Brexit blues, November 18

As there’s both a General Election, and we are still ( thankfully) part of the EU, I’m taking the liberty of resharing my poem, written in 2016. Inspired to do so by an article in the Guardian newspaper suggesting that Brexit poetry can help. I wonder.

They seek it here

They seek it there

An elusive answer

Maybe even a prayer…

For some


For others



Or so it seems

There’s them


Who just don’t care.

A 100 years before

Europe completed a War

But some, dared to dream


(Beyond passports and borders

Economics, migration

Project Hope and Project Fear

Leave or Remain

The results unclear)

Of a time and a passion

Where all people could fashion

A desire to end up


The same destination.

Whatever your politics

Your strength of conviction

The things that you value

Your own inclination

Let’s hope that our leaders

Can find some contrition

And guide us towards

A reunited state

An undivided, egalitarian

Non sectarian


Oh my!

A Nation….

But despite these views

I’m afraid to say

(Judged by the news

Speculation, analysis

Guesswork, bad temper

Reasoned debate

Irrational hate)


after day

after day

We are all headed for

The Brexit Blues.

I can only trust

That, we don’t end up

With a terminal case

Of national paralysis.

Life on Mandela Way

So, finally perhaps,

Mandela, Mandiba, is free.

Man of perpetual dignity.

He who used love

as a political strategy.

Did not seek recrimination.

delighted in non discrimination.

A ladies man they cry,

a gleam, a twinkle, under African sky.

Fighter, boxer, lawyer.

Sometimes the state’s version of a terror,

and yet, this man left us replete, but, and I repeat,

not with horror,

for he was a healer, not a destroyer.

His photograph for years denied

to those he served, who cried

struggled, Soweto dirt dusted

still in invisible Mandela they trusted.


The day before this colossus departed

our political leaders here in the UK

enjoyed another Parliamentary day.

In the ‘mothership of democracy’

the bear pit beckoned;

and debate was the language of shouts and jeers,

and also, some might say, an urn of crocodile tears,

a style that leaves the voters cold,

disillusioned, depressed, down hearted.


So much said, yet not enough to say.

Perhaps it’s time, and more, to walk and talk,

practice, preach and ourselves outreach

in living life, the Mandela Way.


HAMBA KAHLE WETU (Go Well, friend)

No more troubles,

and for your vision,

please, not the end.