Can My Poetry Save the World?

“Two things are infinite – the Universe and human stupidity and I’m not sure about the Universe”
Albert Einstein

TPOTG Thinking 01 with Frame

Can my poetry save the world?
Can it drag it back from the brink?
By using common sense and logic,
Encourage people to reason and think.
Stop reality being replaced
By what they try to make us believe;
Stop the dumbing down of a generation,
Now so gullible, so naïve.
Where facts with emotions
Get confused, not separated,
And with the most irrational of fears
Millions are daily indoctrinated.
Where critical thinking by rhetoric
Is being replaced,
Where clear thinking people
With so many challenges are faced,
Finding debate and discussion
Can no longer be used,
 If the groupthink isn’t worshipped,
Then they will be abused.
Questions raised by enquiring minds
Can no longer be asked;
Teaching what to, not how to,
Educators now tasked.  

Will reading my verse
Make people stop and reflect?
Refocus their minds,
Maybe make them suspect
That through their relentless propaganda
It’s a new world order they seek,
Forcing a dangerous ideology
Onto the uninformed and the weak.

Fountain Pen

I haven’t used a fountain pen for longer than I care to remember, and I forgot just how nice it feels. It is slightly more inconvenient than a ballpoint pen or a pencil, but I’m sure that I can learn to live with that; until I spill the bottle of ink, that is!

I found an old fountain pen,
Alas, it had run out of ink,
But I was lucky to find a store
Selling Parker’s famous black Quink:
Now I’m writing with that pen
And it’s oh, so much better,
Resulting in an overwhelming feeling
To write someone a letter.
I can’t remember the last time
I sent anything hand written by post,
Letters are typewritten then printed,
Although I use e-mails the most;
Not forgetting about social media,
Facebook and WhatsApp now the thing,
But the satisfaction of hand writing
Electronic communication can’t bring.

What Would We Do If The Internet Died?

Scientists who study the sun are pretty certain that at sometime in the future there will be bursts of solar radiation so strong that they will disable all satellites, maybe for a few minutes, or hours, or days, or even longer….

TPOTG Solar Flare Frame 01

What would we do if the internet died?
A burst of solar radiation, all satellites fried,
Useless mobile phones, no signals detected,
Facebook, You Tube, WhatsApp disconnected.

No bank transactions, no salaries paid,
No card facilities, no purchases made;
Selfies taken that you just couldn’t send,
It would seem like the world had come to an end.

Billions of records that no one could access;
Governments and businesses in turmoil and mess.
With digital connections being totally destroyed,
Old school techniques would need to be redeployed.

But those skills are forgotten, or have never been learned;
We’d have to think for ourselves, but that rulebook’s been burned.
By surrendering control to orbiting satcoms
We’ve exposed ourselves to ticking time bombs.

I hope I’m not around to weep and lament,
Witness the chaos and mayhem of this forecast event;
Humanity in a  mess from an internet freeze,
Lost and confused in a world brought to its knees.



Far better to question than to simply believe,
For a questioning mind is so hard to deceive.

TPOTG Echoes 02 jpg

We are losing our voices, becoming just echoes
Of propaganda that we so naively accept,
It’s a much easier choice
To join with the herd’s voice;
At questioning we’re no longer adept.

And if we do question, then we are condemned,
As ‘liberal’ intolerance raises its voice;
Some kind of ‘ist’ we’ll be named,
Then derided and shamed;
Another opinion not an acceptable choice.

Too apathetic, too distracted, we just simply agree,
Instead of challenging we’d rather bury our head;
In this age of information
There’s a knowledge starvation,
It’s by media opinions and views that we’re led.

We can no longer speak freely about what we believe,
Any independent thinking is thwarted.
Like so many sheep in a fold
By political correctness controlled,
We are gagged as the truth gets distorted.

Our children’s thought patterns cloned to fit an agenda,
How to think is no longer something we teach,
And as today’s generation grow
Perhaps they’ll never know
The true meaning of freedom of speech.


Have You Killed a Rhino Today?

The slaughter of rhinos in South Africa carries on unabated.
When poachers or traffickers are caught they should get the same treatment,
but no doubt somebody will bang on about their human rights……

The world is obsessed with human rights,
But don’t rhinos have their rights too?
And shouldn’t some people lose their human rights,
By the things that they choose to do?


So tell me have you killed a rhino today,
Have you added to the score?
Have you hacked off its horn with a machete blade,
And are now hiding from the law?

Have you left a rhino to bleed in the dust,
Lying helpless and all alone,
Ensuring it has the most painful of deaths,
Just so its horn you are able to own?

Have you made plenty plenty dollars today,
By killing this magnificent beast?
Have you sold its horn to black marketers,
And on blood money been able to feast?

What will you do when you’ve killed the last one?
Exterminated by your human greed;
So for your human rights why should we give a damn?
I know all the justice you need.

If you’ve been responsible in anyway
For a rhino being brutally slaughtered,
Then in a less “civilised” world we would find you a tree,
Where you could be hung, then drawn, then quartered.

Then you would know just what it was like
To suffer great pain as you die.
So I’ll ask again if you’ve killed a rhino today,
If you have, can you please tell me why?


The Old Man in the Rocking Chair

Sitting on a porch, watching the sun go down
and thinking back on how life used to be….old-man-in-rocking-chair-new-frame-1

The old man is rocking
In his rocking chair,
The old man is watching,
A different world out there;
His old blue eyes
Covered with a misty hue,
Remembering another world,
The world in which he grew.

Time doesn’t stand still,
The world has to move along;
“Times they are a changing”
That old Bob Dylan song.
But the old man in his rocking chair,
Rocking gently to and fro,
Is hankering after yesteryear,
For the times he used to know.

When people used to show respect,
A respect that was returned;
Being kind and considerate,
At an early age was learned.
When knowledge was the quest,
There was a yearning to discover,
Not obsessed with social media,
Video games, reality TV undercover.

When your privacy was respected,
There wasn’t the need to hide,
And with your friends and family
You could openly confide.
When people didn’t track you
Every hour of every day,
Trying to record
Every single word you say.

When you used to have conversations,
Talking face to face,
Didn’t need a computer,
Or some network interface.
When you were still at liberty
To speak what was on your mind,
Before political correctness
Turned our liberty blind.

When the pace of life was slower,
More time was what we had,
Now there’s no time for anyone,
It’s makes the old man sad.
A tear rolls down his cheek,
Out of his old blue eye;
The old man rocking there,
The old man wondering why.

The old man is rocking
In his rocking chair,
The old man is watching,
A different world out there;
His old blue eyes,
Covered with a misty hue,
Remembering another world;
He loved the world he knew.


Always Writing In Verse – It Could Be Much Worse!

I am always writing verse, jotting down ideas, sometimes on scraps of paper, sometimes on my phone. It can drive the wife up the wall, but I tell her it could be worse, much worse…!

The wife says I’m a nuisance always writing my verse;
But there are things I could do that I think would be worse;
I might have a car engine in bits on the lounge floor,
Or sit with a telescope watching the woman next door.


I could buy a drum kit, try to be the next Ringo Starr,
Or imitate Queen with an electric guitar;
Or invite mates round and we’d all get quite drunk,
Being sick on her carpet, as we listen to punk.

Perhaps a DIY freak, carrying out home repairs,
With half finished jobs left waiting for years.
Or have a X Box, on which I’d play through the night,
Being invaded by aliens with whom I would fight.

I could be a model maker, sticking things I’d then paint,
With the smell of it all making the wife feel quite feint.
Or brew my own beer, taking over the kitchen,
Or sniff something nasty and form an addiction.

I could collect tarantula spiders that sometimes escape,
Or believe that I’m Zorro and wear a mask and a cape,
Maybe answer the door naked, giving callers a scare,
Or eat boxes of chocolates that I’d refuse to share.

I could be cyclist, wearing those tight Lycra shorts,
Or be a couch potato watching all sorts of sports.
So, you see, there are so many worse things I could be,
Than someone who sits quietly writing his poetry.

TPOTG Copyright 2016-2019