Towards Better Democracy

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Never too tired to be human

But never too tired to be human
Now that I have a heart, larger
Than this globe upon which we live
To care.

And today we have naming of parts
Of the body which region of the planet
I have never known. The extremities, of course
I have always known. These we learn upon
Our knees at the feet of our mothers
When very small, don’t we?

Yes, today we have naming of parts
Of the body particular. Of post natal
Congenital heart defects,  fresh from out
our mother’s womb

Where the left or right atrium
And ventricle may be malformed or damaged
And, as a result, the child’s life is
Significantly threatened. The pulmonary
and vein, and the aorta and return,
the vena cava, cannot function. A bridge
Or stent must be used to
Allow oxygenation of the blood.

And the correct stent with the correct
Sized choke must be selected, which
Sizes are a guess on the part of
The surgeon, however skilled,
Or the child will choke to death.

Today we have naming of body

Malcolm  D B Munrio
Friday 29 April, 2016

Filed under: poetry


Uncertain, tremulous
Which way to go.

The path forks
No sign. A certain
Lassitude hangs.

A cloud over me
Tired from the week
So long, so eventful.

Tired, rest I say
And don’t find that

There seems so much
To do. Time is precious
Now with three quarters
Of a life gone.

Not squandered I suppose
But unfulfilled. Of not,
Of never, having done
What I wanted to do.

Even these lines have
Have a heaviness, the
Keys leaden, the finger
Tips fumbling across
The QWERTY, stumbling.

Why not relax. Take it
That is difficult to
Let go the reigns
When you are still
Upon the horse.

Which, too, seems,
Unguided, slow
This fine steed
So good in the gallop
Today, like me, is all
But idle.

Malcolm D B Munro
Friday 29 April, 2016

Filed under: poetry

English in America

I am stranger here
Been here for years
Yet it does not feel
Like home.

The people are different
Yet the same. The have funny
Accents, especially here in

They, Americans
Treat you well
Don’t mistake me
But they are …
Not the same.

They are enthusiasts
For strange games
American football
All beefy types.

Colliding with each other
Where’s the ball
And they seem to stop
A lot. Why? Then baseball
This is not cricket, that game
That only gentlemen played
But is professional now.

When racing cars they
Have race tracks of oval
Shape. Round and round
And round and round
At dizzying speeds
What’s the skill in

And they say funny things
Like, “Have a nice day,”
“Have a wonderful day.”
“Thenk yooo,” “Talk to you
Soon,” whom you never see
Are they never downhearted
Grumpy, sleepy.

They go to bed early and
Rise early, ready to get going
The locomotion driven
In perpetual motion
Energy to build mountains.

And the women, the women
Running, jogging, while on the
Cell phone, of course
The men, no they don’t
Run outside in the sweltering
Wet air, but run on machines
In gyms with personal trainers
Flaying them, flogging.

Do they ever relax, these human
Dynamos? One feels fatigued just
Watching them. They eat health food
And junk food all in the same breath
Restaurants close a ten and are empty
At nine. Is this civilization?

They talk loud as if to have people in
Chicago hear them, stood two feet
From each other apart. And parents run
Their children to school in the morning
And again at the end of school
And queue in lines, to drop off
Voluble children, all on their cell phones
At the doorstep one car at a time
Do these parents not have lives?

Yes, it is strange here, the same
In some ways and yet foreign in
Others. I tell Jordanians, Albanians,
French, Italians, ‘n all,” I am a foreigner
Too. That I too have a funny accent.”

To be English in America; here
Yet not at home.

Malcolm D B Munro
Friday 29 April, 2016

Filed under: poetry

Friday 29 April, 2016 Post Oak

I just witnessed a curious scene
I nickname this city the City of
Ten Thousand Oaks. This number
Is low and may be 100,00 Oaks.

Over the past two or three weeks I have
Wondered, here on Post Oak, the name
is a giveaway, about young oak trees in the

Median. Every second or third oak
Has a yellow tape tied around its
Midriff. Why?

But one sees such things in a city
And one day they are gone, not the trees
Necessarily, but the tape. And one
Never learns their purpose. Not just
Yellow tape but, for example
Small orange flags, “Fibre Optic
Cable” they might say. And a workman
Spraying orange paint on the side
Walk, a dotted line. Curious
You may ask the fellow and his
Reply may perplex.

This morning, a group of
Three, who do not look like
Worker types, heavy lifters
More office squatters, have an
iPad, some kind of measuring
Device, tagging the base of
The trees with small plastic labels
At the base, “100 23,” “125”
And so on. Like the kind, paper
White, that you might find at
Office Depot, small with white
String to tie. What are they doing
They lean back, looking up
Studying the foliage and branches
Of these mid life trees.

The fear is, “Are they going to
Cut them down?” Then they are gone
Never to be replaced and the median
Is destroyed to create yet another
Traffic lane.

So the road gets wider and wider,
To encroach on human space
Will they go? I daren’t ask
But in a neighborhood, as you
Stand and smoke and look around
And get familiar, day by day
You notice more and more.

Will these trees go and make
The city less human than it is
One more American concrete
Jungle, depressing as that is
No stopping, a juggernaut
The mindless, careless progress
To provide us with more and more
Of what we do not want

Malcolm D B Munro
Friday 29 April, 2016


Filed under: poetry

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