Flying holiday

It’s hard to tell from way up here:

 the sea in sunshine sparkles blue

 and stretches far into the clear

 where misty white obscures the view

 of foam where ocean meets the land

 towards where boats with glistening trails

 approach the miles of yellow-white sand

 below the wisps cast by contrails

 which dissipate mysterious fumes

 invisible as wind in ancient sails

 to fill a gravity beholden room

 which some decry is off the rails

 while others will proclaim our doom

 and yet more still cry “fairytales!”

But all the way from way up high

 I soar above the rainbow fields

 the patchwork tulips please my eyes

 the oilseed boasts of bountiful yields

 which in my thirty years on earth

 have rarely ever seen decline

 but sadly this can’t spare the dearth

 of meadows in this land of mine

 where flowers once were wild and free

 unlike the wheat or cows or sheep

 and trees were spread abundantly

 though still I don’t find cause to weep

For happiness grows in the fields

   unnaturally sown

and from my vantage point up here

   I cannot be alone

in contemplating what we’ve lost

   but also what we’ve gained

and surely if we learned to fly

   we’ll conspire to make things better again.

Forum For the Future of Agriculture

‘What’s the role of the next generation?’

Asked a room full of white haired men:

‘Perhaps we might promote the youth

To lofty positions while passion has vigour?’

‘You’ll have your chance to have your say…

...In 18 years’ time when your hair is grey.’

‘Go figure.’

Notre Dame

Notre Dame burns,

and as the rich come out

My stomach churns

as if the church, without,

Would require these funds,

of malevolent benefactors

As the wealth, plundered,

resting in Vatican coffers

Remains unspent,

no remorse, no repent;

They claim to aid the needy,

Notre Dame burns and yet the greedy

Invest in a world

of paedophilia and hate.

Malevolent: money,

like the lady which burns,

singed on apathy

for the third world,

where unlike mine,

their stomachs churn

in need of infrastructure

and not a church.

Mammas and Pappas

Stars shining bright above you,
  Mammas and Pappas.
    If they feared the future,
      would they birth you?
Would we greet you with mirth
  as your head reaches the girth
    of Mamma's vagina,
      Pappa proud beside her?
Did they fear for your future,
  or perhaps their
    best wishes?
      Hope,
        surely,
          at the very least.

Science, art and communication

Imagine:

A world without science posters.

Imagine
How

Wonderful

That would be.

If we left the communication to the communicators,

Let some things be,

Untainted,

By overzealous scientific pedantry.

Get involved, by all means, but -

Listen,

Don’t judge,

You’ll see

How meaningful science

Could actually seem

To a real, tax-paying, layperson:

Science:
The fascinating story of life,

The universe

And our miniscule,

Infinitesimal place

To wonder

Among its wonders.

So how do we tell it so badly?

So badly that hardly anyone even reads half the papers that are written about it anyway.

Even science doesn’t care about science.

Hey, Dr. Scientist!

What’s on your reading list?

The Guardian,

Twitter,

And non-fiction…

...some sci-fi at a stretch…

...Nature reviews,

Perhaps the latest science news.

Then,

Back to twitter

To vent your views

On Brexit,

Or spread

Some much

Not needed

Pedantry,

Laced with jargon.

Twitter 101:

Be damned if you dare even suggest, nevermind share, an innocently left handed DNA helix.

All the while, little Felix

Is reading his pamphlet

On quite how ring like

Our flat earth donut

Has become.

Sucking his thumb,

Sore bum,

Red raw with mumps,

Mum says vaccines are for chumps.

Vote Donald Trump.

THUMP!

Creationism is sold as science.

Conspiracies are reached down lines of loose

But loosely evidenced

Enquiry.

Science cannot hide behind science

When it is being so brutally flaunted:

Taunted,

To perpetuate myths.

How do we suppose

Does half the world hate GMOs?

Or oppose

Gene edited crops.

Who knows,

Why people still believe in UFOs?

A demon haunted world

Superstitious of crows.

Homeopathy,

Rocks for your yoni....

Or just go Gwyneth Paltrow:

Full on vaginal steaming.

Titanic

Bullshit

Pervades.

But we’re never going to change that

By telling people they’re wrong.

Us and them,

As pink floyd said:

After all

We’re only ordinary men...

And women.

So where do we start?

Science,

Explained through art?

A picture tells a thousand words,

And a poem can paint them in succinct verse.

Stephen Hawking condensed the universe

Into a brief history of time,

Minus any unnecessary equations -

And he made it sublime.

The beauty in nature can be explained

by physics, chemistry, biology, maths.

It can only be truly described

Through art;

  The stroke of fine horse's hair

  or a sharpened feather

  fine and fair.

And whether intrinsic or learned

the artist's guile is guided by maths.

A shrewd eye shapes and forms a scene

as a lucid mind equates.

 The stroke of fine horse's hair

  or a sharpened feather
fine and fair.

With art we can open doors,

And open access.

With rhyme,

We can inspire more minds

To explore and play,

Try a little DIY...

Bio at home,

Now that we can sequence

A genome

Quite comfortably in it’s comforts.

PhDs, though oversubscribed

And still yet overabundant

Soon, perhaps, to become redundant.

Science, like the world

It seeks to explain

Must move with the times.

Bio by design,

Synthetic,

Not necessarily aligned

To stifling institutions,

Over hours,

Underpaid.

Innovation,

Not anathema to academia,

But made more swiftly possible

With time to play.

Tinker, tailor,

Start-up maker.

Writer, painter,

Storymaker.

Engaged and engaging;

Science told the proper way.

Brexit apoplectic (a monumental shart)

Brexit apoplectic,
No-one knows what they want
Except for those of us
Who hope, more in vain than despair,
That Spain might invade Gibraltar
And the whole problem would disappear
In the foggy fever of war.

And what's been revealed
From this monumental shart?
An imbecilic political elite,
Opposed by a wet paper bag
Against an undercurrent of bigotry
And mass neuronal redundance
The likes of which might justly cause
Brains to spontaneously combust in protest.

About as robust as an Italian road bridge,
May's knights of a three-legged table
Stand aghast, as Boris cackles,
Watching it teeter with the saw in hand,
And Juncker spanks May with the leg,
Cantankerously, deviant,
Tusk and all.

Mansplaining

Humble;

not easily ascribed to a scientist,
adjectively speaking.

Any man in need
of an insight into mansplaining
need only utter
a fluttering thought,
reasoned as it may be,
in the presence of a man
with a PhD.

Science;

the pursuit of the uncertain.
Its practitioners,
certain that they know it all.

Juxtaposition,
Troy will fall,
brains in balls.
Fumble,
mumble,
stumble,
stall.

It was written

Read more (books):

it puts a certain
perspective
on life.

Other lives,
lived,
never forgotten.

Easy, so it is,
to forget
what feels like
a modern day calamity
has happened,
repeatedly,
time,
and time,
after time.

What, then,
but to absorb
what will,
surely,
come again.

All aboard! (Dream of the Brexit steamer)

Last night,
a ship churned in belligerent waters,
tossing,
turning,
waves high above the bow and stern,
brown,
murky,
unable yet to return
to passages clearer,
onwards,
delinquently ploughed,
a hopeless dredgery
channeled within a channel;
no space to turn,
the ship,
set,
the only way forward, now,
to dig the hole
deeper yet.

Always the same

Always the same,
the vain hope:
that the self-considered "experts"
might defer

to those in that same,
perhaps vain,
self-considered position
going by a different name.

Witless: in defense of Aristocracy

And there they descend, one and all,
to rob me of my wits,
defenceless, against their witlessness,
driven up the sea life aquarium wall.

And there they flash, despite the wall's
clear sign. Splash! The turtle's wits
vanished along with mine. What line?
Oh, don't mind me, barge right on in.

And yet they may descend, one and all,
equipped with voting slips
in hand, despite their lacking wits,
I stand idly by, lamenting it all.

Why? Is it legal for them to vote,
but I am prohibited
from punching each of them in the head?
There's nothing in there to damage of note.

And so they descend, one and all,
my redundant fists
quivering, yet listlessly,
clenched into unsatiated balls.

The longest yarn

Drops Felting Fever sale now on!

The website proclaimed,

A mere search for yellow and grey

Wool, became

Much more intense than previously expected.

Life before crochet,

Was a more simple existence.

Now just hoping for some consistency,

At least on the edges

Of my new yellow and grey scarf.

Too loud on the Brexit front

The only thing certain about Brexit,
is that, far too many books
have already been written on the subject.

So, I thought, abjectly pondering
the wretched pile of self-righteous dogma
stacked to meet my browsing eye.

As if All Quiet on the Western Front
were as boisterously penned in 1913.
An affront to historical record, this
wretched pile. Better left, unseen.

The Houses of Parliament #2

I arrive

at the Houses of Parliament gate,

Inside

lies

May's pointy, bedraggled face,

tongue bent into a U-bend,

licking the shit

of a monumental floater

left by Cameron;

Refusing to plunge

but too slippery

to unblock,

deadlock:

Between a shitty brush

or a shitter flush.

Lord of the shambolic dance

I am lord of the dance!

Cried Farage

as he waltzed into Strasbourg

and dragged Britain out.

I am the wide mouthed frog!

Cried Cameron,

lord of the flies,

mouth full of piggy.

I am the lord of the pies!

Cried BoJo,

scratching at porkies

in a world full of fibs.

I am irrelevant!

Cried Crobyn,

missing the point,

missing the chance.

I am lord of the rings!

Cried May,

wishing she could disappear,

Gollum teetering on the edge.