Prosperity please…

I just don’t get it.
I’m sure until that until some time over the last 5 years the word ‘austerity’ had mostly been used to refer to Dickensian novels, The Depression and post WW2 eastern Europe. Now it seems to be something to drown us with on a daily basis….. A great tsunami tidal wave of bankers debt and privatisation impacts heading towards those of us still living on the ground.
But it’s not a tsunami. It’s not drought, nor an earthquake, a famine or a flood. It’s money. Just money. Money. We created it, invented the whole ‘cabbages and kings’ thing, to consolidate power, control and hierarchy.
So…..why does it rule us? Fire, water, earth and air, they are realities to contend with but money is not ruled by the forces of nature so if we have the real resources of knowledge, skill and ability within health, education and social care to look after the social, emotional, educational and physical well-being of each other why is this being so threatened, restricted and ruled by money???? Austerity??Call me simple but I just don’t get it…

Prosperity please
That we might breathe.
debt collectors’ dirty boots,
Filthy, fowl footwear,
Bearing down,
Crushing rib and muscle
Above tightly buckled belt.
Contract the inner core,
Pull up the pelvic floor,
Still they weigh down
Forcing fear and loathing
Pushing hope
And we reach only for our own drop down oxygen mask.
Let us breathe.


I never invited them in…

Head a stick stirred wasps nest
I try to keep them in
Not sting

Wet towels on the floor:

Hungry cat:

Who used the last fucking toilet roll?
That’s it.
There I sit
Out they fly,
Bastard shitting little twats
Egalitarian in distribution
generous in delivery.

Head, an empty nest.
I sigh,
consider offers of calamine comfort,
But the tube is a little over squeezed
And just out of reach…
Not my fault…
I never invited them in!

Mr Gove’s Brilliant Idea!

Another clever parody from Mr Bernal 🙂

Paul Bernal's Blog

Mr Gove Brilliant Idea

Mr Gove didn’t like teachers.

Mr Gove had never liked teachers, not since he had been a child himself. His teachers hadn’t liked him. His teachers had always thought they knew more than him. But they hadn’t.

Of course they hadn’t. No-one knew more than Mr Gove. No-one understood things like Mr Gove. Certainly not the teachers.

That was one of the reasons Mr Gove had been so happy when Mr Cameron made him Secretary of State for Education – though of course Mr Gove would have been a far better Prime Minister than Mr Cameron. Because as Secretary of State for Education, Mr Gove could tell the teachers what to do. That would be wonderful, thought Mr Gove.

Mr Gove Close up

And it was wonderful. Mr Gove enjoyed telling the teachers what to do.

But it wasn’t quite as wonderful as Mr Gove had hoped. The teachers still wouldn’t always obey him…

View original post 642 more words

Mr Gove goes to war!

Paul Bernal's Blog

Mr Gove Goes To WarMr Gove was dreaming.

He was dreaming a dream of history. It was his favourite period of history, when Britain was Great. When Britannia Ruled the Waves.

He was dreaming of one of his heroes, Lord Palmerston. Lord Palmerston knew how to deal with the world. He knew how to make foreigners do what he wanted. He knew how to make Britain Great.

When Mr Gove woke, he met his friend Mr Cameron. Mr Cameron told him that there was a big problem in Syria. It might be so serious that they would have to go to war.

Mr Gove Goes To War Closer

Mr Gove listened to Mr Cameron. He felt sorry for the poor Syrians – but he remembered his dream. He remembered Lord Palmerston. He remembered what made Britain Great.

‘Be brave,’ he told Mr Cameron. ‘You know what needs to be done.’

But when Mr Gove looked at Mr Cameron he was not…

View original post 487 more words

Blow ins

Late night bar in Kinvara, County Galway, talking to ‘locals’ who reveal their status as ‘blow ins’, brought there by navigational instinct and kept there by an intuitive sense of belonging.
How much more welcoming a term is that than the Cumbrian ‘off-comers’? (
Made me think of Joanne Harris’ book/film Chocolat…

Blown in
On the wind
I envy you
The rise and fall of breath
in fresh new air,
The tingle of discovery,
The sense that this glass slipper of a place fits.

Born here,
It is stale
Over familiar.
I see the flakes in the paint
You call it quaint,
The jerk in the corner of the bar,
Your local character…
My cousin.

Lend me your eyes that I might see
This town without hostility.


Fire: too hot for tweed

A glimpse,
A glimmer
Of gold
Lights up our souls,
Lifts heavy hanging heads.
The rarity of fiery hours
With faultless blue above,
Sends us rushing from
Double glazed
Thermal insulation
Into open air,
We eat it up greedily,
Spinning out hours
Beyond sunset,
Firebrick warm beneath the feet.
We sleep soundly,
With underlying expectation
Of tomorrow’s grey.

Yet, another day begins
Beaming through the slatted blinds and
We are gifted with gilt once more.
We are drenched in sunlight:
Burnt out.

A staple diet of
Grey clouds and drizzle
Is no preparation for
This all inclusive,
Pepper pot banquet,
This endless hog roasting BBQ.
We need relief,
Release from this bondage
To bathe and bare all
Beyond tolerance.

We are a nation of tweed,
Log burners
And whiskey,
Flying towards the fire
On budget airlines
Then home again,
To warm tea and custard creams.

But we are trapped like moths
Circling a candle flame
Singed wings, weary from the beating.
Oh to complain of rain…..


The return

To return
To a place
I felt not in but out of,
From a sense of obligation
And commitment.
Sets of rules and strategies
I had no part in setting,
Goalposts I have no interest in aiming for…

My heart is heavy
I can feel its weight sinking down,
Lead poisoned,
into my stomach.

Life is short
And good health a privilege,
A bonus
Not to be taken for granted
Squandered or misused.

Talent is a perishable gift
With a best before date.
Needing nurture and nourishment
Not neglect.

Duty will make me return
To post.
To the lift of mind and spirit
At the rhythm of word and sound,
Tune and tone,
Will steer me away.

If I listen to the rise and fall
Of my breath
On an air or a reel,
My pulse will match the pace
Which I could follow….
If I listen…

‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be?

Marianne Williamson