Dreams Of Happiness And Bliss

I wrote this poem over 10 years ago, while I was acting as a carer for my parents when they were very old and fragile, but re-reading it yesterday made me think how relevant the content is to what is happening in the world today, with a virtual mainstream media blackout on stories which show up governments in an especially bad light. I'm thinking especially about disabled and extremely sick people in the UK who have suffered as a result of the Work Capability Assessment as conducted by ATOS on behalf of the DWP.

 
Dreams Of Happiness And Bliss

We all dream of happiness and bliss,
That the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Will grant us this
But I am tired of how haphazard
And how erratic all this is.
I do not want to know celebrity gossip
Or who is in the A-list
Or to learn about the details
Of their phenomenal wealth.
It makes my stomach turn
When I’m confronted with the fact
Of the ailing health
Of those of modest means
Whose lifetime of honest toil
Invokes little gratitude
Or concern.

© Geoff Davis

The Powerful Slave

Give me control of a nation's money supply
And I will control its people
But I cannot control my greed
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my greed.
I am not free.

I cannot control my arrogance
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my arrogance.
I am not free.

I cannot control my bogus sense of superiority
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my bogus sense of superiority.
I am not free.

I cannot control my negative reactions
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my negative reactions.
I am not free.

I cannot control my habit of self-justification
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my habit of self-justification.
I am not free.

I cannot control my unconscious manifestations
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my unconscious manifestations.
I am not free.

I cannot control the indifference to suffering
Fuelled by my subjective opinions
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to the indifference to suffering
Fuelled by my subjective opinions.
I am not free.

I cannot control my violent temper
Rearing its ugly head
When confronted with opposing points of view
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my violent temper
Rearing its ugly head
When confronted by opposing points of view.
I am not free.

I cannot control a sense of false pride
At my prestigious position in the big society
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to a sense of false pride
At my prestigious position in the big society.
I am not free.

I cannot control my willingness
To send people to their deaths
Rather than concede that I could be wrong
So I am not master of myself.
I am a slave to my willingness
To send people to their deaths
Rather than concede that I could be wrong.
I am not free.
I am death itself
Even though I walk and talk and breathe.

© Geoff Davis 2013

Holy War

I was inspired to write this poem after watching a TV documentary "la guerra Santa" on the History Channel last night.

 

Holy War

There is no such thing as a Holy war

For no war is ever Holy, nor

Can men, who are more

Than mad machines, ever kill

Or commit indiscriminate mass murder

Then rejoice and shriek, “God is Great!”

That is the ultimate blasphemy,

The ultimate heresy,

The ultimate apostasy.

Such creatures are the true kafir,

Light-years away from Seeing,

Light-years away from Being.

Who can cure

Their psychological blindness and paralysis?

Whatever you conceive God to be

God can only ever be Great

When “men” struggle with their capacity

For hatred, hostility and contempt.

God can only ever be Great

When “men” struggle with their tendency

To judge while justifying

Their own words and deeds.

God can only ever be Great

When “men” struggle with their capacity

For vanity and misplaced self-confidence.

God can only ever be Great

When “men” struggle with their tendency

To be impatient, self absorbed and intolerant.

God can only ever be Great

When “men” question their certainties,

Stripped of objectivity, those certainties

Which all that is false in them

Holds dear.

Those two words: Holy War

Were never intended for the ears and minds

Of mad machines and literalist brutes.

Perhaps we should change our language:

The Inner Struggle is a term that suits.

 

© Geoff Davis