Chance Destinies

Chance Destinies 

We are the master of our destinies 

But if we were truly free then there would be no destination or path written for us 

Nothing entrenched in our pasts 

That would make us who we would come to be. 

Every moment would be a memoryless flirtation 

As significant, or insignificant, as the decimal point 

Whose small movement can make such huge differences, or none at all.  

Significance is all a matter of expectation 

What is the norm 

A true measure of our worth?

Not to the One who created and nurtures us. 

And at that one time like the appearance of a different moon. 

Perturbations of momentous tidal changes, significantly altered the celestial order

Then at that point

History was not what it used to be 

There...

History was unmade

To live within that tsunami is all we should aspire to 

Not the death and misery of millions 

But the chance opportunity to renew

The bond that he came to remind us of

(C) Shafeesthoughts 

20th November 2018

king and country

King and Country.

Why did they die

To let live the lie

For King and Country

To remember them still

Lifeless, as they killed 

Bloodless as they died

Industrial war 

On a scale as never before 

Loosed upon this world

Like a whore 

Death 

For sale 

Destruction 

Evermore 

(C) Shafeesthoughts 

11th November 2018

“hundred years of lies”

Hundred Years of Colonial Lies

Hundred years of Colonial Lies

A poem for those forgotten soldiers 

Who fought and died for a war not theirs. 

Conscripted into the ranks of gun fodder 

Limbless they saw all the horrors

And not one iota of benefit

For this was not a war for a better World 

But continued misery, under their colonial masters 

Not a war to protect, but a war over Africa’s sweet soil. 

Whilst all this has gone and been done 

We still live in that past 

For Africa still scrambles out of that pitiless pit  

And the World still reels from our colonial past

The present and the future 

Of neo-colonial arms 

In Palestine, Syria and the Yemen 

They yet live, from palm to palm

Suffering the injustice of seeing their futures denied 

Their children killed, yet more cannon fodder for our guns. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts 

11th November 2018

“Nabiha Iqbal- “If I Survive” “

“Nabiha Iqbal- “If I Survive” “

A poem from the words of forgotten soldiers 

Who fought and died for a war not theirs. 

Conscripted into the ranks of gun fodder 

Limbless they saw all the horrors

And none of the benefits 

For this was not a war for democracy, nor freedom 

But continued misery, under their colonial masters 

Not a war to protect, but a war over Africa’s fertile soil. 

Whilst this has gone and done 

We still live in that past 

For Africa still scrambles out of that pitiless pit  

And the World still reels from our colonial past

The present and the future 

Of neo-colonial arms 

In Palestine, Syria and the Yemen 

They yet live from palm to palm

Suffering the injustice of seeing their futures denied 

Their children killed, yet more cannon fodder for our guns. 

(C) Shafeesthoughts 

9th November 2018

AwKwaRd

Awkward 

Acute 

Socially inept

Facts checked 

Nothing said 

Cross talk 

Like symbols chattering in a street 

A cube amongst round fellows 

Those words that just tumble out 

Tripping and falling over one another 

Nails screeched down blackboards

Cutlery tumbledown

Crash smash bash

The spilt milk 

Those empty spaces 

That beg to be filled 

Awkward 

Is not a condition 

It’s a place we’ve all been. 

(c) Shafeesthoughts 

5th November 2018

Bromley, London 

in Palestine

In Palestine. 

Tree rings
Many lives of men

Heart sings 

For a few of them 

Broad stairs 

With a pipe dream 

Sirat-ul-Mustaqeem. 

Undulating. 

Up and down. 

And with every dip

A down shift of the gears 

A return to the basics 

With every return there is gain. 

A lullaby of a souls coming 

That cane once before to the First Nation. 

Now sent to war against it

Those cruel ones that desecrate Quds

Pity stay his hand 

But justice demands them gone 

His song will deafen their every chorus 

Whilst  now they deafen us with news control

Then they will cry for pity sake. 

But who will hear

The Earth will groan 

And they will wish

That they did not kill 

The helpless child 

In Palestine. 

Where grown men cry

For pity sake 

Forbidden to defend themselves 

Against an onslaught 

Any other Nation could not bear. 

They are our braves. 

And where they stand 

We die. 

One thousand deaths 

END

(C) Shafeesthoughts 21st July 2018, London. 

million fingers (reworked)

Million Fingers

Snow of course can offer a slight,

To one who looks heavenly, 

To the white sky.  

Tobogganing in his minds eye. 

Whilst the flakes drift on

But not settle at all 

The worst of them are those that come at night. 

But by the morning’s rain 

Only disappointments remain. 

That deep desire to see all four climes

Without venturing to those mountain heights 

Nor straying North of Watford’s line. 

And to not want to be bypassed

By the year’s savagery 

Let it take its toll

To feel that sting

The icy spray 

The tingling growing numbness

And to be in the middle 

Of a snowball fight. 

To get into them gripes.  

That want to grind us all to a halt

Our old country that

Immortalised the white yule. 

A Dickensian time of happy poverty 

Where now our cars sputter 

And struggle to climb.

 

When now our newspapers headline,

The frozen homeless,

Our elderly neighbours friendless. 

Whilst the snow drifts ever onwards 

blanching all our misdemeanours 

With a cheery hey ho. 

That will be the death

Of those that we do not know.