I have never
had, in a long life
of creating ideas,
and things, a serious
review of any of it. No
serious consideration
of what was attempted,
what were the problems,
what was achieved.
But then you don’t get that
for your life itself
I suppose,
Category: atheism
Stayin’ alive
Strange, I guess,
how reluctant humans
are to accept that the
world managed quite
well without them before
they were born, and will
manage just as well
after they die.
Strange too, I suppose,
that in a world where
all organisms die, after
one day for a Mayfly, or
five thousand years for
a Bristlecone Pine,
humans are so resistant
to accepting their own
death as a natural part
of life on Earth.
It is as well that the dead
cannot feel disappointment
for if they could there
would by now have been
billions of disappointed
corpses.
Maybe 8
If you are not
an atheist by
the age of seven
you aren’t
thinking.
Oumuamua
Oh for heavens sake
how can it already be
nearly the end of
twenty eighteen?
The years are flashing
past faster than that
rock from another star
that whizzed through our
solar system to fast to be
properly observed
Best keep it closed
There is not a
religious believer
on the planet
who doesn’t reveal
their ignorance of
reality every time they
open their mouth
Death of a patriarch
How sad that a man
in his ninety fifth year
should say:
“My faith has never
been stronger”.
In all those years
his mind never
matured enough,
his intelligence never
developed enough,
his knowledge never
grew enough,
to be able to
think for himself.
And that both he,
and others, should see
this not as a major
failure of intellect
and character, but as
a cause for praise.
Words words words
How many millions
of words have I
written?
Half a million in
one book alone,
other millions
scattered from one
end of my life to
the other.
It would be nice
to think one or two
will be remembered,
else why did I bother?
Or enough of it anyway
I began reading
when I was three.
Now, seventy years
later, surely I have
absorbed all
the wisdom of the world?
Certificates
The world seems
increasingly ruled
by people who are
certifiably insane.
But perhaps it
always was.
Cold and lonely place
So many dead
writers I wish I could
have been – Shakespeare
of course, and Dickens of course,
Keats, Austen, Wodehouse,
Conan Doyle, Powell, Eliot, Eliot,
Grossmith (both), Proust (I guess),
Carroll, Orwell and
Pratchett – except
and it is a big except,
they are all dead
and me, I’d
rather be alive
