On The Eleventh Hour

Forty million.
War, disease and famine.
In conflict a hundred years later.
Empire, colonialism, laissez-faire, slavery, serfdom.
Mother Earth and all her babies want change.
So remember on the eleventh hour.
And vow to respect the planet we live on.
Move on, move along.


Create markets of respect.
Make with love in mind, not profit.
They died and saved us.
Make it a life worth living for the young.

No more war.

victorybonds

Poetry, music, love

 Through the Front Window 

Leaves flicker in anticipation.

When they are gone,

Branches will sway and twist.

Everything is music, is dance.

Coloured lights will reveal on hills.

Bobbing, as boats in a bay, 

Winking, twinkling.

Everything is art.

Reading the poetry and works of Czelsaw Milosz, Boris Pasternak and Anna Akhmatova over the next wee while to sustain the soul.

Taken up singing with a classical choir whilst in search of Jazz and Ella’s song book. I think the music’s coming back to Wool City.

Black mohair project almost at completion.

Poetry, music, love….what else do you need apart from a good soup for lunch. Broccoli and green lentil today.

jazzposter

 

Literary Landscapes

I made a visit to the graveyard courtesy of an old friend. It’s a multicultural place just like Wool City of course. I tidied up, put in flowers – real ones, perused over graves of the golden oldies and tidied a few of them too.

It’s a pleasant day, cooler than the last few weeks. We took a walk amongst the stones. So many were of mighty people, with enough money to pay out for obelisks, huge Celtic crosses as befits  the once wealthiest town in the world. A section for Muslims and a small one for Jews, where there was a little synagogue. All ours are clustered together in one section too. Communities stay together through everything.

I don’t think there’s anything morose about death or discussing it – what you would like to happen, but then I was once a young Goth in the 80’s who thought it romantic to hang out by the Parsonage in Haworth, taking photos and doing rubbings of stones.

The last few days I have watched BFI films of the town I grew up in. It was once quite a slum in the centre. The number of mills present was astounding. How filthy it must have been. Now it is pleasantly green, and although it’s a busy, busy place and road pollution is high, the trees soak it all up and nature has found a way to come back.

What of the future of the old mill towns. Becoming green can only be the way, but til then, roads will be widened, houses built. Another mill burnt down in the early hours of this morning, fourteen fire engines were present. Grey smoke wafts in this direction, the main artery closed, causing chaos west of the city.

We must remember to keep writing, creating the stories, note happenings. Imagination and magic is all that is needed to breathe new life in to this old hell.

A trip to Whitby is on the cards – long time no see. That will appease more of my inner dark romantic! I wonder what it’s like to be a vampire and if there are any around here. So lucky to live in a rich literary landscape. And somewhere forever foreboding…

Whitby

From picturesofengland.com