Hates the press for this headline
and publishing her name:
'BASTARDS!'
Always felt above the law.
Stoned at the time, or drunk?
Pleaded guilty anyway
for trying to post it –
to Edinburgh.
'Don’t they have dope
in Scotland?' someone said.
She can’t stay free
by pleading the need
of her brain-damaged son.
He’s 18 now, and smart enough.
She does a runner,
leaving him home alone.
Oh, stay away!
[Poem #79]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
Showing posts with label NO NAMES NO PACKDRILL. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NO NAMES NO PACKDRILL. Show all posts
Monday, 27 July 2009
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Abused and Neglected
He is afraid. Always.
I don’t know if he knows
the always. He knows
the sometimes,
the worst, the most
immediate. He knows
he has no-one but himself
to bring himself up. Not me –
not often enough, no blood
connection, and old
like grandmother, though I try
mothering, in my blunt
and sometimes cranky
way (when I’m most alarmed).
19 already and nowhere
to go, still nowhere
for escape.
[Poem #78]
I don’t know if he knows
the always. He knows
the sometimes,
the worst, the most
immediate. He knows
he has no-one but himself
to bring himself up. Not me –
not often enough, no blood
connection, and old
like grandmother, though I try
mothering, in my blunt
and sometimes cranky
way (when I’m most alarmed).
19 already and nowhere
to go, still nowhere
for escape.
[Poem #78]
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Best Be Nameless!
She’s an offence
looking to be taken,
a deprivation
eager to be felt.
He puts his foot in it
innocently again,
is surprised again
by the sudden
sobbing reproaches.
Petite, shapely,
curly blonde
girl-next-door,
she looks happy
and as pretty
as a Christmas angel.
She looks sweet,
uncomplicated.
All she wants, she says,
all she longs for,
is her father’s love.
She stabs him repeatedly
and twists the knife.
[Poem #73]
looking to be taken,
a deprivation
eager to be felt.
He puts his foot in it
innocently again,
is surprised again
by the sudden
sobbing reproaches.
Petite, shapely,
curly blonde
girl-next-door,
she looks happy
and as pretty
as a Christmas angel.
She looks sweet,
uncomplicated.
All she wants, she says,
all she longs for,
is her father’s love.
She stabs him repeatedly
and twists the knife.
[Poem #73]
Sunday, 10 August 2008
The Demon Benefactor
Sent an introductory
photo: himself glaring
all in black. Was he
threatening or fondling
the naked woman pinioned
by the weight of his arm?
'Bizarre,' I thought, but he
was a man of the world.
I acted cool. Then
he was charming.
Seduced by promises –
wealth, glory –
I took the bribe;
wanted it badly.
He delivered …
something. But the price!
I’d have paid evermore
boot-licking,
chastised.
No thanks.
[Poem #42]
photo: himself glaring
all in black. Was he
threatening or fondling
the naked woman pinioned
by the weight of his arm?
'Bizarre,' I thought, but he
was a man of the world.
I acted cool. Then
he was charming.
Seduced by promises –
wealth, glory –
I took the bribe;
wanted it badly.
He delivered …
something. But the price!
I’d have paid evermore
boot-licking,
chastised.
No thanks.
[Poem #42]
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Enemy
Once friend.
We were a threesome,
kindred poets.
The Three Musketeers
had nothing on us.
Wine and talk
in your flat,
she and I escaping
children, husbands, pets.
Wicked laughter, gossip
and literary theory.
Then you found cause
to sneer at me,
when the Human
Potential Movement
got me too.
Our third Musketeer
I lost; she
found me again.
Your poisoned words
failed to destroy.
[Poem #24]
We were a threesome,
kindred poets.
The Three Musketeers
had nothing on us.
Wine and talk
in your flat,
she and I escaping
children, husbands, pets.
Wicked laughter, gossip
and literary theory.
Then you found cause
to sneer at me,
when the Human
Potential Movement
got me too.
Our third Musketeer
I lost; she
found me again.
Your poisoned words
failed to destroy.
[Poem #24]
Monday, 14 July 2008
Indigo Child
Never saw such huge, round, dark blue eyes
as that baby’s when she gazed at the air
above people’s heads, laughing aloud to watch
their rainbow auras flicker and dance.
I heard the child’s thoughts and she mine;
we talked that way. When Bill died,
she asked me if she could have
'something special of his'. I gave her
his quartz crystal. She held it to her heart.
[Poem #16]
as that baby’s when she gazed at the air
above people’s heads, laughing aloud to watch
their rainbow auras flicker and dance.
I heard the child’s thoughts and she mine;
we talked that way. When Bill died,
she asked me if she could have
'something special of his'. I gave her
his quartz crystal. She held it to her heart.
[Poem #16]
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