In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Fun Platform.”
The question here was ”If you were the new leader of your country and had the chance to transform something that’s currently an annoyance (or worse) into a very fun activity, what would it be? How would you go about the change, and why would you choose that particular thing?”
I think one of many possible answers is that I find the slow response to our housing crisis MORE than annoying and many things could be done about that but the FUN version would be in helping, guiding and to some extent assisting and certainly encouraging people to get involved in building their own homes and helping each other to do so as this has some advantages
- the houses would be more expressive of peoples creative selves
- the owners would have far more understanding about how the house works when it comes to maintenance
- they could look into ways to make living in their home cheaper (re power etc) and this would be ecologically enlightening
- The whole exercise would be empowering and many skills would be learned and people would be truly proud of their neighbourhood
- If people built their own houses and neighbours were all helping each other to do so (which did use to be the case) a community would be built in the process, as well as the houses
I do not suggest that this should be the only solution to our housing crisis but it would be nice if it was encouraged rather than obstructed as much as it is in the UK now
Poetry
The Circle
I look to the East at the sunrise
and the day, shining, awake,
the dew falls on the grass
I think of all we can make
I look to the South for warmth
where fire burns and renews
and the noon of day and completion of youth
and my heart opens, eager for truth
To the North I look to the sky
and the pattern of stars in the dark
seeing the light that shines, long after they’re dead,
from one strong kindling spark
I look to the West and the rivers that flow
remembering the salmons leap
and have faith in all we can do
and all of life’s treasures we keep
as the wheel turns and turns again
the centre remains ever still
one fixed point that sustains us all
to do whatever we will
I stand at the centre at last
to feel my own soul and know
that future, present and past
are all a repeating flow
I stand at the heart of a circle
my heart warmed by the sun
aware of the world that’s around me
beginning and end are all one
and where many circles overlap
and all of them intertwine
a wondrous, eternal flower is formed
of all the worlds souls, and mine
Cheating Fool
a man is a fool when he thinks he can master
with lies, false semblance and trickery
the hearts of many women
he fails to hear all their sisterly whispers
behind closed doors and windows
a man is a fool when he thinks he can master
the hearts of a harem of women
self-deluded by his own shallow charms
he will find he is on a lonely old path
and his harm will be to himself
a man is a fool if he thinks he can master
the minds of many women
the sadness in this is the innocent hurt
those poor girls in love with a fool
may he drown in a pool of their tears
a man is a fool when he thinks he can master
many women on one hidden leash
the days will come, again and again,
when he ties himself up, in a tangled rope,
to finally hang his own soul on a tree
and swing in a sorry wind
a micropoem
Take me to the Greenwood
Let me run away
The more I see the evening news
The less I want to stay
Sorrow
the dark is full of shining stars
the moon will fade tomorrow
the morning sun is coming up
these things are sure as turning fate
but i can only sit and wait
the night will surely follow
the house is there but we are not
no fire burns within the grate
now the hour is growing late
home and my heart are hollow
no matter how the birds may sing
I sit here full of sorrow
Swans
the clouded sunlight through the trees
casts shadows, stilled, across the lake
the silvered white of floating swans
shines out against the gathered gloom
eyes that shed slow tears recover
with beauty there, to rest upon
Bank Holiday Blues
Bank Holiday gloom seeps into the room
from a flat sky, full of grey light,
pressed to the glass of the window
three days of no brightness
changes the view
this hollow whiteness
deadens the day
the sounds become softer
the memories harder
of all that is vanished away
When I am Old (revised)
Dedicated to my Mother ~
when i am old i wont do anything
but think
and run my life back and forward
in my mind
in translucent back-lit visions
the trek to the kitchen and back
a long journey
re-gaining at last the armchair
i sleep
to dream dreams of the long gone
i will develop a liking for jelly and custard
milk pudding
soup from a can and cheese with jam
cream cakes
and forget what i meant to have for breakfast
the taps will drip, the fire will burn cold
windows rattle
and the mice will move in unafraid
as company
and eat the fabrics to tatters
I will confuse the books i have read
with memories
i will see the ghosts of my family
standing by
and wonder if they wait for me in the night
I wont care about any of this
watching light
watching shadows move across the walls
distant birds
i will ignore all bad news and live in imagination
drifting back to childhood again
so clear
with all my family gathered around
the dead ones
now is just a space between sleeping and waking
Circle Declaration
The wrong words have been spoken.
They summon up famine,
injustice and grief.
The line is narrow and doesn’t turn back.
Progress and riches,
shot like an arrow,
Power and greed pull back the bow.
I hear it groan, as it strains and creaks.
The higher it flies the further it falls.
The circle is endless,
The earth is all-knowing,
Liquid with sunlight
Holy and starbright
A mystery sings, at the heart of it all.
The movement is one of coming and going,
Eternally growing,
naturally flowing.
For wisdom and balance we send out the call.
Farewell to Summer
we look to the future of warm winter fires
farewell to sweet summer, before long to return
the hedgerows are full of the fruits of the sun
we sowed in good trust and reap what we earn
John Barleycorn, he must die once again
we harvest the grain for the threshing floor
returning the first gifts to bless the land
it is the time to give thanks for our winter store
The Dreaming Path 