Faith in Real Life

I am the wind in your hair,

The baby abandoned somewhere, 

The out-stretched begging hand,

Refugee from a war-torn land.
I am the new life of spring,

The Devastation flooding brings,

The wind-blown paper bag,
Centre-fold of the porno mag.

I am the rhythm of life
The scream of the battered wife,
Cold rain that soaks your skin
And the unmentionable sin.
The crying of those who mourn,
Waking to a beautiful dawn,
The massive top ten hit,
Street kid asleep in shit.

I am the staggering drunk
And the holy sober monk,
The scent of your lover’s bed,
The feeling of being well fed.
The person dying of AIDS
And those who watch them slowly fade,
The fox being chased as prey
And the lesbian and the gay.

I am the child abused,
The teenager much amused,
Those who live on death row,
The places people fear to go.
The cheated out for revenge,
The laughter and chatter of friends,
The MP who ‘really cares’,
And everyone at Friday prayers.

I AM the burning sunset
And the gambler’s losing bet
The roar of the winning goal,
Desperate worker on the dole.
The slow and patient sunrise,
Love betrayed in people’s eyes,
Those who starve and those who feast,
I AM the greatest and the least.


© David Hardman 2001

Yours is not a Beauty

Yours is not a beauty
framed and then hung on the wall.
Not the wonder and awe of the artists knife, 
Creating you in textured canvass image.
Yours is a beauty, a beauty that is life.

Yours is not a beauty 
pretty as a poet's pen.
Not a picture painted in phrase and in word,
As personality is portrayed in print.
Yours is a beauty, a beauty, to be heard.

Yours is not a beauty
a technicolour likeness.
Not a stunning smile that never grows old,
In an instant, caught on camera, forever.
Yours is a beauty, a beauty, I must hold. 

Yours is not a beauty 
of art, poem or picture.
It's a beauty I experience and feel. 
Not in self-indulgent art - but with you.
Yours is a beauty, a beauty, that is real.

© David Hardman 1997

In Defence of the Manchester Pirates

In Defence of the Manchester Pirates*

Surely there can be no real rhyme or reason
Why music is in the hands of soulless suits
Capable only to judge art by the pound
While genus and talent is left to drown

Charting success by raising their sales
With the sound of cash tills ringing in their ears
Art sold down the river note by ten pound note
To line their pockets and keep themselves afloat

     Yet back in the days of yore
     We understood what art was for
     No-one person owned a song
     To share music was not wrong
     What everyone expected
     A tradition well respected
     Art shared as stories were told
     By all the troubadours of old

Who really suffers when music is downloaded
Not the poor artist or their masterpiece
But the cash flow of the profit hungry bankers
And the pockets of music industry ...

It’s time to take a stand and sing our song out loud
A song to bring real pirates to their knees
Once a song is sung it’s in the public domain
To lift the souls of all, here it must remain

     Face up to the soulless suits
     Reclaim music at it’s roots
     Put punk back in our nation
     And pop into population
     Art always for the masses
     Not just the money’d classes
     Tell those who got rich of rock
     That they can go and folk right off

© David Hardman 2012

* In 2012 a report claimed Manchester was the illegal download capital of the UK for music. Manchester music lovers were branded pirates. My understanding of pirates are unscrupulous criminals who steal what is not theirs for their own gain - my understanding of the music industry is....