A young man dies and we gather to grieve,
Attempt an answer to the question why,
Summon the composure to say goodbye,
Confused and confounded he had to leave.
Up to the moment, that second of fate,
Good years past but the best ahead,
Of the end not a hint, a trace, a shred,
That impatient cruelty would not wait.
If fortune smiles we grow up and we learn,
We gain wisdom, wit and experience,
Have a chance of success's radiance,
Have hope we survive each twist and turn.
We assemble to mourn a young man's death,
To remember him - first cry to last breath.
Here's a repeat of my June 2012 poem Theresa Might, Theresa May......
Details of internet use in the UK will have to be stored for a year to allow police and intelligence services to access it, under government plans. Records will include people's activity on social network sites, webmail, internet phone calls and online gaming. Home Secretary Theresa May said the change was needed to keep up with how criminals were using new technology. (Reported 14 June 2012)
Theresa Might, Theresa May, any moment, any day, will have the snooping powers to see what we all say and view. Theresa May, Theresa Might, have her own satellite to hear who we are talking too, to spy on things we like to do. Theresa Might, Theresa May, privacy has had its day, freedom's gained a ball and chain, in authority's clamping down campaign. Theresa May, Theresa Might, talking sense or talking shite, how'd she handle protest hits from fifty million texting Brits? Theresa Might, Theresa May, says change is needed to block the way of each criminal gang and terrorist cell - sledgehammer/nut, who can tell?
Cold callers, script-readers on the phone line,
"Allo, mate" the usual opening blurt,
From a geezer-sounding pipsqueak of a squirt.
Chumminess and sales patter both combine
To raise my hackles and to boil the blood -
Double-glazing, new driveway, roof repairs,
Insurance, pensions, random questionnaires -
Just snake-oil blether, full of crap and crud.
They want money, think I'm an easy touch,
Out for the vulnerable gal or chap,
The weakling, the patsy, the eventual sap,
To sign a contract for such and such.
The reaction to all this crap and crud?
Just slam the phone down with a thud.
Good news, shunted aside, outweighed by bad,
On TV, on radio and in print,
Try to spot the positives, eyes a-squint,
Trying to find the upbeat drives you mad.
Obsession with the bleak, the vile, the sad,
Squeezing out any trace, the slightest hint,
Not much sign of sparkle, shine or glint,
Instead the tainted lustre of the cad,
The faces of murderers and the crooks,
Their evil piercing eyes chilling the spine,
Hogging the main headlines with pithy hooks.
So much bad and ugly news to endure
Good news is rare as rocking horse manure.
'Tis the season for Christmas ads TV,
Time to roll out the cliches once again,
Goodwill to all children, women and men,
Ho, ho, ho and sentimentality.
Tables laden with tons and tons of food,
Lots of people clinking glasses: "Cheers",
John Lewis tugging heartstrings, maybe tears
As boy with penguin gets us in the mood.
Jingly bells and tinsel set the scene,
Trying for that warm pre-festive swoon,
Our eyes and ears tingle as the screen
Reminds us yer man Santa's coming soon,
But remember, lest business thinks we're green,
These ads were filmed in the middle of June.
Not all soldiers are heroes,
Not all enemies are evil,
Not all devils are god,
Not all gods are devil,
Not all we hear is true,
Not all we see is clear,
Not all we feel is threat,
Not all we sense is fear.