The Eagle and The Hawk.

 My two regular readers know, by now, that occasionally on this blog I like to demonstrate very different interpretations of a particular song. In this instance the song was written by John Denver, often dismissed by purists as a pop/folk writer, but he was much much deeper than this and wrote songs with not only a deeply emotional but also a spiritual significance. I hope to demonstrate this in a later post but for now lets stick to the text and play different versions of The Eagle and The Hawk.

John Denver

Blind Pilot

Bonnie Prince Billy

The Problems caused by, "The New Americans"

Early Indian Languages of the USA (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A Mark 8 nuclear bomb. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 Of course I am referring to the bloodthirsty puritans and religious zealots who stole North America from the native Americans or more correctly The Indian Tribes, that roamed that continent in comparative peace, for thousands of years before the incomers arrived. Not only did they arrive, but they invaded, tortured and almost wiped out those tribes that were the historical guardians of that fair land.
 But time passed and the settlers found that they needed cheap labour to till the soil and pick the crops. So a good capitalist liberal economic plan was devised to ship Native Africans in rotting and filthy ships from the old world to the new. And these too were treated as second class citizens, and ill treated and killed if they were obdurate, and are despised even unto this day.
 And when these African Americans were grudgingly given their civil rights they then needed another source of cheap labour so to this day Mexicans are dragged in to pick their crops, and I have witnessed the tin hovels that they are forced to live in whilst picking Red Delicious in the Yakima Valley.
 One of the factors that psychologists consider when dealing with psychopaths is their feelings of insecurity, usually but not always. born out of, a troubled early past and a sense of not belonging. This often results in an innate siege mentality and a distorted sense of right and wrong but above all a need to protect what they have. So it it is with the, "New Americans" who are the most bloodthirsty race of people ever to live on this planet which belongs to us all equally and is not there to serve the interests of their ruling elite. Of course it is idiotic to generalise as we all know decent, caring citizens of the USA who are often embarrassed by their chiefs and you will find such agonising in the columns of this astute journal.
 This blogger was born in 1944, and a year later  the, "New Americans" dropped the first nuclear bomb on Hiroshima. Since then, in the name of democracy and freedom, for God's sake, they have blitzed their way around the weak and defenceless leaving millions of dead and injured in their wake, not for them to tangle with The Russian Bear, for he might do unto them serious non-collateral damage.
 So what's to do? TheRainbow Alliance has been tried whilst the labor unions and Wall Street protestors have been silenced, much like Phil Ochs experienced at the Democratic convention in Chicago, when Mayor Daly set his dogs on those who dared to say enough is enough. And so the coffins continue to roll out on the "New Americans" conveyor belt of death.

Paul Robeson who lived and died in the cause of civil rights for all of the people of this world and the labour movement.

The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band

Hard Times for the BLUES.

Down and Out Blues (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 To my two regular readers, once again apologies to you but the time has come to take about football and of course Birmingahm City F.C. I am grateful to Eoin of Singing the Blues for this most erudite description of our current plight:-

My Problem? I Don't Know Who To Be Angry At Any More.

As we left the ground yesterday after an annoying, perplexing and humiliating second-half display I became further vexed by the notes of misplaced triumph in the announcer’s voice as he announced the Chelsea v AVFC result. And my question was along the lines of “What exactly is it you’re feeling so happy about? Am I seriously expected, after a display like yesterday’s, feel good about our local Premier League rivals playing a brilliant team, hotly tipped to win the league and to make good progress in Europe. Is there an assumption that there’s always something amusing happening on the other side of the A38 that’s amusing and that as long as they’re about we can be chipper and perky?” Chipper and perky about a well run-club that’s made mistakes, flirted with and avoided relegation, had a good start to this season and commands healthy gates?

Am I expected to sneer at their transition from Ellis to Learner and somehow revel in their current lack of clarity regarding the possible sale of the club and to do this with no sense of irony as we witness a collective atrophy consume the fabric of the club.

And I don’t know who to be angry at. Sullivan and Gold for selling the club, BIHL for buying it, McLeish for leaving it meaning at the point of his inevitable dismissal from AVFC, they would in turn appoint Lambert and in so doing give Houghton an opportunity to manage a Premier League team? Should I focus my anger on our current owners and their seemingly limitless ineptitude-a case study in how to over-promise, under-deliver and demolish in months that which had taken years to achieve? Need I remind myself of their inability to deliver the accounts on time, produce end of year financial statements or anything else even moderately consistent with good business practice?

Do I focus my disquiet on the fans that stay away or rather do I (and I include myself here) point the finger at the remnants of our support that still attend to witness embarrassment heaped upon humiliation. The cauldron of support that prompted Sir Alex Ferguson to comment, now has all the intensity of spluttering flame that begs to be extinguished.

Should I join the “Clark out” group-think when I believe that Lee Clark is a manifestation of what is wrong with the club rather than the cause of it? Should I add my voice to the torrent of abuse he faces or I should I reflect on who could do better/different and-honestly-who of any ambition or quality would want to be part of an organisation that is merely a passport for its owners’ intentions to stay visible on the Hong-Kong stock exchange? I could point my finger at those who thought they might like to buy us and have seemingly withdrawn but do you know what, the prospect of maximum liability in a high risk situation with less than 25% asset control would probably make me raise an eyebrow and walk away.

I think I'm angry and sad because there’s nothing to be done except wait, listening for the faintest of sounds in a communication vacuum that seems to suit only those who own our club and seem indifferent to its impotent Carver Doone-like attempts to escape from the mire in which it will be consumed.

At 17:35 yesterday I was past the airport and well on my way to Coventry. It’s not that long ago that I was still on the car-park at 17:35: that’s a very much unwanted silver lining on a vast, dark cloud.

Two poems to my Mother.

TO A LOVED ONE

(My Mother)

Autumn of low sun

and long shadows

dark days

and morning mists

that cloak my valley

in dreamscapes;

softening

winter's

harsh approach.

Like you, before you flew

left clues

of imminent departure

in shrouded sentences

and sideways glances

that signalled

the frozen years to come.

The daylight sleeps

yet the trees

stripped of their leaves

allow light into my forest

and winter's moon

upon the woodland floor.

So it it with you

warm memories flicker

in the inner sanctum of my soul

and tears cannot put out

the fire I have inside for you.

LOST OPPORTUNITY

The last kiss we gave each other, as you lay dying

Was like the first kiss that you gave to me, to hush my crying.

But through the myriad wasted hours in between

delicate times for kissing you, were missed by me.

Why oh why does it take birth and death

to separate me holding you, mama mild,

like you held me when I was an upset child.

But , oh why did I not cradle you as you grew old?

And now you're gone, I regret all that I should have done.

Told you at thirty how pretty you were; my heart you'd won.

At forty that you had spun my dreams.

At sixty, your highness, you were my queen.

In the hour of your death it was obscene

watching the crows circle over your bed,

unable to breath life back into you

too useless to smother you with myself.

                                                                David, who thinks of you every day.

A time to throw stones and a time for peace.

 On Friday 26 September the British House of Commons, voted on whether to become the lackeys of the USA and bomb ISIL bases in Iraq (some hope, bases don't exist and ISIL will melt into the general population in the area that they receive the support of the indigenous tribes).  There was however one beacon amongst a sea of mediocricy when George Galloway, in a passionate summation of the situation destroyed the rest of the commons with the following excoriating speech. It needs no further comment.

  

 At the same time the autumn mist of mellow fruit and mistiness has descended on my beloved valley, far from the madness of our government and the bombs that bring with them collateral damage ( a euphemism for the burning and shredding of innocent children and women):-

Meanwhile lovely Anastasia in far of and cold Moscow dreams still of the summer past:-

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News from St. Petersburg.

Deutsch: Vincent van Gogh im Jahr 1866 im Alter von 13 Jahren. Vermutlich entstand das Foto nach Beendigung des Internataufenthalts in Zevenbergen, bevor er in die höhere Schule in Tilburg eintrat. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

City of culture rivers, canals, the sea and beauty. Tourist traps are expensive (£4 for a cup of tea) but get to where the Russians eat and dine and it's £0.50 for a cupa. Mind you the tea is crap. and I found nowhere with a nice Darjeeling or Assam. DO NOT have a glass of Vodka (about the equivalent of 4 shots, for £1.30) in the morning, as the Russian sailors do - nor anytime - I felt ill for the rest of the day and thought that I was going to be sick. It took two hours of steady walking to get rid of the effects - no wonder Russia has one of the worst record for early death from the dreaded liquor. My remedy was the rest of the holiday back on the wagon.
 The Hermitage is beyond description, three floors and a basement filled with the works of the old masters - twenty of everything Cezanne's, Picasso's, Van Gogh's, Gaugan's etc, etc as well as some exiting Russian modern art.
 The people are friendly, articulate and extremely well educated and the place, like Moscow is buzzing. My guide Natalie was informed, educated and buoyant, although, naughty girl, she smoked the stick of death, Stop it Natalie! Fireworks, pop concerts and symphony orchestras, all for free in the main square. And, perhaps, one of the most amazing sites that I have ever seen about 500 Hells Angel's lights flashing and horns blaring doing fifty miles an hour around the city roads and being escorted, front and end by police cars with lights flashing and sirens screaming, joining in the fun.