Sport at its best

Sport at its best is a lively diversion from the everyday.

An encouragement to exercise in your own way.

Magnificently unimportant.

Allowing the ridiculously passionate and the armchair enthusiast

To indulge themselves at rest.

That is when sport is at its best.

Then when you consider:

The obscene amount of money it generates

That feeds and nurtures and exaggerates

And becomes itself corrupted and corruptible.

Sport does not look so good.

Then when you observe:

The racism and spectator violence and the often necessary brutality.

The chemical enhancing and doping and the cheating reality.

Then the unnecessary pain that is in the name of entertain.

And a horse writhing, jerking in wide-eyed agony... before it is shot dead.

The physical trauma of training and exercise every day.

For that one in a thousand chance of fame and pay.

The motor sport crash at the edge of speed.

Or a child robbed of a childhood indeed.

Where do we go from here?

Where does sport defend itself?

It is just another gamble.

Violet is a good number

Violet is a good number.

                But it does not buy you a lot.

                Nowadays.

Rectangle is a great colour.

                But not bright; a squarish grey would be duller.

Eighteen is a strange shape.

A straight line and another, I’d say.

Which goes round and round in a figureightively way.

Netball is a nice name.

Not as cute as Alice or Molly.

Or Suzie or Diana of Royal fame.

Wendy  is a cool letter.

Maybe its German or Greek the epsilon way.

Perhaps it’s French like doobler-vay.

Z is a sweet girlie game.

I’ve never played it.

And I’ve heard that it’s tame.

My words all got a bit confused!!

Connections getting all misused.

But I think I like them better this way.

Cos they have some unusual things to say.

Each story is but a hero's journey

Each story is but a hero’s journey

But there is no hero here.

Well, we hoped for one

But he didn’t come.

And there’s not much of a story left;

Just an ending.

My end will come swiftly.

That’s what they say.

A convulsion, a shaking tremor..

Will there be time for me to feel any pain?

Panic? Again, I know not... but it’s all the same..

It is so idyllic here.

Miles from roads and lanes and even tracks..

No traffic, no civilisation I have retired to such peace.

I love this place and would choose no other

I get a bit lonesome, but where others might choose to have lots of people around

I prefer to be alone. At any rate.

And I have so much, so much to contemplate.

The sun doesn’t know. It is warm and bright and reassuring.

The animals and birds don’t know

And I enjoy their company, their chatter, their everyday patter;

Happily all about and around me they are.

The view stays the same.

The trees, the fields, stretching to the hill

Over which I know there is a sea, constantly moving and shushing against the shore.

The sea doesn’t know. But it will.

I don’t know why they called it hero.

Seems a strange choice of name.

To begin with it was just called XTP4771.

I preferred that.

It should have been called plague or pestilence.

It does not matter how all this happened..  not now.

I did a lot of why-me-ing in the early days

But I can now be stoic.

The acceptance is about complete.

My needs are simple.

I have enough food to last me for these last few months.

Tins, jars, pickles and fruit.

And the garden is blooming with produce.

There’s always soup.

And the well gives me fresh water.

No tv. No radio. No e-mail or phone.

I do not need the news.

Above all. I do not need the news.

The swimming pool gets a bit dirty

 I clean it every day.

But the filter doesn’t work any more anyway.

They’ve tried to find a cure.

The famous minds

They can create the genome; see  quarks.. but they haven’t a clue.

They’ve tried nuclear blast on the moon

But the cracks they created don’t help...

November 19^th 2018.

That’s a date to remember,

Not for the thanksgiving..

I have nothing to be thankful for.

Just the past.

And that won’t last.

They even know the time.

4.27 GMT. And that will just be the countdown.

There will be no newspaper to tell the doom.

And chaos will prelude the end of the world I assume.

As hero hits the moon.

They probably know by now the exact time that the worlds will collide.

But, if you’ll excuse me; I’ll just reside.

Here.

With my peace and my tranquillity base.

I can imagine others. Just like me. Waiting.

And the turmoil, the violence, the anger and confusion

The profusion of disillusion.         

But I thank God it doesn’t reach me.

God.... Now there’s a thing.

I don’t think a lot of him.

But I am sure he carries a lot of the blame.

He sent the flood – now hero’s the name.

Question everything........(with a landay)

Question everything; don’t believe what they say..

     then you think it through and do it your own way.

A tiny little germ of an idea;

     and it becomes a worm of an idea...

And you work on it a bit there a bit here..

     and wriggles and slithers about becomes clear.

Easy to be glib and metaphorical

     perfectly sounding and allegorical.

But the truth is. And you must know it is true

     you just don’t know what’s around the corner for you.

May be good is probably gonna be bad

     much more likely to be boring even sad.

But just accept it. Life is just a trap

     in the end its eleven syllable crap.

Just a description

Just a description.  Of then and last night.

Sitting alone, sounds abound around.

The distant clack of golf ball thwack.

And travelling fast down fairway green to green.

Birds calling from tree to tree

To each other but not to me.

Distant voices, conversation out of my ear.

Shouts not clear.

And amongst it all.

There is such a silence to recall.

Hot tubs are amazing things.  

Bubbling steamy water, in unlikely places..

Out in the open, a chill breeze blowing and it’s dark and it’s late.

Plastic glasses of champagne floating on a plastic tray. And hey!

“It’s so much easier looking at a million stars above your head:

When you are floating in wonderfully hot water”  I said.

!!#!!#!!

!!#!!#!!

Do other languages

Have as much colour as ours?

And I say ours because patently...

You can see I write in English abc

I know the French have a bit of merde.

And the Italians have their ming.

But when there’s anger in the air and English feelings want to share,

We are so colourful. And rude and crude.

And spitting oaths and swearing vicissitude.

I struggle to imagine a Scandinavian gent

Letting words go and his anger vent.

Or a polite little Japanese lady

Using the vernacular words so shady.

Do the Masai swear?

Or Africaaner  vulgar anger share?

Probably.

Yes to all of these.

Perhaps it’s just a human trait

To mix together words of sex and hate.

And use them to language punctuate

Maybe they just aim to shock and bait...

The gentle and polite.

Zebras have stripes

Zebras have stripes,

Black and whites.

Camels have humps,

Great big lumps.

Kangaroos, now they have pouches:

Little Joey comfort couches.

And elephants – well, they have trunks

To suck through like giant straws...

Stripes and humps and pouches and trunks

Wonderful  wildlife in diverse chunks.