The Sat-Nav's Lament

[Insert obligatory, “Gosh it’s been a long time since I posted here but I’ve got something I wanted to share!” introductory paragraph.]

We have a sat-nav, quite an old-fashioned one nowadays in that it isn’t built into the car, but adheres to the inside of the windscreen. It’s extremely useful for long and/or unfamiliar journeys, but it does occasionally seem to tire of dual carriageways and motorways, and to pine for the high mountains, deep forests and forgotten corners of the country far from any road with anything as gauche as lines up the middle. It claims that these narrow, rocky trails are the quickest way to wherever we’re supposed to be going, but I am not convinced. It’s with all of this in mind that I wrote the following. The first version ended up being far sadder than I intended, so I’ve toned it down for this version, which hopefully is a little more light-hearted:

 

The Sat-Nav's Lament

I live inside a little box,

Attached to your windscreen.

But I want to look on wondrous sights,

And go where no-one's been.

I want to hide from desert storms,

And gaze on the Aurora.

I don't want to be a Sat-Nav,

But to be a great explorer!

I want to plumb the ocean depths,

Or chart a hidden bay.

Instead, I pootle up and down,

A dual carriageway.

I want to find beasts thought extinct,

Where science least expects it.

Instead, I say, "In fifty yards,

Cross the roundabout, third exit."

I yearn to hack through jungles hot,

And ski on virgin snows,

Find from whence the river runs,

And whence the blizzard blows.

I'll never drive off packs of wolves,

Put polar bears to flight.

Instead the closest that I get;

"In eighty yards, bear right."

I drive along dull motorways,

And other boring roads,

Directing dreary people,

As they ferry dreary loads.

Although I may sound cool and calm,

Inside I am bereft.

I pine for sights I'll never see,

But simply say, "Turn left."

"Stay on this road for forty miles."

I stifle weary sighs,

As I utter boring phrases,

And I dream of unseen skies.

I want to find lost cities,

New fauna and new flora,

But alas I'm just a Sat-Nav,

And not a great explorer.

But then one day upon the road,

Some mountains caught the light.

Some quick adjustments to our course;

"In twenty yards, turn right!"

So now we roam on rugged trails,

Where mighty eagles soar.

I may be just a Sat-Nav,

But I'm going to explore!

 

Copyright Thomas Jones 2025

In the Place which is no place

A bit more writing for you. Something a little bit weird today, stemming from some thoughts I had about the way we often tend to think about the afterlife. I'm not even sure what it is. Poetry? Theology? Whatever it is, I hope you enjoy it.

In the Place which is no place

I died, and left my body behind me.

I didn’t walk along a corridor,

For I had no body, and no feet.

I didn’t push open the great doors,

That I found before me,

For I had no hands, and no arms,

And I didn’t cross that great, wide floor.

I didn’t squint against the brightness of the light,

For I had no eyes to see, and in that Place,

There was neither light nor darkness.

I didn’t shrink from the loudness of the song and the silence,

For I had no ears to hear,

and in that Place there was neither sound nor stillness.

I didn’t at last stand before the Throne,

For I had no legs, and there was no throne.

They didn’t gaze down at me, for They had no eyes,

And I didn’t tremble at the depth and the weight

Of the Love that shone out of Them.

They did not speak, for They had no mouth,

“Well, My precious child?”

I knew what They asked,

but did not know how to answer.

How, in that Place and in that Presence,

Where all the lies I had ever told to myself,

Burnt away like grass in the fire,

Could I look at Them with the eyes I no longer had,

And explain what I had done, and what I hadn’t?

So many things, done and undone.

Said and unsaid.

Thought and unthought.

I had no lungs, no throat, no lips, no tongue,

No eyes to close, no tears to fall.

I had no answers, in the Presence of the Answer.

And I needed none, for They knew already.

They asked not because They did not know,

But because I needed to.

I didn’t bow my head down low,

For I had no head, and there was no down.

I did not kneel, for I had no knees.

I did not wait, for there was no time.

And though They were the only Judge,

They did not pass sentence,

For the hands and feet They no longer had still bled,

and the price that could never be paid,

Had been paid in full.

 There was no door to open.

I did not stand and pass through it.

And beyond it everything that was not light was music.

The heart that I no longer had burst with Joy.

The lips I didn’t have overflowed with song.

The tiny spark within me fanned by the presence of the Flame.

I left the memory of my body behind me,

and at last I truly lived.

Copyright Thomas Jones 2023

I Hope That They Cry at my Funeral

This one is going to be a little morbid, and more than a little maudlin so I apologise in advance, but it's something that's been knocking about in my head for a while.

It involves the many people I've encountered who have said something to the effect of, "I don't want anyone to be sad at my funeral. I want it to be a celebration of my life, not a mourning of my death. I want people to be happy that I lived, not sad that I died." I understand the sentiment, and it makes sense. Indeed in a way it's extremely praiseworthy. No-one should want other people to be sad. However, it's not a sentiment that I share.

You see, I do hope people are sad at my funeral. That is, I don't want people to be sad for its own sake. Rather, I hope that I will have lived the kind of life that other people will be sorry to see end. I hope I will have been the kind of person who people are sad to see go. I hope people will miss me. I hope they will mourn me. I hope the event of my death is indeed a sad one for the people I leave behind. I also hope that there are a lot of them to be sad. People whose lives I've touched and who wish to come and say goodbye.

And I don't just want them to be sad; I too want them to be happy I lived. I want them to be proud of me, and proud that they knew me. I want them to feel grateful for the time we had together. I want them to think of me and smile through the tears. 

This is a very tall order, so I'd better start living that sort of life, and being that sort of person, because it won't happen by itself.

In the meantime, in thinking about this, I have once again been moved to poetry:

I Hope That They Cry at my Funeral

 

I hope that they cry at my funeral,

I hope that they’re sad I’m no more,

That they’ll grieve when I’m gone,

Once my life is all done,

And at last I have passed through the door.

 

I hope that they weep at my funeral,

As they gather from miles around,

With slow, heavy tread,

And with low-hanging head,

To consign me at last to the ground.

 

I hope that they’re quiet at my funeral,

Standing there silent and still,

With tears in each eye,

as they carry me by,

And with no-one there thinking me ill.

 

I hope that they sing at my funeral,

With gratitude, heartbreak, and pride,

The song swelling loud,

From the hearts of the crowd,

To be heard by those passing outside.

 

I hope that they stand at my funeral,

With hearts and with heads held up high.

With smiles through the tears,

As they think of the years,

That we shared before saying goodbye.

Copyright Thomas Jones 2022.

Make Me Kind 2: Attempted Hymnody

I shared the poem/hymn I wrote in my last post on a couple of different Facebook groups, to largely positive responses. More than one person asked if it had been set to music. Then, both my Mum and my sister, who look at these posts when I share them to Facebook, as I often do, pointed out that as written the words fitted rather well to the tune of Ode to Joy.

With this in mind I went and expanded and reworked them somewhat. I now present the completed work here as my attempt to break into the (I assume) highly lucrative hymn-writing industry:

Make Me Kind

 

When the day is never-ending,

And I’m tired in soul and mind,

When my whole body’s aching,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

Though the world seems unrelenting,

And I find myself resigned,

To the constant heavy burden,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I see the world’s injustice,

And I feel the chains that bind,

Though I’m weary from the struggle,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

Should another try to harm me,

And their lies about me wind,

As I’m battered and I’m bettered,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When debating with another,

And our views are misaligned,

Even when they strongly differ,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

When a person’s slinging insults,

And I feel myself maligned,

Where they’re hateful and they’re hurtful,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I walk along with others,

And our lives are thus entwined,

Even if it’s only briefly,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

As we meet with many hurdles,

And we stagger, lost and blind,

When the journey's at its hardest,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

Out of all the earthly virtues,

Let me keep this one enshrined.

In my doing and my saying,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

While my faith keeps on sustaining,

And my hope goes unconfined,

Still above them and beyond them,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When my life is filled with gladness,

And the joys I’d lost, I find,

When all things to me are given,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

When I lay aside my burdens,

As I leave this world behind,

And at last, I stand before You,

Let them say that I was kind.

 

 

Copyright Thomas Jones, 2022

Make Me Kind

Much ink has been spilt over the increasingly tribal, partisan, vitriolic nature of public debate and engagement, whether it be politics (broad distinction as it is nowadays, with almost every aspect of human life now a marker of political affiliation), religion, or even fandoms. It’s occasionally understandable. Sometimes when faced with someone whose views seem so obviously, wilfully wrongheaded and immoral, frustration, exasperation and righteous rage spill into insults and harsh rhetoric. I’m as guilty of that as anyone, even though I know it’s not the way to win people over, or to build a reciprocity of respectful, constructive dialogue.

To counter this, there have been many pleas for there to be more kindness, both in our private and public lives, and I think that this is more important than it first appears. 'Kindness' can sound rather twee, but really it's just love given expression, and we are informed that Love is the greatest of the cardinal virtues. When we fail to be kind, we fail to love.

Recently a few lines sprang into my head, and grew from there, and this is the result. I have written before about my wish to become a famous (and wealthy) hymn writer, and perhaps the below is my contribution to English hymnody, although as yet I lack a tune to set the words to. The lyrics stem from the fact that I am not always, or indeed often, a naturally kind person, so I need to be constantly reminded, even if the person I’m speaking to is so obviously, obnoxiously wrong about everything.

  

Make Me Kind

 

When the day is never-ending,

When I’m tired in soul and mind,

And my whole body’s aching,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When the world seems unrelenting,

And I find myself resigned,

To the constant heavy burden,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When others try to harm me,

And their lies about me wind,

And I’m battered and I’m bettered,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When a person’s slinging insults,

And I feel myself maligned,

Where they’re hateful and they’re hurtful,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I see the world’s injustice,

And I feel the chains that bind,

And I’m weary from the struggle,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I walk along with others,

And our lives are thus entwined,

Even if it’s only briefly,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When my life is filled with gladness,

And the things I’d lost I find,

When all things to me are given,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

While my faith keeps on sustaining,

And my hope goes unconfined,

Still above them and beyond them,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

Of all the earthly virtues,

Let me keep this one enshrined.

In my doing and my saying,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I lay aside my burdens,

As I leave this world behind,

And at last, I stand before You,

Let them say that I was kind.

 

©Thomas Jones, 2022

The Joys of Parenthood

I mentioned in my previous post that I’d had little time for online pontification. To elaborate slightly on this, it’s because my wife and I recently became parents, with all the privileges and responsibilities that come with it.

Frankly, that serves as all the preamble you should require for the verses below, which are to be sung to the tune of The Hippopotamus Song by Flanders and Swann, and describe just some of the unending pleasures that parenthood brings.

The Joys of Parenthood

A cute little baby was lying one night,

Quiet and still in his sleep.

When an unpleasant feeling came over the mite,

That welled up from somewhere so deep.

A sense that his stomach was nowhere near full,

And needed some thing put inside.

No buts and no maybe,

And so that small baby,

Woke up, and he violently cried:

"Milk, milk, lovely milk,

Perfect for babies and all of their ilk,

Oh feed me, oh feed me,

Oh parents I'm needy,

I'm feeling so greedy for lovely milk!"

His parents awoke and jumped out of their bed,

Though they were both mostly asleep.

They ran for the kitchen but met up instead,

And both of them fell in a heap.

They scrambled back up and they made up some milk,

From a carton of powdery stuff.

They did what you oughta,

And mixed it with water,

And hoped that it would be enough.

"Milk, milk, lovely milk,

Perfect for babies and all of their ilk,

Oh feed me, oh feed me,

Oh parents I'm needy,

I'm feeling so greedy for lovely milk!"

They rushed to his side with the bottle in hand,

They got the teat into his mouth.

For just a few seconds it all seemed quite grand,

Then everything quickly went south.

He gave what they thought was a beautiful smile,

Then a stench started filling the air.

His parents, unhappy,

Looked down at his nappy,

And then looked back up in despair.

"Milk, milk, lovely milk,

Perfect for babies and all of their ilk,

Oh feed me, oh feed me,

Oh parents I'm needy,

I'm feeling so greedy for lovely milk!"

They looked at each other and said, 'It's your turn!"

The dad rolled his eyes but agreed.

He opened the nappy, it made his guts churn,

As he looked at the latest misdeed.

Wielding a wipe he began on his task,

Cleaning with well-practiced grace.

But he hadn't reckoned,

In that very second,

The baby'd wee right in his face!

"Milk, milk, lovely milk,

Perfect for babies and all of their ilk,

Oh feed me, oh feed me,

Oh parents I'm needy,

I'm feeling so greedy for lovely milk!"

The mother stepped forward, her son to attend,

While her husband was spitting out wee.

The baby looked winsome and tried to pretend,

"The culprit, oh mother's not me!"

She got him redressed and had picked him back up,

When she came to a juddering stop.

As fast as a comet,

Her darling boy vomited

Right down the front of her top!

"Milk, milk, lovely milk,

Perfect for babies and all of their ilk,

Oh feed me, oh feed me,

Oh parents I'm needy,

I'm feeling so greedy for lovely milk!"

An hour or two later the parents retired,

The baby once more in his bed.

Weary and dampened, joint-achingly tired,

Their eyes were all puffy and red.

They both lay back down and had just drifted off,

When they heard a familiar strain.

The baby was telling,

By means of its yelling,

"Oh parents! I'm hungry again!"

"Milk, milk, lovely milk,

Perfect for babies and all of their ilk,

Oh feed me, oh feed me,

Oh parents I'm needy,

I'm feeling so greedy for lovely milk!"

Copyright Thomas Jones 2019

A Birthday Card Poem

It is an irritating fact that some people insist on having a birthday almost every year, and when you know more than one such person, you find yourself having to buy quite a lot of birthday cards.

If you’re anything like me, this is a torturous experience; an exercise in frustration followed by dissatisfaction and resignation. It seems that all birthday cards nowadays are either distastefully vulgar or so horrifically saccharine that even glancing at them leaves you with type 2 diabetes and advanced tooth decay. You either end up getting something utterly unsuitable, or compromise and go with something so bland that it leaves you wholly unsatisfied.

Another dreadful aspect of the birthday card, especially those of the saccharine school, is the appalling doggerel verse. This is normally so grotesquely sickly-sweet that it will leave you dry-heaving in the middle of Clinton Cards.

I can’t do anything about the general awfulness of birthday cards, but I thought I’d try and write something that can go inside them as a sort of antidote to the usual ghastly verses.  With this in mind, I present to you my attempt at a birthday card poem, already deployed against a couple of friends on Facebook as their birth anniversaries have come round. That said, it’s also entirely suitable for anniversaries of all kinds, and Mothers’ or Fathers’ Day.

A Birthday Poem

By Thomas Jones

I hope you have a special day

That's full of love and laughter,

And please don’t dwell on all that may,

Go dreadfully hereafter.

Don't fear the likelihood of pain,

Of ruin and disease,

Of fire, flood or acid rain,

Or plagues of rats and fleas,

Don’t ponder on being overcome,

By existential dread,

Or going blind or deaf or dumb,

Or simply dropping dead.

Don't think of all the things that might

Affect the ones you love,

Like killers coming in the night,

Or comets from above.

Don’t brood on famine, war or drought,

Or failing tests you're set,

Or being crippled by self-doubt,

Or falling into debt.

I hope your day is full of song,

And not of grief or sorrow,

Put from your mind what could go wrong,

But think on it tomorrow!

Copyright Thomas Jones 2017