The philandering common sense that misrepresents, all that we have that is heaven sent.
Copious by volume the rag tag band of materialists biting at the apple chewing false solidities.
And complaining once again that the tree grows so bare, whilst nary a thought to how hardy the tree has proven.
Slipping through the grate in ever greater numbers, the bums on the streets outnumber the bums on the seats.
As we few watch and wait some turn of events.....
Our wages spent on war, and ailments, which are become but a war of their own.
And owning the right to sit on a throne, alone, prone, and not doing what our intuition has shown.
All talking blithely of changes that are the same, speaking bigots each playing the same game.
Not to be judiciously prejudice, as long as you’re with me, if you are different, then forget coming for tea.
While away an hour, or a year, or a life, battling to be heard above the tide of daily strife.
Be you wise, be you mad, you are medicated the same, conventional wisdom tis what makes the grain.
The wood is not teak, nor sleek, nor antique, but it is made in a likeness, to seem something you seek.
Are you weak to submit to the cacophony of noise, to the ever more intrinsically same and boring toys.
Guided by a light that is flickering and dim, when but outside the door the sun is shining in.
Boarded all round by shutters pulled tight, patterns learned in infancy that are no longer quite right.
A house of your design, a fortress in your mind, a tool to help you deal with life’s daily grind.
I wonder is it a grind, just to smile, and see the sun.
Is it really so lonely when we all begin as one.
How much must we listen to the prattling commendations?
Always the same with no variation.
None of the verisimilitude of nature’s vegetation.
All tainted with the sound of failure and vexation.
Withholding joy, like a possession that is scant.
Listening to misery like Gregorian chant.
Climbing from the bed, pulling shutters back.
Looking from the window a soon learned knack.
Embracing all, and seeing their rightness, though not losing my own, instead my up tightness.
The brightness of a day so glorious and full, so inviting and tall like verdant green woods.
The clearness of the air at the top of a mountain, water cold and clear dripping from a fountain.
Simple pleasures all, not one downloaded, not one goaded, nor corroded image sent.
The witches’ cackle fades at the coming of each dawn.
The fawn is born and stands upon the lawn.
The sun is sworn in, the world is about.
Your fears disappear, night's candle blown out.....
The inimitable Peter Sellers in Being There
It was not that he was feckless, just absent the day they handed out feck... Neil Gaiman