destroy.

The crowd wails loud, rent their cloths, shed cold tears but while accusations fly,
from the rank steps a lone soldier who claims, from this shameful act, he’s now their converted ally.
With the body borne away, laying empty, that simple, blooded, anonymous wooden cross…
just like our wider world, does not appreciate the consequence of its part in humanities cruel loss?

 

© David Rollason  2017

 

The Spirit of O

This poem woke me up one morning and needed to be written down. It is just part a step forward in personal growth that I have been studying. It features what seems to be my spirit animal, can you work out which that is?


Moon bright eyes that
hold the wisdom of the ages
from the bottomless depth
of countless generations
passed on by means unseen
to watch and protect and heal
those that pass through its scope
of super visionary care

Sitting patiently through the twilight hours with
20-20, 360°, 1000 generation, universal understanding,
the least ripple or disturbance prompts
the silent swoop of evolutionary wings
that bring knife like talons to
pluck out with surgical precision
the scurrying destructive verminous pains
of some disordered life, one piece at a time

Disorder is not taken completely,
a reminder is left parcelled up in a pellet
just the bare bones of the problem
as a warning to think on for the future,
so breath and dream higher
absorb the constellation of those Moon bright eyes
that hold the wisdom of the ages
this is, the spirit of O

© David Rollason
April 2017