Not Consciously Invited

I am here,

Though not consciously invited:

Red-ghost guest

At year’s-end party.

I quicken mascaraed pulses,

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The Passing Traffic

From the frozen-gutter pulpit

Outside the chase-road Church

Of the Old Blow-Down Birch

The animated, grizzled-curate crow

Rants and roars at all

The passing traffic,

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The Value

Will there be more change

After the last change?

Will it be worth the having?

Will it show the real value

Of what we had?

Of what we gave away,

What, perhaps we lost?

Who will wear the target shirt

Now my time has been served?

Will they wear it

With strength, abandon

And casual pride

The way I wished I had

When I had the chance?

“We Are Not Rubbish Pickers*”

Sat back earlier today to watch some mind-numbing pre-Christmas telly. Seemed to be a good idea after some usual seasonal stress.

But what I settled on, after some channel hopping was disturbing, wonder-filled and astounding, even though I had missed the first half an hour or so.

A documentary film entitled Waste Land.

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