Climate change

 At last there is a recognition that though we have to do things in the short term to affect climate change in the long term we have to grasp the nettle of the increasing population. A great many of the problems stem from the increase in the population of the world.

The increasing use of fossil fuels is driven by the numbers of people. When I look out of my window in the mornings the traffic density appears to increase year by year. As the population increases so the number of cars on the road increases causing more pollution. As couples have more children who grow into adults the number of cars on the roads increases thus pouring out more pollution. As families have more children the cars carrying them to and from school increases. Waiting at the school proximity with the engine running increases pollution. We have to reduce the population.

All the climate commentators bemoan the fact that the rain forest is being grub up to make room for agriculture. What they do not emphasise is the need for more food is directly a result of the need to feed an increasing population. 

There is the movement of refugees and part of this is caused by increased population. What is needed is a concerted effort on the part of all governments, aid organisations and religious groups to spread the message that contraception is the best way of decreasing the population. This applies to the Catholic Church and some Muslim sects. Part of the governments aid budgets must be used to help groups trying to get this message across.

A Golden Age

I wrote this poem a while ago lamenting? the way in which pubs have changed in my lifetime. People say that after the pandemic is over the town centre will change out of all recognition to what was there before. This poem illustrates the change is not new. In fact there are a great many things talked about at present which are not new but have been happening through my lifetime. 

 The Golden Age?

There used to be pubs on Market Square

Named after heroes

The Lord Nelson, King George or Prince William,

Or mythical beings 

The Griffin, Green Man or Unicorn.

With a snug, a lounge and a bar.

Where smoke curled and swirled, round dark oak beams,

Like the smog in Bleak House.

Men in dull grey jackets and  shiny ties,

Lounged on wooden benches, 

By tables scarred with stubbed out fags

Topped out with over flowing ashtrays.

Drinking mild, bitter or boilermakers,

The consistency of the silt laden stream 

Which flowed at the bottom of the yard.

The drink went down to the thud of darts

Or the clack of dominoes on a board.

Ladies sit with their men in the lounge

Drinking port and lemon the colour of blood.

Or in the snug

Gossiping about the pregnant teenager from down the road,

Or Mrs. Smith and her brood and her men.

The barmaid wobbled her large breasts

As she pulls the pints for indifferent drinkers,

Thinking of rich men and sun kissed beaches.

A dyed blond night lady pulls up her skirt

Revieling nylon clad legs and smiling,

Hoping that some man would talk and take her home.

The other women turn up their noses, shake their heads,

Making plain that she was an outcast.

Now the pubs have gone.

Turned into banks and shops.

New theme pubs have been designed,

All chrome and leather,

With flashing screens and loud music,

Where drinkers guard their bottles of larger 

Which come from God knows where.

The girls prance around, Salome without the veils,

Attracting the boys in only their shirt sleeves,

Even when the ice is on the ground and breath freezes on the nose.

Once at ten thirty, people would stagger home,

The poem is self published in my book of poems called Poems and Life available from Amazon. 

The Storm

For my creative writing class I was set the task of composing a pantoum poem. I had never heard of this form before but believe it is a form of poetry from Malaysia. I thought of a storm and the similarity to the situation we are all in at the present time.

The Storm

From the east the wind blows strong

Waves are high and length is long

The ship shakes, shudders and groans 

Engine races, slows and gives a moan.

Waves are high and length is long

Climbing the wave up to the crown

Engine races, slows and gives a moan

Fall like a lift plunging down and down.

Climbing the wave up to the crown

Water crashing over the rails and bow

Fall like a lift plunging down down

The angry sea smashing the prow

Onward onward we go praying for calm

The ship shakes shudders and groans

Fighting the waves and the boiling sea

From east the wind blows strong.

Now with the vaccine we maybe sailing into calmer waters.

Homecoming

 The latest short piece written for my creative writing class.

Homecoming

The excitement was tangible as though it could be physically touched as I climbed out of bed that morning. It was like a tingling in the air as though we were on the brink of a thunderstorm. Unlike most mornings, Mum insisted my sister and I had a bath. When I returned from my bath, mum had laid out my Sunday best clothes on the bed. While we were eating our breakfast, Mum was humming and smiling as though her world was now a happy place.

At ten o’clock, mum made me stand in front of her while she inspected me making sure my knees and hands were clean. She brushed my hair and straightened my clothes. Together with my sister we went out to the front gate. All the neighbours were there standing across the road under a banner which had been stretched from a house to a pole on the green. 

Although I could not read very much I knew the banner read “ Welcome Home Fred.”

I stood holding my mother’s hand with my sister on her other side. Through her fingers I could feel the shivers and her thigh close to my face was also shaking slightly. My hands were sweaty from the tension. I could feel the excitement running through the crowd of our neighbours all standing waiting looking up the road.

I heard the sharp intake of breath as a lorry with a kaki canvas cover over the back drew up on the main road across the junction with our road. A man in kaki uniform jumped out and caught the kitbag thrown from the truck. He straightened, heaved the kitbag onto his shoulder and waved to the occupants of the truck before starting to walk down our road. There were tears in my mother’s eyes and she gripped my hand even tighter than before. The man’s white hair shone in the sunshine and even at this distance and at four years old I could see he looked embarrassed at the attention.

As he got closer, I recognised the man from the photo on the mantelpiece. Mummy kept telling me this is your father. It was hard for me to connect the photo to the man. Then my mother let go of my hand and a started to walk up the road. My sister cried daddy and ran after my mother. They reached the man and he was putting his arms round them, hugging them tight.

“ Who is this big man hugging  my mother and sister,” I asked myself. He looked over their shoulders straight at me his expression serious. 

That look was too much. I turned and ran back through the passage between the houses, my heart pounding and tears running down my face. I went into the toilet and slammed the door pushing home the bolt.