The Blame Game 2016. A poem.



I couldn’t sleep last night. The turmoil that has been 2016 spun angry vortexes in my head through the wee hours. After a couple of hours of fitful sleep, I realised I had to write myself out of this funk. I don’t write poems very often. But I can’t tell you how much better I feel for writing this one.

Goodbye, 2016.

Onwards, friends. Onwards.

The Blame Game 2016

I’m not sleeping very well.


I blame 2016 and the horror that’s been this year of seismical change.

The world seems transformed, full of hate, fear and scorn; ugly, divided and strange.


I blame Brexit for severing the links with my bretheren with whom I have always felt tied.

They said we’d be better sans cette euro-type fetter. They made up the numbers. They lied.


I blame May and her minions for duplicit opinions that pretend to put everyone first.

They’re sly politicians, these social morticians; all blue-bloods with vampirical thirst.


I blame bold post-truth liars and climate deniers for peddling deliberate falsities.

And internet trolls, who with twitter-hate moles, dig holes in our fragile democracies.


I blame Daily Mail leaders, and yes, every last reader, for their role in our country’s demise.

But with a media in thrall to the governments all, it really is no great surprise.


I blame terrorist cells and the western cartels whose policies allow them to flourish.

Blatant state-building and oil-dollar wielding are the fuel with which ISIS is nourished.


I blame armaments bosses who won’t countenance losses; it’s their bombs that maim and do kill.

Wars keep on going, and refugees flowing. It’s a lack of political will.


I blame Jeremy Corbyn for not sticking his oar in, precisely when it was needed.

With progressive position and clear, honest vision, a call to arms might well have been heeded.


Yes, I blame Donald Trump, and all of his gumph, for pretending to speak for a nation.

Can the people be saved from this populist wave? A tsunami that threatens annihilation.


I blame me for allowing these thoughts to keep flowering and grow in the soil of my mind.

But it’s easy to feel that it’s a bloody rum deal, to be fighting these woes, don’t you find?


And yet


The world keeps on spinning, politicians keep winning on platforms that seek to divide.

Our task is quite clear, march forwards, my dear. Heads held up high, and with pride.


The blame game is easy, but it can’t ever please me and it won’t ever sustain through next year.

I’ll put pen to paper, and hopefully, later, produce stories of hope, not of fear.


Writers. Keep writing! Our words should be fighting for a future where everyone thrives.

It’s never too late. Write! Draw! Create! Let our voices be heard. Be alive!


©Justin Nevil Davies 2016


Creativity Update

I’ve been rather quiet here of late. It isn’t that I haven’t been writing; far from it. My creative writing course is providing me with lots of opportunities for that, and we are all working towards an end-of-course piece. Mine is taking shape and is going to take the form of a trilogy (triptych, if you will) of flashes. I’m not particularly happy with progress at the moment, but there is a reason for this. I’ll be blogging about THAT shortly.
Please don’t worry. Flyingscribbler is not unwell.
But that’s all you’re getting. For now, at least.
My writing course was cancelled twice in a row, which rather conveniently coincided with the two sessions I was unable to attend, but I’m keen to get back to it. The last class I went to was all about life writing which I didn’t enjoy half as much as the poetry class. However, I did have the chance to read out the poem I’d been working on throughout the previous week. It was based on a recent trip to Tanzania and took the form of a list poem (which we had discussed in class) similar to Song of Myself by Walt Whitman. We were to use anaphora – a repeated introduction to each line – and try to include grace and musicality in our work. I was quite pleased with my effort and received decent feedback from the class. I thought I might share it with you here.

Feel The Heat

Feel the heat.

Feel the sweat trickling, feel the skin slowly softening.

Feel the heat.

The warmth presses, kisses, wraps you in winter-quilt caresses.

Feel the white-wash glare from slumbering clouds.

Feel the city pulse slow, feel the sun’s burning glow.

Feel the heat.

Seek relief in noon-day shadows with locals who know.

Feel shots of hibiscus blooming blood through leaves.

Feel the afternoon breeze.

Watch seed pods spin from long-fingered clutches.

Hear palm fronds ripple applause.

Feel the marzipan softness of frangipani flowers

beneath your feet.

Feel hearts sing as old friends meet

to knock willow on leather.

Feel the heat.

Now the warm draft of eagle-soaring thermals.

Feel them rise and glide and fall.

Then the first cooling breaths whisper in from the sea.

Feel them calm and balm and soothe.

And the dusky blue pink platinum sky

feels the vibrations of a cow-hide beat from the street.

Feel the heat.

Let me know what you think.

Meanwhile, here’s a writing news update: my story ‘Kid Gloves’ is published today at Please feel free to leave comments and vote. I also made the long list in the micro fiction category of The New Writer annual competition. Whilst it’s a shame not to have gone any further, it beats last year when I made no list at all, long, short or medium. Anyway, I’ll be peddling the story that made the list to plenty more competitions. It’s one I was quite proud of.