ZERO CARBON 

What is a virtue? Where does it lie?
Is it for everyone? Something we buy?
Is it the way we behave in the street
By wearing a mask, as we skip to a beat?

Does it involve feeling guilty and wrong?
Should we all kneel and, if so, for how long?
Most of us have friends of all different creeds;
Humans, these days, are a hotchpotch of seeds...

That were scattered or thrown in the gardens and fields
And what we see now are the various yields;
Asians and Africans; blacks whites and browns;
Chinese, Hispanic... in all of our towns.

Muslims and Hindus, Indians, Jews.
And EVERYONE wants to be wearing 'the shoes'
As we fight in the streets with our virtue on sleeve,
Determined to die for the things we believe:

If you are white take a knee and don't cease.
If you are black then beware of white police,
If you are Chinese you're in quarantine,
If you are gay no one cares. Trans is Queen.

If you're a parent beware CPS
If you're a child don't ever undress
For a drag queen or principal, TA or teacher;
If you see darkness, you know they're a creature.

If you're ‘low income’ beware 'the Estate';
The place that they promised you things would be great.
Identical houses, uniform roads.
Countryside murdered for soulless abodes.

If you are old you are useless. Goodbye.
You're a drain on society. No need to cry.
Just come and lie down. No you can't see your fam.
Just sign here, please and 'poof!' Midazolam! 

If you're ‘self employed’ then beware of the tax
That the government try to attach to your backs
As they load up your payback on earnings and savings
So they get your Coconut. You just get shavings.

If you're ‘well off’ then beware of the ‘deal’
That loses you everything bar you next meal.
They don't plan to keep you. They'll make you poor too,
Until there's no difference between me and you.

And where, you might ask, does this all go from here?
The world has now gone irreversibly queer.
Are you outraged? Are you scared? Are you vexed?
What do you think they will do to us next?

4 words are coming. They'll be popular jargon:
Take note. Are you ready? "The war on CARBON."
It's the final chess move in their grand farty game.
It's very important. So let me explain:

When ‘terrorists’ rose up and made such a mess,
They declared we should wage war on terror.  Oh yes!
“We’ll get them! We’ll bomb them!  We’ll nuke them alive.
Collateral’s OK if no terrorists survive.”

Then we waged war on a ‘virus’ within,
We were made to be scared of what’s under our skin,
Forbidden to touch and forbidden to hug,
And all this to stop an invisible bug.

The Last war is coming.  It’s End Times, you see,
So if you’re awake and you want to be free,
Remember that we are a carbon creation,
Made in God’s image, not for Schwab’s recreation.

So think about this as you leave for elsewhere:
Why does this matter? Why should you care?
If carbon is so bad we all need to cry:
Zero Carbon = ALL humans must die. 

Simon Welsh Poetry © 16th November 2022

Zero Carbon

Boys Come Home!

Where did all our boys go?  They went off to fight a war
In Afghanistan or Syria; they just walked out the door
With “I must for King and Country.  You’ll be proud of me one day.”
And they climbed into the tank… and the tank just rolled away.

But it’s OK, it’s fine.  Your child’s fighting for a cause.
But what’s the cause?  Our freedom.   See?  That’s why there are wars.
Right now our boys are out there.  They’re in Turkey and Ukraine,
Teaching refugees and local lads the tricks they can’t explain.

Our boys are teaching other peoples children how to kill,
How to move just like a shadow, how to march and how to fill 
Not the chambers of the heart but the chambers of their guns
That were purchased with the money that was raised for Priests and Nuns.

And when our boys have finished training all those local men,
Those men are shipped to us disguised as “refugees again.”
Hotels are now filling up with men of fighting age.
They’re being given food and shelter. Probably a wage.

And one day soon a bell will ring.  The hotel doors will open
And out will flood the armies that the UN have just woken.
They’ll come and kick our doors in if we do not just comply.
They’ll haul us off to wellness camps come kick or scream or cry.

We’ll call our boys to save us from this ‘sudden’ ‘rude’ attack.
And that is when we’ll see the truth.  No one’s got our back…
Our boys aren’t here to save us.  They are fighting for the cause
While the men they trained come pouring out to smash in all our doors.

So boys, we love you, please come home.  Your country needs you most.
Get yourself home NOW because our country’s nearly toast.
We need you to protect us from the armies of the dark.
So hear our prayer and know it speaks to our shared sacred spark.

9th January 2023 ©Simon Welsh Poetry
Dedicated to John O’Looney for having the heart and the courage of the lion of Christ.

Boys come home by Simon Welsh

https://www.thetrojanhorse.co.uk/conversation

11042023 opening the door

Monday 19th November - Thursday 6th December 2012 © Simon Welsh Poetry

Today's poem was brought to you by the following people, words and phrases:

Anja Koren Mozart
Sarah Wyckoff turning 18 and voting for the first time
Leanne Millis Universe and our wonderful energy that many do not realise we possess
Michelle Cox A beautiful farewell to a beloved Grandma x
Leanne Millis Care workers and the elderly!!!
Michelle Cox As it's now another day, may I add another suggestion?
'A mother's pride in her loving son'
Understand if that's against the rules! x
Simon Welsh Poetry nothing is against the rules!

Simon Welsh Poetry Better late than never

On my 18th birthday

On my 18th birthday, like, I went to town to vote,
We had to cross the water to the mainland on a boat.
I took my turn at ballet booth. I ticked my little box.
I was wearing favourite trousers and a matching pair of socks.

Then I took the train, then the bus and then the boat.
It were cold on ferry crossing so I buttoned up my coat.
And, finally, I sat at table feeling like a man,
And then my Dad said, “Son, you’re old enough. You can.”

“Can what, Dad?” I said a frown upon my face.
“Listen to the music with me; share its noble grace.”
So after dinner, Mum washed up and I went off with Dad.
He took me to his study; it were really really mad.

He sat me down on arm chair that were old and smelled of dust
And then I realised that he were giving me his trust.
He sat himself right opposite on t’other dusty chair.
I looked at him and noticed that he hadn’t got much hair.

When did he start balding? How did I miss that?
“You’re ignorant,” I told myself. “Dozy little twat!”
I think he saw my thinking. I think he saw inside.
But in his bloody study there were ought where I could hide.

“Sometimes, Son, my mind gets busy. This is where I come.
“I smoke a Cuban Crafter and then I chew some gum. For your Mum.
“I put the record player on and let the music take me;
“The Classicals are magic. They can lift me. They can break me.

So now, my favourite son, my only son, I give to you
My second record player and my Mozart No. 2.
And when you need a break from the noises in your head,
Remember that we’ve had this chat and put this on instead.

“Thank you, Dad” I said, and I took the things he gave.
I knew it weren’t the sort of thing to stick on at rave.
But later on, in bed, and the thing plugged in beside me
I let the music in; I let in right inside me.

I saw that I am God, that all human beings are one.
I felt how it would feel on the inside of the Sun.
I saw the first beginning and I saw the very end.
And when I listened really deep I saw that time could bend.

So, when I go to rest home, to see my aging Nan,
I try to take the record player. Play it if I can.
Nanna loves it. So do I. I sit and hold her hand;
Her favourite one’s Traumerei by that Schumann on the Grand.

There are times when we just sit and listen, looking at each other.
My Mum’s dead chuffed I see my Nan. Shame about my brother.
The nurses like it when I come to play my record box.
And, unlike when I voted, I don’t think about my socks.

I think about my Nan while I’m looking in her eyes.
And while the music’s playing, we both take off our disguise.
I think I’m saying goodbye to her. I think we’re making peace.
They really ought to get that Mozart out on re-release.

Thursday 6th December 2012 © Simon Welsh Poetry

Simon Welsh Poetry

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On-my-18th-birthday

This was a piece I wrote last week to be considered by 4Thought, a Channel 4 production, in response to the Christmas question the are sending out... "What to buy people at Chritmas instead of a present.

Christmas GLove

Christmas is a time for giving.  That’s what people say.
So out we go to bargain hunt, to fill up Santa’s sleigh.
But what to buy and what to give the people that we love?
For some, our Christmas actions are reviewed by HIM above.

For others who do not feel watched, the focus is elsewhere:
“Will they like the gift I give them?  Will they even care?”
And, either way, we buy those gifts, at discount if we can,
Whether we driven by our guilt or God’s great plan.

And then there are the scornful ones who think we’ve all gone mad:
“Look at them all panic buying right into this fad!”
But these folk are resentful and they blame the Institution
And the propagandist media:  they hope for revolution.

But none of us are right or wrong.  It’s just that we are driven
By our Godly paranoia, or the fear or being given,
Or resentment of the status quo: commercialising love.
So let’s unmask the hand of giving.  What’s beneath this glove?

Giving is an action that’s appropriate to do,
When we’re driven by our gratitude – that’s when giving’s true.
And it doesn’t have to be a gift you give on Christmas day,
If you want folk to know you love them should you have to pay?

“Let me rub your shoulders.  Let me do the washing up.
“You’re moving house in seven months.  I’ll help you with my truck.
“Let me weed your garden.  Let me drive you to the shops.”
Gratitude will make you want to pull out ALL the stops.

But if don’t feel gratitude towards your Christmas folk,
Pretending to be grateful is dishonest.  It’s a joke.
What is it you’re feeling for the people that you ‘love?’
This question is what’s hidden by that fabled Christmas glove.

Wednesday 5th November 2012 ©Simon Welsh Poetry


Christmas GLove



7th December 2012 -  © Simon Welsh Poetry

Today's poem was brought to you by the following people, words and phrases:

Erica Shorter a centipede in fancy dress...
Sarah Wyckoff scary loooong seizure and I wondered as I held him in my lap and sang the love song I made up for him when he was little, are these the last moments of my son's life
Pammy Hook Kittens x
Marion E. Jacobi kisses
Susan Logg Crossing out
Incredibubble Lunah friendship
Rebekah Johnson holidays
Melanie Renee' Medieval dance
Oh and I'm one of those 28. I so enjoy your speaking voice & the way you think! Looking forward to more!

Simon Welsh Poetry Welcome Melanie. A few more hours and I will start to reveal (rather than create) a poem that has already been written in the Ether from all these ideas. I must just try to clear my mind and see what there is to see xxxx

John Sanderson Paradox
Just became aware of you and your art. Thanks to you and the universe!
Emma LoveStar Gatsby Cookies and Peace is all that Matters from Eadie and Mathilda

Who am I? Who are you?

If we start by saying we’re alive before we’re born,
And we also live beyond the point where other people mourn
As they bury us, entombed, in a coffin in the ground,
We start to see that life’s a spiral: round and round and round.

The body is a vehicle with all the working parts
To accommodate the One transmission, tuned in through our hearts.
We get to have experience, emotion, thought and feeling.
We get to feel individual from floor to ceiling.

So with all this in mind, is it possible to be
A human being who can function well in this reality?
It seems we all have blueprints for the things that we should do:
The practices that help us all to meet each other true.

Someone might do yoga. Someone else might talk to God.
Jane might be a Buddhist. John might think that’s odd.
For some, the thought of kissing kitten’s noses is enough
To remind them they’re unique and that they’re full of love and stuff.

Though, this being said, for many of us, love is born from pain.
The grieving that we go through when we feel less than sane
With the worry that engulfs us as our little baby boy
Has a seizure in our arms while we sing a song of joy:

A love song sung with open heart and Gratitude for life,
Vibrating with the love we feel, rather than the strife.
And in those moments, we are brought to see the face of God.
That love and pain can mix like this: a paradox. It’s odd.

And now I know that Love is present each and everywhere,
I’m learning how to nurture my ability to care
For myself in the areas I used to seek from others:
From the friendships co-created with my sisters and my brothers.

In recent years I have found reflections of myself:
Pixie; Wizard; Warrior; the Shaman and the Elf,
The Matriarch, the Amazon, the fabled Dwarf Princess,
The Mogwai and the Ninja (who’s invisible, no less).

And in these friendships I can start to see myself anew,
That who they are with me is my reflection. And it’s true.
Some reflections make me glow with Universal Pride.
Whilst others make me shrink away. They make me want to hide.

So if the Pixie troubles me should I reject the friend?
“I’ve had enough of you. I’m afraid this is the end.”
I could, but if I did how could I expect to see
The things that, through the pain of friendship, God is showing me?

I want to learn. I want the lessons – just not all the time.
And seeing this has shown me that I’m ready, now, to climb.
But I must climb the mount alone to understand the Pixie,
And learn to trust him even though he’s often rather tricksy.

And when I trust my Pixie, I will also trust in others’:
The Pixies that belong to my sisters and my brothers.
I’ll climb that mount with honestly – that’s what this is about;
The Pixie makes me cross but I must NEVER cross it out.

So, like the olden days when they danced medieval dances,
And called in the directions in their hocus-pocus trances,
I will visualise myself on the mountain in my mind,
Making hocus-pocus Pixie magic. Who knows what I’ll find.

And then a mountain holiday, perhaps a little rest,
With a Pixie in my heart, beating rhythms in my chest,
And Pixie dreams of Centipedes in very fancy-dress:
Going to the Centiparty aiming to impress.

And then I will return, down the mountain, to the ground,
And smile to the singing mountain farmer and the sound
Of his voice and his lyrics as he throws his seed to scatter:
“Peace and cookies are the only things that really matter.”

7th December 2012 ©Simon Welsh Poetry

Simon Welsh Poetry

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Who am I who are you

Saturday 8th - Wednesday 12th December 2012 © Simon Welsh Poetry

Today's poem was brought to you by the following people, words and phrases:

Keith Jackson Pneumonultramicroscopicsilicavolcanoconiosis....... Just joking! How about Happy Birthday Jack! X

William Pounds Friendship and obligation, free or fettered ? Lessons in asking, the deal to be able to be asked....yet disappointment when the asked can't , and so the question of friendship......disapointment , loss.....sadness and who to turn to if theyre not 'available'....and then the self-enquiring loneliness....blame ? Patterns and independance,or freedom from co-dependance......the past....the family.....the siblings....

Michelle Cox Not sure I can compete with the previous two! I'll go with, 'the joy of knowing a dear friend you don't see enough of, thought to phone for a chat the same day you thought of them'!! x

Marion E. Jacobi dancing in the rain
Joyce Johnson peace, love & forgiveness
LJ Aud Io “The melancholy Man in the Moon smiled wistfully upon the dimly receding sun”

Simon Welsh Poetry William, I don't usually ask this but you, Sir, have pushed my limits by bringing forth enough concepts in a single day to dominate several volumes alone. Would you please choose your favourite and post it below. Thank you, good Sir. S x

Simon Welsh Poetry A hectic weekend, very pleasant but wasn't near a computer. Will compose the above piece tomorrow. Ps. Sweet dreams to all xxx

Simon Welsh Poetry From @RJ RJohnny: Please consider this phrase for a poem...'boring old gay man'

Ian Fennell I'd like a special poem about the number 81 bus, my love for this permanent fixture in my humble existence never diminishes. http://thepepperpotpost.wordpress.com/2011/10/12/dear-81/
Dear 81…

Rob Fallon Kill them all!

Susan Logg Hahahaha! You can do it! I offer..."Peace"

Simon Welsh Poetry -

Light on the shadow

This journey is a myriad of options we can take:
Of the paths that we can walk; the decisions we can make.
And when we know the path we wish to walk, we walk with purpose
And as often as we can we try to navigate this circus.

But when we carry hurt and resentments from the past,
We can move as fast as lightning but, still, we come in last.
It seems that everyone we know’s more fortunate than us:
They drive a fancy car to work. We have to take the bus.

They get given everything. We have to fight for ours.
We can only reach the ceiling. They can reach the stars.
And often we are friends with these abundant, lucky things,
And we hope that, in their presence, we may, one day, too, have wings.

And they should help us. Shouldn’t they! They ought to give their time.
And if they don’t, that’s selfishness. We’ll, actually, it’s crime.
We don’t need them anyway. We’re better on our own.
And if they really miss us they can call us on the phone.

Thy can tell us that they’re sorry; that they want the friendship back.
“Sorry I forgot your birthday. Happy Birthday, Jack.”
“I don’t see enough of you, my dear, dear old friend.”
But if they do not make that phone call, we’re not going to bend.

And then we sit alone feeling lonely, feeling sad,
And wondering why rotten luck is all we’ve ever had.
When God comes down for justice we shall watch the mighty fall.
We’re not bothered if they die. God can kill them all.

He’s done this sort of thing before; Sodom and Gomorrah.
But, still, it would be better to prevent this kind of horror.
The paradigm is shifting. We can feel it in our brain;
People need to realise and get on board this train.

It sets off very soon, on December 21st.
We’d forgive those selfish bastards if they’d just say ‘sorry’ first.
Maybe we expect too much. Maybe we’re too pointed
Maybe that’s the reason we are always disappointed.

No fancy cars for us; we ride the Dear 81;
As far from comfortable as the Moon is from the Sun.
We cannot trust our friends to meet or expectations true;
It’s frivolous like dancing in the rain or sniffing glue.

So, here we are again, disappointed to the core,
Wondering if life will ever start to give us more.
Until that point, we’ll ride the bus, for free, because we can,
Like just another pension-grabbing boring old gay man.

12th December 2012 ©Simon Welsh Poetry

Simon Welsh Poetry

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Light-on-shadow

A 45 minute interview from November 2012 at the studios of Luxemburg's Radio ARA - Show: the Corner Cafe with Deb and Wendy

Interview on Radio ARA, Corner Cafe, Luxemburg

A retelling of the story of Lucifer's 'fall' from 'Heaven' that explains a great deal of who we are and where we're going... 

01-The story of the light bearer (part 1)

The story of what happened directly after Lucifer left Heaven, and how it brought us here.