SpoonfulOfDreams

I'm going to shout I'm going to cry I'm going to pout I'm telling you why Satan's truck is coming to town He's making a list He's checking it for The kids who are rich The kids who are poor  Satan's truck is coming to town He haunts you when you're sleeping He taunts when you're awake Don't matter if you're bad or good Its kerching for goodness sake  I'm going to shout I'm going to cry I'm going to pout I'm telling you why Satan's truck is coming to town

Standing Rock is where Native American Water Protectors stand between the greed and recklessness of big oil and the future of our planet. The American government needs to know that the world sees the ongoing injustice towards Native Americans, the state sanctioned terrorism perpetrated by law enforcement and its utter disregard for the health and wellbeing of its citizens. However, in keeping with the principles of the Water Protectors we stand, not a aggressors but as protectors. Our prayer vigil looks for love and peace to win over hatred, greed and violence. I am planning a vigil on the Millenium Bridge in Lancaster at 9pm on 26 November. A silent prayer for the Water Protectors and the future of our planet. I propose we gather just before 9pm, pray in silence for 2 minutes and then simply communicate with each other. This event has a spiritual element but is not religious. It is not promoting any religion, god or creed. If you are supporting another event in the city you c

Hold me in arms that trust Beyond the trust that I deserve Beyond the trust that I have earned Beyond the fear that lies dead deep The dark primaeval fear of death Lay cold in quiet familiar grave   Show me scenes of wanton hate Callous acts of naked spite Flaunted in religious garb With glee that would have Satan blush Christ still warm nailed to his cross And in his name poor wretches crushed   I will beat the wailing wall Until my hands are torn and scarred And shame the lying bastards Who pimp the Holocaust for what? Excuse their callous disregard For life they think so lightly of   Christians, Jews and Muslims all Fanatical, their virtues strained Rebuke us for our moral filth While we show flesh and choose our mates They scratch and spit at flesh and bone And whore their faith for pen and ink   Read me a Psalm, I'll share your Eid I'll tabernacle for a while Sustain me with your words of hope Instead of laws that I must break So I must beg

I was born into an age where a slap on a woman's bottom was neither condoned nor condemned, where there was no such thing as a chair person. We laughed with black and Irish comedians who weren't just self deprecating, they were perpetuating the racism we now find totally unacceptable. Homosexuality was illegal. Equal pay wasn't even a policy, never mind a reality. But we got free health care and there was an extensive stock of council housing. There were soup kitchens for down and outs but no food banks for working families. We were still celebrating our victory over Nazi Germany, the civil rights movement was cutting its teeth and the mighty British Empire was being dismantled. There wasn't a great deal of money around but there was hope. There were real opportunities for working class people (albeit mainly for white, heterosexual men) and the wealthy and successful had no choice but to feed back into the economy. The post war economic model not only gave rise to unpre

I had a heart for dreams A head for heights Not risk averse Not one for scripts Or destinations life predicts But with no desire to wake Afraid to fall Or to rehearse Fluffing every line Eyes on the map, missing every sign Being untrained and unprepared I hit the rocks And what is worse I could not own Whatever I'd defused or I had blown I was subdued by guilt Who knows what for A petrifying curse Where every corner hides a threat Round which no expectation might be met Its hard to change Or shed a skin Forsake the nurse Detach the safety line Append no 'but' when I reluctantly declare "I'm fine" © Chris Price 2016

Smaller now the island seems The refuge, once, of hopes and dreams Is just a pile of bricks and beams Where doorways in are doorways out And certainties give way to doubt While reservoirs defer to drought The paper trail has washed away The oracles have much to say But not pertaining to today The path that led us hence is clear But where we are to go from here Needs wisdom that we must revere But we revere the seers no more Nor trust the mantle that they wore Our hope is not the hope of lore The orators in birthday suits Sew leaves of figs but bear no fruits We'll beat our drums, not heed their flutes We'll board a crusty ship of fools Defy the odds and break the rules With hasty plans and makeshift tools We'll chart a course around the horn Where bows are broke and sheets are torn Where futures are destroyed and born © Chris Price 2016