Google it
The diminishing drought drains
knowledge at my finger’s tip;
I once cherished the unpredictable rains,
held out my tongue to catch each drip,
wondered at the taste.
I can feel those flavours slip
past parched roots in streams of waste;
They leach into polluted pools,
rotten reservoirs on tap to haste,
and fill the brains of fools.
Vaccines (or what happens without them)
The drizzle sits as bleakly suspended mist
on a backdrop of grim skies and damp, grey stones
where forgotten names begin to erode;
memories reduced to blank slate and rust.
The howling wind echoes the wailing ghosts
of mothers who mournfully trace each etched word
and sorrowfully watch as the wretched world
so quickly forgets the many children lost:
consumed and taken, snatched in a fleeting youth,
so commonly before what now is so rare.
To succumb, after all that, so unfair
to the victim who deserved, merely, the truth.
Praying for a cure
In the tumult of a rain-lashed moor
a mother bleats her confused woe
in grief over a lifeless corpse,
gaunt with eyes hollowed out by crows.
Dead against the fast-shut door,
her wails consumed by thunder claps
whisper through long-rotten cracks
phantasmally along the floor
to land a chilling shiver
on the shoulders of a mother, poor,
who cradles her ailing litter
praying to God for something more.
Let's all agree this year's been sent
down hell's handwoven clutch,
but for most not half as much:
lockdown's tough, death permanent.
Thought For Food: The 2020 Challenge Finale
No New Normal
Where’s half a year just gone?
Remember when the desolation of Earth
was Bolsonaro’s inferno in the Amazon?
Australia scorched in wild scintillation.
6 months ago we still felt the lick of flames,
smelt the smoke,
and in fear of what that meant would come,
sick to the stomach, watched on.
It’s getting HOT in here.
In the sky, under the collar,
Chop a tree, make a dollar.
Holla!
Have we already forgotten?
Reeling, dizzy on the floor,
as we choke on yet another mess of our own making.
Scarred lungs hack up an ironic jeer
as the world succumbs on this, of all years,
To the plague of nature’s discontent,
the fires of our negligence,
the bomb blasts of hate,
cold-blooded murder sanctioned by the state,
refugees waiting in vain to escape, left callously at sea to drown.
As the pandemic accelerates the wide world round,
The inequalities are stark.
While the rich lockdown in luxury,
extra fast broadband, food on demand,
elsewhere many can’t rely on delivery,
or a supermarket on every street.
What good is a vaccine if you’ve fuck all to eat?
And who’ll be the first to receive it?
How many, through heinous misinformation, will refuse it?
There is No. New. Normal.
Just the same old injustices.
New normal means we accept pandemics,
and starving kids.
New normal means we ignore the fires raging in the Arctic,
and biodiversity on the brink.
There can be No. New. Normal.
We will not settle for this.
We will build a better world.
Where Black Lives Matter.
Where every child can enjoy a hearty platter.
Where we can thrive alongside nature.
Why settle for the status quo, when we can build a better tomorrow?
Through fires, viruses, genocides, bombs: to stand together, as a global community, through each and every woe.
Down under, six months ago,
the world could see that: even in the most desolate, burnt-out lands,
as the embers continue to glow,
before even the first raindrops begin to fall,
seedlings emerge and green shoots begin to sprawl.
And so for us, though Malaysia may have been put on hold,
our Thought For Food community, emboldened
with the hybrid vigour of diversity and youth, showed
How fresh young roots,
intertwined in a world wide web,
have the power to plant life
into any famished corner.
To nourish the whole.
Finally: for ten teams with a shared purpose. A common goal.
Years of dreaming, months of preparing, one five minute pitch to change the world.
To show us all that 2020 has not been cancelled, it’s an urgent call,
to reNature,
to replenish,
to flourish,
to grow.
There is No. New. Normal.
We’re here to uproot the status quo.
Since men were slain by Gilgamesh,
we've toiled in fields at his behest;
the Big Man, insecure on his nest.
We are the serially abused,
generations woefully misused;
by hoe, by sword, malnourished, confused
into deifying this beast, this tyrant,
obeying his petulant wants;
meek in the shadow of the absconce.
The armchair statisticians are out in force,
fewer than 0.1% able to calculate a percentage,
p<0.05 the other 99.9% lie
far down the conspiratorial wormhole.
Yet I raise a wry smile
as even with gibbons in charge
at least gibbons have more gumption
than the graphically misaligned.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine
on Saturdays the bustling city sings
as shoppers from miles enjoy the surroundings
and the ale drinkers in pubs enjoy fine things
and toast to this fine city we’re living in.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine,
no rural backwater this - it’s thriving
with swing dancing and clubs to shag and jive in
and an atmosphere that’s warm, gentle and nice
and people who smile and ask you how’s your life.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine
the crowds roar as Delia’s Canaries win
and bathe the city in a green and yellow shim,
fill the Adam and Eve and the Woodcock Inn
and cram the teeming Murderer’s to the brim.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine,
steady as she soars and graceful as her wing,
among the boughs on Wensum’s banks, blackbirds sing
and willows weep tears of joy to grace this fine
place, where old, cobbled roads twist up timber hills.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine,
streets lined with sagging beams that lean over lanes
adorned with flint walls and churches that remain
to have seen it all; England’s rise, through plagues,
where once sat kings, the castle reigns over still
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine,
perched upon the towering cathedral spire
around which the river’s gentle banks inspire
tales from within the fantasies of this fine
place - a UNESCO world city of literature.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine,
not a rich place, this, but filled with a rare wealth
that can’t be found in vaulted banks. There’s a soul
to this fine city - an independent scene -
Birdcage, Les Garrigues, Cafe Writers, Magic Es.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine,
where guys and girls on skates roll together,
and prosecco is sipped on boats on the Broads
and it’s hard to complain about the weather
in this big sky place, this delightful dry place.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine,
on those dazzling days down by the UEA
the lake sparkles like silver disco balls
and the world leading science down the road,
the reach of which cannot be overstated.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine
my heart swells when I gaze on the market
and tears of pride well in my lucky blue eyes
to be one of the most fortunate of guys
to dwell in this city finer than divine.
Under the watchful eye of the peregrine
times change, people too, and if I had to go
a piece would tear from the heart which tells me so
and call me back from time to time
to this beloved place,
a city of a thousand dreams
that will never be replaced.
The ease of a safety net
The steel cable from below
seems taut and secure
to the crowds who gawp up,
incredulous, mouths agape,
there perhaps for the spectacle
or, sadistically, awaiting a fall.
The walker, high above them all
treads precipitously;
each step one closer to the edge,
forever in the balance.
The risk: to plunge
without a safety net.
The walker; brave entrepreneur defying destiny
in a world where most of his kind is sure
never to hit the chastening ground.
Rather, to relax in the elastic threads of a million dollar blanket;
Grand Theft Auto “get out of jail free”.
They tell you to spread your wings,
follow your calling,
so confidently.
For some, it’s easy.
For the rest: tentative steps.
A bold misjudgement could spell bankruptcy
without the bank of mummy and daddy.
Another summer passes by,
this one so fleetingly
yet I see them pile into bars
and queue, toe-to-toe,
maskless.
I think of my friend
whose mother passed away
and I wonder -
have they ever felt loss?
do they have no-one,
even themselves,
for whom they care?
All we were asked was this:
For the vulnerable, for the elderly... Wash your hands. Cover your face. Keep your distance. Show you care.
Too much, for the steaming libertarian.
Imagine, for a moment, living a life already impinged upon, restricted, forgotten - now to truly understand the level of contempt with which your life is regarded.
Imagine being churlish enough to complain of restricted freedoms, unattainable for those who we might, kindly, protect.
Every mask unworn means another day of isolation for those who never had a choice.
Wash your hands. Cover your face. Keep your distance. Show you care.
