A RANT

It must have been on a tour of a stately home, being directed by pointing cardboard fingers on stands to the next 'must see' that triggered this piece. Re-reading it I realised that it is a rhyming piece of apparent prose.
If that sounds a bit puddled blame it on the Shiraz.
           
                                                      A RANT
Forefinger, first finger, long finger points to the Gents to the caff to the walk by the lake, the finger that tells you where you should go, this way that way, don't deviate and the finger of the teacher who drags you out,  to the front of the class as she calls you a lout, and the finger of the bully in your chest as he sneers and asks you what you're looking at as you hold back tears and the finger of the sneak as he says it was you and you wonder what you'd done as the feeling grew that no matter what you did it wouldn't be enough 'cause the world is not for weaklings and you've got to be tough and the girls took no notice of you 'cause of your name and when you got home it was more of the same and no wonder you were weak 'cause you never got fed and your Dad was always pissed and your Mother stayed in bed so I thought is was time to 'off' in the blue when the finger in the poster said 'The Army Wants You' and I thought why not, it couldn't be worse so I signed and left to my father's curse, now I'm fit and I'm tough and it feels real good and I don't give a shit if I draw some blood and the best thing of all was they gave me a gun and they're teaching me to shoot though I've just begun to learn not to pull but to squeeze like a tit and then I'll be sure of making a hit and that stiff pointing finger is better when it's curled round a trigger as that's what rules the world.

Last line --cynical? true? depressing?  what do you think?

LIBRARY

Our local library was moved from the original building to a newly built complex 5 years ago and for the bit of a do that is planned I was asked for a comment on what the library meant to me. Libraries have always been my 'comfort zone' and for goodness sake they are always full of BOOKS! so I couldn't resist stirring my poetic muse with this result;-


THE LIBRARY

Here,
 in this quiet place
I hear a thousand voices,
Telling their tales
The rights and the wrongs
Dreaming their dreams
Singing their songs

Telling  me
Of triumphs and failures
Loves lost and won
Regrets and deceits
Promises undone

And they say to me
Remember
The tales that we tell belong to you all
The stories you hear are also your own
And so, in this peaceful quiet place
I know I am never alone.

IN THE PRECINCT

and;-

IN THE PRECINCT

On the smooth cold tiles (non-slip, simulated marble)

Between Dixon's and Smith's

A child lies screaming,

His red face creased, wet with misery,

Legs kicking out, back arched,

His fists beat the earth

Beneath the smooth cold tiles.

Oblivious of censure and his mother's embarrassment

He screams his frustration at the world's deceit

No one understands him

Or his need to beat the ground and scream 

NO!!

I wish I could do that.

ASSEMBLY

A couple of poems about lost childhood firstly;-

ASSEMBLY

Politicians and princes, forever they come,

The corporal, the general, the man with the drum,

The strong man, the weakling, the clever, the numb,

The artist, the poet, the fluent, the dumb,

The lawyer, the felon, the kid from the slum,

The down and out drifter stinking of rum,

We're all in the playground, crying for Mum,

PERSPECTIVE

Another prose poem;

PERSPECTIVE

We went back after the funeral to sort out his things.

Mam couldn't face the fact of his death. His clothes went into

binbags for the charity shop but those that he wore on the day

were taken down to the tip.We packed away the tools 

he'd been using, the chisels, saws and planes he once taught me

to use.They were his living, but his life was music, Italian tenors

his passion, now at last mine too.I found the dictionary of music 

I'd bought for his birthday, pleased that I'd got it right for once and

behind it another copy that he already had and never mentioned.

In a paperback copy of 'Candide' a box Brownie snap of his 

younger self proudly holding his first born, showing me off for 

the first time. He'd saved newspaper cuttings of my minor 

achievments, prizes won, (never firsts), school reports, photos

from child to soldier. In a torn envelope held with an

elastic band were my letters from abroad written unaware of

his fears for my safety. We took everything home to sort out later

but it's all still in the loft with the other once precious debris.

Our lives moved in parallel, sometimes converging but

never quite touching until we reached the vanishing point.

LUCKY

 I heard the following phrase on the radio during one of our recent overseas projects;-

                                      "He's lucky in a way, his prosthetic arm is state of the art."

LUCKY 

The mine that they hit was a P38,

long out of date and no longer

'state of the art'.

Our X52 being virtually new

is much more efficient

With an infinitely higher 

negative coefficient 

being 'state of the art'

it has world wide sales

important in maintainig

our balance of payments

His driver too

was lucky in a way

not to become

another survivor,

there being no progress

(at this moment in time)

in the advanced technological research

into the 'state of the art' prosthetic parts

that would have met his reqirements

DAY OF RECKONING

I heard this story from a friend of a friend of my wife and thought it should be, if not immortalised at least put on some sort of record. It may even be true
A performance piece for a mature lady.

DAY OF RECKONING

Yes --I'm OK thank you young man-- too kind-- no I didn't fall-- though I suppose I looked a bit awkward trying to get comfortable on the sand. Anyway I'm quite settled now---- this is where I used to come when I was a girl--- I'd sit for hours watching the sea. I loved it but I haven't been here for years--- my husband wouldn't bring me-- he said Blackpool was dirty. noisy. smelly and common and he wouldn't be seen dead here.He used to take me to Southport, he said it was more refined---- I thought it was dull--you were lucky if you caught a glimpse of the sea which always seemed to be flar and boring--- a bit like him--- not like here where there's plenty life.He was a bit la-di-da was Tom-- his mother's fault--when he passed for Grammar School she treated him as God's gift--always called him Thomas- it was bound to affect him I suppose.We got on OK most of the time---just ignored each other's faults like most 'happily marrieds'. It was an accident us getting wed in the first place, well the usual kind of accident that used to end up in marriage.Surprise you does it? Thought your generation invented sex did you?---everybody thinks so. He used to get on my nerves always wanting something better, something he couldn't have, it made him a right misery at times.I suppose his job didn't help--- called himself a manager but all he did was organise deliveries from the carpet store upstairs.They say we shouldn't speak ill of the dead-- why not? I say-- it can't hurt them can it? I suppose that amongst all the niggles and arguments of married life the one thing that really upset me was that he wouldn't bring me here. Seems silly doesn't it but sometimes it's the little things that nag at you , like having a stone in your shoe or well, lots of things--- Have you got a knife?---You youngsters always seem to carry knives these days--- thank you-- I can't seem to get this damned plastic super-seal bag open--- Ah--- that's done it--- thank you---better put that away..
There we are---no it's not sand---paler isn't it? I was surprised at the colour myself though I didn't know what to expect.---If I make a hole next to this post and empty the bag into it, mix it up and put this little dead crab on top that should do it--- there we are---there we are---really I should say,--- here we are at last.
What?---
The bag?
Oh didn't I say---they're Tom's ashes, he was cremated just last week.