Autumn Gold

Long Eaton ParkRun 7 October

Autumn Gold

As golden leaves begin to slowly fall,

the runners stretch and bend,

With thoughts of sizzling bacon cobs awaiting at the end.

In lurid technicolor the people come to run

Excited chatter fills the air in the bright October sun

Elites are bouncing, anticipating, the reward from all their training

Whilst hounds are yelping, happily; leashes all a’straining

Muscles tense as runners wait,

their fingers poised on Garmin

Mums encourage one another,

while babies are alarming

Clock strikes 9 and off they go,

a blur of Lycra neon

I shout aloud amongst the crowd

and cheer the number 3 on

At halfway mark the cowbell clangs inspiring weary faces

Applause and cheers are not reserved, we’re there for all the paces

First across the bridge appears,

exerting power and energy

His focused eyes unwavering,

his driving stride in synergy

Sprinting to the finish line,

he crosses at a canter

Whilst others chase his rapid pace

to cries of friendly banter

Pacers drag a following of eager PB chasers

25 or 45, result brings happy racers

A hiccup in the funnel, runner fails to take a token

Sync is out but never fear, we’ll fix what has been broken

Tail Walkers arrive at last, position 407

Selfies snapped commemorate, they’re all in 7th Heaven

But now the work must really start

To scan, reorder tokens

Upload the stats to state the facts

For the runners who’ve awoken

And braved the chilly morning

To release their own potential

Syncing all the finish times is totally essential

Email tells your time and pace

And urges you to better

Even more determined now

To be a PB getter!

But whether running in a crowd

Or striving on your own

You’ve exceeded the achievements

Of the folks who stayed at home!

Choose to Love

On a cold, starry night,
Two young people wander
On a journey, their lives to discover
As a man led his donkey 
To Bethlehem town
Her cargo, a soon-to-be Mother

With pain she’d looked back
As they’d left Nazareth
The hatred they’d shown had surprised her
When the people perceived
That the babe was conceived
Out of wedlock, they’d all ostracised her.

No room could be found 
In King David’s home town

For the couple and their precious burden
As she cried out in pain
One man listened again 
Calling out, 
They both paused as they heard him

“I have here a stable
It’s not much to see
But it’s warm and it’s dry and it’s free!”

Tired from their journey
The young aching Mother 
Lay down in the hay to give birth
Such humble beginnings 
For this newborn child
The King of all kings of the Earth!

Surrounded by livestock
And sacrifice lambs
The unblemished Lamb he was born
In a cow’s feeding trough
He made his first bed
His clothes made of rags that were torn

Shepherds came to visit He
Whom Angels had adored
And silently they worshipped Him, 
The tiny infant Lord

Whilst still a toddler
Wise men came from Persian lands afar
Recounting their incredible tale
A sparkling bright guiding star!

Dictator King, Herod the Great
Explodes with rage and fear
A newborn King to take his throne
Lived in a town so near!?

A massacre, the despot decrees
Consumed so by his hatred
Each boy child of two years or less
Must be exterminated!

Awoken by a warning dream
The father wakes his family
Heads south to Egypt to escape, 
Political refugees.

This humble Jesus, born so low
Our own hearts does unveil…
And reminds us all to love once again
In this familiar Nativity tale.

P J Deakin 2015 ©

Liverpool

Each building stands defiantly
Denying its’ slave-trading past
Each whaling wharf an echo 
Of an epoch that has passed

Each street upon her steepest banks
Looks down towards the river
That cataract of life and health
That Global Treasure-Giver

This lifeblood of an ancient city
Is scattered on her people 
From Everton to Formby Sands 
From Anfield’s Kop to Steeple

This cosmopole of life and language
A north-west English muddle
The birthplace of a culture change
This vibrant Liverpuddle

A haemorrhage of song and rhyme
Pours out from every alley
From Merseybeat originates
Each soulful Scouser’s rally

This laughter-filled 
Renouncing cry
Seems somehow idiotic
This juxtapose of witty song
Is socio-patriotic 

But this town built the mighty ships
That put the Great in Britain
That sailed across this sapphire sphere
And wrote books never written

From a natural tidal inlet 
Was the Old Dock erstwhile based
The ancient “Pool” that gave its name
To Liver’s resting place 

Today the cormorants stand high
Atop the white stone dome
With wings outstretched did these birds bless
Their native naval home

P J Deakin 2016 ©

Farage Rhymes with Garage 

I feel the time has come for me to publicly disparage
The smug obnoxious Xenophobe Whose surname rhymes with garage

His out and out rejection of immigration, blacks and Hanukkah
Seems to me to be an irony
Given the pronunciation of his moniker!

Farage has rather a Frankish twang
A certain je ne sais quoi!
So how can a man with such obvious French ancestry 
Be so quick to bar?!

I’ve concluded he’s a masochist,
His campaign has left him jobless
He turned up at his office, Friday
And to the lot said “cobblers!”

He’s a man I find so easy to hate
Yet many rally to him
But while the snake may have fooled them
I personally see right through him.

His thin-veiled threats of anarchy 
And Anglo-ruled apartheid
Are not a threat but promises
To whitewash all of England’s past
And make us Dulux White!

But I’m Irish, see. (Well, my grandma was!)
And my name has Norman virtue
And my Grandad’s name’s from Viking times
So where do I return to??!

Do I fly to Cork to find a life
In Ireland’s southernmost town,
Or sail to Normandy or in fact
To Denmark settle down.

There’s no such thing as English
We’re a multicultural nation!
Anglo (French) and Saxon (German) is hardly pure breeding
But these people want to rewrite the books 
Historians will be reading.

Without the Normans
Would an Englishman’s home
His castle still remain?
And without Vikings would we be
The mariners we became?

The Romans built our towns and roads
But what have they ever done for us?!
The Irish built the railway lines 
So you don’t have to take the bus!

The Windies brought us colour
With their music, style and vision
Imagine the long Winter of discontent 
Without the reggae rhythm

The 70’s opened doors to India
And business Pakistani
Well, what would be the lads night out
Without a Biryani?!

As Berlin’s wall was taken down
I wept a tear of triumph
No longer will we leave in fear 
Of those prehistoric giants 

Of xenophobia, greed and envy 
Even South Africa followed suit,
But now arise a generation 
Who gives the lot the boot!

Take a long look at your English lives 
As you dine at Swedish tables 
Watching Japanese TV’s
Drive your German car to work upon 
A hundred foreign labels!

Each wave that came has made this home 
And starting at the bottom 
Has put to shame our lazy lives 
By remembering what we’ve forgotten

Integrity comes from deep within 
From earning honest bread
From working till you are worn out
And collapsing in your bed

No restless sleep for he who works
And earns his daily crust 
But on his efforts he can lean
And on his hands he’ll trust.

The Tories stole your benefits 
They questioned if you’re able
They forced the pound to be so strong 
You struggled to lay your table

But Farage blamed all the immigrants 
Those nasty foreign scum
He said they stole your nationhood
And you believed his lying tongue.

He set the fuse and waited for
The shit to hit the fan,
And now the news,
He’s buggered off!
What a spineless little man!

P J Deakin 2016©

Nether Field

Not the Bakers field 
Or the town of Carl
Not the Gelding misspelled 
Nor Loud ham or ley of Lambs  
Not the Calver Town or the Red clay cliff

But… the nether field
You know? The lower one,
The one that floods!
The one where all the trains go to unload all their pile of goods

No cosy nook of Joyce and Bert 
Or Southerly minster well 
No ford placed west of Bridge for me
Nor Thorpe of Gun to tell…

But a village built fast 
Industrial revolution 
When the industry went
It just left wild confusion

Such a maelstrom of people 
From diverse situation 
Makes for such embittered folks 
In dark times of inflation

Single parents, congregate 
Natter over garden wall
Refugees seek solace here
Maybe it is peaceful after all!

Six o’clock the bus stop’s full 
Of lipstick, heels and pecs
Who leave behind this no hope town 
And it’s Mapperley rejects

Charlie Red potent up on top floor
Of the old faithful green number 20
Their LBD’s glitzy as they head off to Ritzy
To dance and drink MD2020

Left behind, Beggars, drunks and layabouts
And kids who want to play about
Behind the old community centre
And boys like me who still climb trees 
In search of some adventure.

Window cleaner cases houses
To know which ones to rob
Dole queue stretches round the block 
Cos no one’s got a job

Towns of industry
Hubs of community
Left behind till Retail Park revived

So offspring of the factory girls 
Walk aisles with cheese and chives
And top up Pringles on the shelves 
Now that Morrisons has arrived.

And still the cries of drunken yells
Seep deep into the night
As fearless yob rolls up his sleeves 
For Friday’s Fight Night Fight

And as I close my eyes to hear 
Another drunken groan
I smile, 

Perfect it may never 
But Netherfield is my home

P J Deakin 2016 ©

India

On endless rich, deep carpet pile

To endless polished marble mile

Excitedly we stride

Towards a wall

Of glass and steel

Which effortlessly glides

 

Assaulted by the heat and smell

The noise, the fuss, the clamour

The poorest-poor lie unnoticed

Besides the gold and glamour.

 

I taste the air, its fragrance thick

With car exhaust and turmeric

A thousand fossil bonfires

Fill the air and shroud the glow

Of burning incandescent orb,

Translucent orange/yellow

 

The taxi swiftly zips along

The fresh new tarmac highway

With little dwellings here and there

And kids in every byway

 

Holy cow!

The hornéd one

Strolls slowly down the middle

As if she knows she’s deity

And we’re all second fiddle!

 

Incessant drone 

Of blaring horn

From tuk-tuk, car and lorry

Don’t sound in anger

But to say “I’m turning right or overtaking,

I’m really very sorry!”

Permanent the smoky haze

Hangs low like ochre, cigarette days

The cricket wing cacophony 

I cannot get it off of me

The memory of that magic land

That river valley

That henna hand

Is permanently etched upon my very soul

A land so young, so curious

And yet so very old

So wise and yet so much to learn

As dreams take me back 

Still smouldering it burns

Our silver bird punches right through

An arrowhead to skies of blue

And what beholds me 

I’m agog!

A string of pearls 

Beyond the smog!

Just north of this smoky dome-like layer

Lies the entire Himalaya

A chain of snow-capped rocky mounts

These craggy forts the very founts

Of a thousand little tributaries

Which feed this vast expanse

As stream becomes a surging torrent

The mighty rivers all advance 

A mighty warlike tribal drum 

The beating of her steady thrum 

The twisting canyons she has carved 

Tower high above and barely halve

The distance down to where she flows 

Each bend a turn which petrifies 

As down you look into her eyes 

The snarling crocodilian river

So sharp, so fierce it makes you shiver

Yet high on Gangtok’s verdant top

A city stands so tall so bright

A city bursting full of light

In ‘Switzerlandish’ type Tibet

This Alpine paradise is set

The mists which here 

Taste oh so clear 

Are far removed from distant Delhi

Make poinsettia grow to 6 feet high 

And flora blooms a’plenty!

So haunting is this ancient land

Her vibrancy, her laugh, her dance

She penetrates my night visions

And puts me in a trance

I’ll always cherish knowing her

Her song, her joy, her art

Eternally her sun will burn

Within my aching heart.

P J Deakin 2016 ©

Don’t Lump for Trump!

If I lived in AmericaI wouldn’t vote for Trump
I’d rather vote for Pootle 
In fact, any of The Flumps 
Than sit and twiddle with my thumbs
And watch that redneck lump…

I couldn’t let him have that power
And stand by like a chump!
I couldn’t idly watch that businessman
The US economy gazzump

With his modern take on Nazi prose 
Where African or Mexican can legally be thumped
When I look back on our history 
Consider Hitler, I’m stumped 

As to how a man with so evil an agenda
Could rise to power, yet Trump
Blames all the problems on the Muslims 
And Mexicans who jump

Across the void of poverty 
To make a life like Gump
Where shackles can be overcome 
And you don’t end on your rump 

But Mr Toupee wants to take your dreams
And throw them in the dump
For two centuries your great nation built 
On immigration pump
Yet now you say enough’s enough
You’re greedy and a grump!

The end is nigh, the eagle high 
Lies quivering in a clump
Because of evil, selfish agendas
Of that wicked Mr Trump!

P J Deakin 2016©