Marc Mordey’s Election Blues.

Posted: December 13, 2019 | Author: themarcistagenda | Filed under: Uncategorized | 1 Comment

And so, the people have spoken

The voting’s passed.

We’ll be quitting Europe

And I am downcast.

I may well be “Remoaner”

But I’m certainly, no loner.

What will our UK look like I wonder?

How much we will we mind?

As the borders change

And nationality lies

evermore strictly defined?

Will ‘the Union’ be stronger

Or not exist for much longer?

Will the Foodbanks flourish?

Or become the norm?

Universal credit unravel?

And HS2 , transform

The pace of travel?

Heathrow expand?

The flooding too?

As the climate wreaks revenge

On our green and pleasant land?

Will we see more homelessness?

More social care distress?

Deck the Halls with boughs of Holly

As another 95 year old spends

Ten hours on a trolley.

Will your pension get paid?

Your wages start to grow?

Will the wealthiest share more

Or simply bask and brag,

Awash, delighting

in the fiscal afterglow?

Democracy gives

Democracy takes

And I must make the best of it.

But my heart is heavy

Languishing, leaden, lethargic .

Alongside, how many?

Some half of my fellow citizens?

As we put up with the rest of it.

Wondering, what happens now?

With division, disenfranchisement,

Adrift and despairing.

Some cross, many bitter,

And others,

simply beyond caring.

So, roll the drums,

As Mr Johnson becomes

Our One Nation Tory saviour.

Victory is sweet, and doubtless to be relished

“Let’s get Brexit done”

that”ll save ya!

Me? I’ll be learning to live

With a sense of defeat

Under our nation’s new roof.

Rendering my version of truth

Sackcloth and ashes, unembellished.

 

 

written on the morning of Friday 13th December 2019.

 

 

---

Advent. A poem for Roger Hill.

Posted: December 7, 2019 | Author: themarcistagenda | Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

We’ve known Roger pretty much ever since we came to live in Newport in 2005. He was a great friend, a bon viveur and raconteur.

He, Reg and myself and the two dogs,  used to walk to the top of Carningli most Sunday mornings, probably for about three or four years. Roger liked to see the sun come up, so the Sunday morning starts got earlier, and earlier…! The gossip was good, the coffee even better, and the two dogs always got a biscuit. At the end of the walk Helen often provided a cooked breakfast. Those were golden mornings.

A talented artist, a lover of words, of music, of friends and family. An ally, a kindred spirit. A free spirit.  We will miss him very much, as we do Betty, who died around a year or so before Roger.

His pictures hang in the bedroom.

His memories move over the mountain. 

I’ve called this poem Advent, as kind of memorial to the time he marshalled us all up top to sing carols and wassails.

 

You urged us on to crest Carningli

As the summer sunrise split the Western skies.

And we’d huff and puff

Gossiping, musing and marvelling

As the Bay yawned below.

One time you had us carolling and wassailing

In the gathering Yuletide

swirling, steaming mists,

A hint of snow.

The mulled wine and singing

amidst the mystery of ancient stones.

 

Our walking trips gradually dwindled.

Stopping points became final destinations,

As knees gave way and age overtook us.

We had to say au revoir to

The gorse and heather, still painting their

Honey golden purple splash

Startling the muted grey of

mountain moulded rocks, bedazzling

Larks, sheep, cattle and ponies.

But the pub, painting, music and stories

Held up our conversations

(As did Brexit, climate change, other debate

Indeed, as you aged

your plea for a new vision

grew ever more passionate.

Your voice undiminished by the indignities of maturing.

And we’d do well

to heed your warnings)

 

Your friendship, intellect, never dimmed.

You were both interesting and

Interested.

Now we’ve lost you to the drumbeat march of time.

Your paintings grace our wall

Lighting up this winter gloom.

The memory of you

Suspended

Sublime.

 

Sleep well.

Rest safe,

on your West Wales mountainside.

Close to family, hearth and home.

Asleep, but not alone.

A great man for all our days.

A friendship celebrated, tried

true and tested,

To be remembered in

Oh, so many ways.

Unlikely to be bested.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

Singing for Reg ( Newport, 18 10 19)

Posted: October 25, 2019 | Author: themarcistagenda | Filed under: Uncategorized | 6 Comments

The ceiling of Ebenezer Chapel is decorated

In soft pastel creams, sea green relief

Golden sand colours abound

The soft lights, as sunshine through still water

We sit, gathered to think on you

As the choir and singers render your memory

Music lover, medicine man, historian, humourist

Think that you’d have loved the Rossini, the Puccini too

” My Little Welsh Home” rang poignant, so true

” The Girl in 14 G” blew the night shades away

Would that you’d lived to see this day.

Sleep well, sea billowed, tide caressed

Beyond music, pain, distress.

---