Thursday 5 November 2015

Two poems on Freedom

What is freedom?

At the moment of our birth we are free from the womb, but not from dependency
Reliance on our mother is not serfdom, but without it our independence is worthless.
At adulthood we are free of maternal care, but not of responsibility
To make our way we must be conformist unless part of the noblesse.

Then to provide our elemental needs, we must toil at the behest of lords,
And not content with one master, another also takes their tribute.
In employment our freedom is restricted as are the rewards.
Success depends not on the effort but on the profit for the institute.

And even if making good in that race, autonomy is still elusive,
We are all part of an interdependency sometimes called society,
With its own precepts, perils and pitfalls so, even for the exclusive,
Market forces beyond our control will add to our anxiety.

But we are free to think that there might be another way,
Or are we? When to depart from the main stream leads to ridicule,
Ragging and removal from the game you can no longer play.

Leaving, the freedom to die, as the ultimate miracle.

Freedom revisited.

The butterfly struggles out of its chrysalis
It emerges into the world, and its beauty
Dazzles as it drifts in the tepid, timid wind
But its struggles are not over,
There are only a few hours of precious freedom,
They must be enough to fulfil its destiny.
An army moves against its foe,
Youthful, expectant, fearful.
But they find their courage as
The generals on both sides say
Come on lads we fight for freedom.
The bloodied prisoner is chained to the wall,
The cell is silent, except is isn’t
The sounds are the kind that must not be heard.
The prisoner dreams of freedom,
Not fields of green or oceans blue,
But of death the ultimate freedom.

Sunday 1 November 2015

Work

I live on a main road, a thoroughfare,
I sit and watch the passage of commerce
And it makes me reflect on the wonders of work.
Why we do it, what it does for us.
Does it fulfil a need in us or is it to fulfil our worldly needs?
Do we live to work? Is it what we are here for?

I can create through my work all manner of useful things,
I can build a house; I can farm the land for food,
I can write a song to sing.
If I succeed in these endeavours I will rightly be proud,
I will also be able to rest, to feast and entertain,
 I will be fulfilled and have fulfilled a need.

But is that what work is today, or is it more sinister?
Is not the work of the world to produce profit not fulfilment?
If the fruits of my labour belong to someone else can I be proud of them?
Working for a wage does not seem noble,
Selling your skills without sharing in your achievements,
Degrades your worth and upgrades others.

So how is it that having a job is seen as virtuous?
When your work rewards others in a way that is outside your control,
Surely that should be seen as contemptuous.
In a complicated world it still easy to see that if through your work,
You can provide for you and yours then you can be content,

But it is not the job itself that gives that satisfaction.
If by necessity work needs to be organised and allocated to many workers
To complete the tasks in hand then for it to remain fulfilling

The results of that work need to be shared.