Colin F. Jones
THE NEW YEAR
Life is a challenge, war being part of it;
It begins with birth and the struggle to survive.
Tis natures system in which we all fit
And we must rejoice if we are still alive.
Like forest trees occupying space,
Like the fox and owl and insects high and low,
Man shares his life takes an ordered place,
In wind and rain, sunshine and the snow.
Born with the will the tools to survive,
Tis you or me or someone else more bold,
For the strongest seed always will revive,
To brave the hardships of the bitter cold.
For only you can alter in the end,
Which way your road will ultimately wend.
It is up to me to assess the way things are,
To make adjustments that suits my future best,
To overcome the magnet of the bar,
To secure my own established family nest.
We oft blame others for our various faults,
Our inability’s to carry out our plan,
Succumb to weakness that our boldness halts,
Losing faith in doing what we can.
For it’s often easier subserviently to claim,
Assistance always given at a cost,
Brief respite leading on to shame,
For what you have is less than what you’ve lost,
For one prepared to suffer and still fight,
Will gain from life its wonderful delight.
Tis easy in the valley to live and grow,
No hills to climb, no snow-caps to allay,
But when the Westerly winds begin to blow,
And the rivers rise to flood life all away
One needs the skills the mountainsides to climb,
The ability to live in the precipitous wastes,
For nature brings four seasons over time,
To cater for a host of different tastes.
Silver spoons make terrorists out of some,
Who find few men will bow to their beliefs,
Thus look for groups opposing what is done
And soon become their enthusiastic chiefs.
Too often parents ensure their kids refrain,
From playing softball in the pouring rain.
4: Lessons from Nature
All living creatures are the foe of man,
When he disturbs the areas where they graze.
Nature has culled the herd since time began,
And will battle with man its environment to save.
Disturbed, the virus leaves its dormant den,
To wage a war against its greatest foe.
The waters of the rivers, with no fen,
Find new routes for their turbulence to flow.
The lands all stripped to grow for human’s corn,
Turn to salt and deserts and decay,
And torrid fires blaze in hate to warn,
That destroying nature is not the wisest way.
Can man then mend his ways and alter fate?
Or will this wisdom come to him too late?
Those who oppose the way man kills the beast,
Destroys the land to satisfy his greed,
Seek by every means some power at least;
In some minor way to preserve the vital seed.
But such a base with potential power decreed
Attracts the political monsters from the mire,
Which see a weakness on which their cause can feed,
Thus by this stealth their own beliefs transpire.
So communism imbeds itself in green,
And psychotic men are priests and corporate men,
Folk become suspicious and turn mean,
And trust is lost in the critics poison pen.
Now everywhere we go there is a spy
That will trust you not, until the day you die.
6: False Society
All men do not discover the strength of friends,
Beyond the limited versions of their schools,
They cannot tell when another just pretends,
Or treats a ‘friend’ as just a useful tool.
In all men truth demands respect,
Due to the fact that it is seldom used,
A humbling experience is the truths effect,
Particularly on those whom the truth abuse.
The lie believed is one that sounds like truth,
The one we want to hear and obey,
It matters not if there’s a lack of proof,
If what is said is what we’d want to say,
If we had the courage to say it loud and clear,
That all sundry could have the chance to sneer.
7: Freedom of Choice
Would time in Jail be much worse than war?
It is free choice to do, as you believe.
And one can join a home-based national corps,
Though either way some flak you will receive.
Folk judge others by their own belief
Instead of by the ethics of the other,
And serve those bold enough, with grief,
All they stand for and believe to smother.
We claim our freedom is for one and all,
And yet it serves but those who have the say,
For many who do not answer the trumpet call,
Oft serve their nation in a different way.
For what you do is your own choice to make,
And it matters not who thinks it a mistake
I’ve written no word that ever made a dime,
Nor published a single verse that was for sale,
I was not believed when I said my rhyme,
Was written for love of writing fair or fail.
I do not compete with poets and their work,
Nor do I compare my poetry with theirs,
While perhaps in others oft my verse might lurk,
Tis for this purpose that a poet shares.
I like to hear sweet things about me said,
But yet in truth the other kind will do,
For truth is like a drug inside my head,
And that is how I relate to all of you.
This is my choice for reasons of my own,
And I will reap all the seeds I’ve sown.
9: Ritualistic Exploitations
Like the church the court likes to impress,
With grey perukes which falsely claim their heads,
Their superior manner is in the way they dress,
But often lacking in the way they tread.
Trained more in acting than in seeking truth,
Devising ways to further raise their fee,
Defending liars without any proof,
Condemning those who often should go free.
Justice one would think is based on facts,
But where they’re lacking anything will do,
Dependant on how well the Lawyer acts,
The murderer might serve a year or two.
Part of the farce the courts of modern times,
Are hobbled by the weight of their own crimes
10: False Monuments
The feathers of a Peacock look so nice,
But never would I want to be the bird,
For to wear such plumage always has a price,
And that to me would seem a thing absurd.
I hold no value for the monuments of men,
Raised only to promote their personal fame,
For the methods of the many I condemn,
For their aspirations leave me cold and lame
If what is true is true then that is so,
But that is not what History books can claim,
For what we read is not what we do know
And monuments should oft be seen with shame.
And still we see these shrines to famous men,
Inscribed in biased books by greedy pen
11: Self Regard
To write for payment as a reporter does,
Is not to write with one’s own thoughts at all,
Tis like a bee that does not have a buzz,
Without its wings it would simply fail and fall.
But no writer used is used without consent,
Reluctant though the writer’s consent may be,
Though it may be to pay the family rent,
Tis still the writer’s decision to agree.
We all have choices though confirmed by threat,
We are responsible for every one we make,
We may indeed suffer deep regret
But it was not the fault of another man’s mistake.
For what we write and choose then to approve,
Is our own work though changed to fit a groove.
12: Religious Equality
More oft is God discovered from a crime,
Committed with a will and full intent,
In order to elude the threat of ‘time’,
Or from the gallows where he may be sent,
Than can be measured by existing fact,
That must apply to criminals as to priests,
Because their purpose they cannot retract,
Thus criminals from prison are released.
If we doubt the truth that God exists,
Bring our system into disarray,
Then he who claims enlightenment and insists
Would not be saved from justice in this way.
For we yet judge the criminal by a law,
That he despises yet he must adore
13: Treading Water
The road is wide here in the present,
Behind me in the past it is so narrow,
And far ahead tis thinner than a pheasant,
Do I go back or walk towards the morrow
Either way I walk the road won’t widen
Yet always it is wide here where I walk
I don’t know which direction to decide on,
So I’ll walk in circles like a fishing stalk
Where I am can never be disputed,
As where I’ve been and where I’m going can,
And who I am is in the present rooted,
For I am but am ephemeral man
Walking through this life’s like treading water,
Aging Like a pile of bricks and mortar
14: I’d Walk Backwards
I would, I think, walk backwards if I could,
For everything we love we leave behind
Though many things were never understood,
I learnt along the road of being kind.
Those friends who died would still be living now,
Those precious moments before we knew regret,
Would still be bringing joy to me somehow,
And what a precious moment when we met.
And I would not yet live in pain and sorrow,
Nor have seen my friends and my Mother die,
For all there is in seeking out tomorrow,
Is to suffer growing older and decline,
Yet we must walk the road until its end,
Follow it to wherever it may wend
15: For Whom We Are Sad
It is ourselves, for whom we are sad,
From that vision which lives still in the eye,
Or from the loss of someone closely clad,
Who lose their lives before their time to die.
We all recall that, which we fear to lose,
Even lost love lives in a heart forever
Tis not denied by the path we choose,
But most of it, in time, we seek to sever.
There’s always purpose why one perseveres,
With past pain that ought to be forgotten
For pain subsides with the pass of years,
Times tub is filled and woes rest on the bottom
Despite its purpose the river, it still flows,
To where a river when it’s flowing goes.
Is what is written really what you’ve read,
Or have you added words that are not seen;
Much perhaps resides inside your head.
The colour blue is almost nearly green!
Oft some do try to force their simple word
Upon the sentence that doth tease them most,
And though their method is at best absurd,
It does reveal their tendency to boast.
Yet those who boast are nearly always wrong,
They hide behind the noise their mouths do make,
Gather at their heels an uncultured throng,
That all they do is keep true folk awake.
For hollow boulders are but simple fools,
Who live as faction failures discarded tools
17: Who Do We Blame?
We all have parents be they known or not,
And all are subject to the laws they made,
Each and every one got what they got,
Subject to the system; beer or lemonade
My father was no doubt by his dad taught,
As grandad was by his dad taught as well,
On which one do I blame my poor report,
On my Great Grand Fathers Father’s trip to hell?
The Earth is built on chance that it survive,
That those who have the will to live will find,
A way to do it right and stay alive,
For it was by the creator so designed
Few risk their lives to follow unworthy trends
But those who do must accept where it wends
18: They Don’t Deserve
They don’t deserve the sickness or the pain.
They don’t deserve the struggle to cope.
It’s all to please the so-called maker’s name,
But it gives no cure, just its feeble hope.
Held to ransom by the promise of immortal life,
Made to beg, suffer, and to praise,
The Dictatorial God lest he bring more strife,
But he does nothing despite what mankind says.
Where is the sign the evidence for truth
That lives beyond the influentially biased thought?
Where in this mystery is there real proof
That is not from some institution taught?
I stand bewildered seeing in my sight,
Only that which is, though tis day or night.
19: We Who Are Right
Let us condemn all who do not agree,
With what we believe or what we have to say.
Defame them; let them wallow by our decree,
In their unimportant lives that will decay,
Not as ours, for we have prayed to God,
Thus by this gesture despite its selfish aim,
Our souls will rise before the wasting sod,
A lasting heaven a paradise to gain.
For is not our thought superior to theirs,
Who have no souls unless their thought agrees
That only we can climb the imaginary stairs
To the wonderland that nobody living sees?
There are none so blind as the arrogant at the door,
Who step inside to find there is no floor.
The wind will blow as the wind will blow
And where it blows the birds will choose to fly
Only man defiant will choose to go,
The other way but still decay and die.
The perfect cycle the brutal natural ring,
That sets the fulcrum at the ideal place,
With balanced preponderance controlling everything,
Determines all expressions on every face.
Make what you will of Summer’s tepid heat,
Of Winter’s white that covers all with snow,
Of Springtime’s freshness; perpetual repeat,
Of Autumn’s fall where all that lives must go,
For in the end all that man has done,
Makes little difference; death will still have won.
We can all dream for dreamers oft are we,
Who imagine scenes that make us all feel good,
Determine truth, as we would have it be,
Fight our battles without the loss of blood.
But the real world works in a different way,
Death does not concern itself with age,
Nor is the night separate from the day,
And by design mans wars will always rage.
We can’t retreat from truth burnt in our eyes,
Into the worlds of peace where we do dream,
Nor resurrect the man who cruelly dies,
Nor wipe away the memories of his scream
Thus we invent a heaven and a God,
Who yet might save us from this mortal sod
Most are folk who follow well-worn roads,
Some, as I, prefer their own made trail,
As some will seek assistance with their loads;
I carry mine until I win or fail.
None held my hand when I stretched out my arm,
None picked me up when I tripped and fell,
Thus I discovered none could do me harm,
If what I felt and thought I did not tell.
So now that I have conquered all that fear,
And studied deeply those who thought they knew,
What I now know which brings me inner cheer,
Is unaffected by their narrow view
That what is mine though mine and who I am,
Belongs not to me or to another man.
I stand alone; I serve not man nor beast,
Lest I do choose to serve that I may gain,
Substantial progress that in time at least,
I stand alone proud of my own good name.
Who can I help if they think I can’t,
And if I can’t what point is there to try;
One must appoint himself above their claim,
For rivals will always pass another by.
Tis where and how one rises to a height,
Who owns the paper on which his words are writ,
It matters not how good a man can fight,
Tis what his promoter will gain out of it.
Many will pick you up and help you stand,
But few will lead you further by the hand
24: A Walk Through Life
Once through a snow-clad garden I did stroll,
Where with me went my attitude and thoughts,
Across the Shire the Spondon bells did toll,
Disturbing Rooks and starlings in their resorts.
A Saxon cross deep set in a graveyard lot,
Declared a link with the history of the land,
That knew of Roman Legions and Kingly plots
And the music of the Spondon Coronation band.
Nearby the woodlands of our delightful youth,
Lincoln Evergreens white with melting snow,
Hid the broken monuments of historic proof;
Wasted remnants where the blue bells grow.
And on the pond iced o’er with rounded face,
Our skates cut grooves that vanished without trace.
He who survives the battle who fought it well and true,
Is subject to a guilt no others are,
For he wishes he was there among the vanquished few,
Lost of all the torment death would bar
Only liars have no fear lest they do lack a heart,
For combat soldiers all are frightened men,
It is the courage of conviction that sets them all apart
The guilt is born when they come home again
Some soldiers know of combat others none at all,
Most are pleased they saw no battle ground,
But with retrospective thinking while gazing at the wall,
They almost wish their own names there were found.
Survivors feel guilty because their comrades died,
Who fail to reason, why they themselves survived.
We may not choose the horse we wish to ride,
Nor design the saddle thrown upon its back,
But the way we ride it we alone decide,
Which reveals our ethics, and the ones we lack.
We can steal the hammer from the hands of Thor,
But few will hear the thunder that it makes,
We must be honest for there is little more,
For a man becomes all the things he fakes.
To write of others to promote ourselves,
Is writing for ourselves and not for them,
Some into another’s lifestyle delves,
And fail to find their way back again.
The kaleidoscopic horse the veteran rides,
Its truest colour the saddle always hides.
A cool dude upon a sickle he did ride,
Cracked the ton to show off his new Hog,
Until the Sherlock’s muted his vain pride,
And cooled his heels in the local fog.
Man how he flapped the feature after that,
Made with a syllable few could understand,
All hep and crazy a real agro-ed cat
Lost without the Hogs throttle in his hand.
But time dispensed with all the Sherlock’s wrath,
That soon the Hog was revving once again,
But now the Dude, he rode a different path,
Based on the Veterans war awarded pain.
He joined a chapter with Vietnam on his back,
Thought by his comrades to have what others lack.
If what we do does not benefit another,
Then there is no value in our actions,
If by our suffering and toil we smother
Then we have retarded our passions.
If we feel guilt then it is self pity,
If we express it we seek sympathy,
In seeking sympathy we build cities,
Filled with seed pods of apathy.
Apathy breeds ignorance and frustration
And leaders without remorse
Social and religious segregation
Destroying families in loveless divorce.
Tis for these who have experienced pain,
To suffer that another might gain.
©Copyright January 14, 2002 by Colin F. Jones