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Terminus End of the road for a weary old man, Seventy years had passed him by, Everyone called him, "Good old Stan", But why did he have to die? At the local pub one morning, A pint of beer and a pie, This tavern has a public warning, But why did he have to die? They watched him sip his malt, Young men were ogling his tie, What happened outside was not his fault, But why did he have to die? They had watched him cash his book, The end of the world was nigh, Every pound and penny they took, But why did he have to die? His heart gave up with this attack, Like a river running dry, They mugged and rolled him on his back, But why did he have to die? |
| The Gossips Everywhere I turn they're standing there, In the street, on a bus or in the stair. They spy on me and they watch what I do, The people who live at number 2. They point their finger when there is a stink, Look down their nose if I've had a drink. They make up stories and they gossip too, The people who live at number 2. They are never indoors, they get under my skin, They check my rubbish in the bin. When I go to the shops, guess who's in the queue? The people who live at number 2. An important place where I have to go, It becomes their business, they have to know. Their eyes that say, We are watching you; The people who live at number 2. Malicious talk, with stares like knives, This is the way they live their lives. If I were vengeful, I'd do something to... The people who live at number 2. |
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An Interview Deep in mascara an extended eyelash, She stared at his pupils like a camera flash. The scent of French perfume to create an allure, He was hopelessly lost in this mystery tour. She dug deep in his back with invisible claws, Reduced to a puppy he was waving his paws. Lifting her head like an art model's bust, Posing and pouting, an air full of lust. Regaining composure, while studying credentials, She smiled at him again while showing essentials. Twirling her hair as he read her C.V, But over his desk he was watching her knee. A secretary he wanted, "So when can you start"? He was now sweating hard and pumping his heart. This demanding job is not for the meek, Everything agreed, she is starting next week. |
| Age Unconcern On her birthday she was 85, She lived alone in Dourhouse Drive. Faced with a council that did not care, Providing she washed the common stair. The holes in her flat were soaking wet, Plaster on bricks that would not set. She cried for help, but to no avail, Diminished strength and now so frail. The neighbour's children spit and shout, They forced her door when she was out. She had said to me, "They are really bad", This time they took everything she had. She had dreamed of a home with happiness, Her squalid flat was far from less. A cheery old soul who could not cope, Living in a world that contained no hope. On the floor for weeks, a terrible way to die, Discovered via checks of her power supply. The way she was treated was a real disgrace, Well at least she's gone to a better place. |
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From The Balcony He fell down from the veranda, The scream lasted for fifty feet, This happened ever so suddenly, Now he's lying in a cobbled street. Mystery surrounds this accident, Was he pushed or did he jump? Onlookers gather around him, From lit kitchens they heard the thump. Sodium orange from the lamppost, It's spotlight poor within this rain, The kerb-side gutter river runs, Rinsing the blood down the drain. Distant traffic with siren alarms, Looming nearer towards my ears, There's a mirror image about his face, Which triggers off my inner fears. When they moved him I felt a shiver, Everything has now become clear to me, This deadly tragedy had simply occurred, Because I forgot to take my key. |
| Bullies Children playing in the snow, Frozen faces, golden glow. Crisp clear day with mirrored sun, Then the rough boys came to spoil their fun. They amputate the snowman's head, The infants stare, their laughter's dead. January's vicious cold iced hate, Somebody had forgotten to lock the gate. Like tribal savages, waving sticks, A little child alone the leader picks. They tie him down with his scarf in place, Then they all slap snow till it stings his face. In a snowball they conceal a stone, They choose a target and then it's thrown. His mother had said, "Go out and play"! Frozen blood on a winter's day. They steal their Xmas toys away, On the sled that their mother had to pay. An innocent child with a snowdrop tear, In his parent's garden shivering with fear. |
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Mummy's Boy The girls all call him, "Mummy's Boy", Then off to her bosom he will hide, Like a suckling requiring another feed, He wishes he was back inside. Do they treat you bad at school my son? Your new bruises look red and sore, Tell me all your problems dear, All your troubles you may pour. There! There! There! Did mummy make it better? Extra sweeties are in your luncheon box, If you find a chum, please share them, Oh! I have washed your football socks. Run to the shops for some more plasters, Try and avoid that roughneck youth, He took all your money last week, When you fell and broke your tooth. I have stitched the pockets on your blazer, You really should take better care, Stop your crying each school morning, Hold still while I comb your hair. You should not play their classroom games, Do they know you are extremely shy? Ask a teacher if you need some help, I've got some ointment for your eye. Sit up straight while you're at the table, I know it's tough with so much pain, So could you pass the salt my fledgling? Or I will punish you again. |
| A Forest Darkly Alone, but for a carefree thought, Ambling, whistling, down the Walk. To live as one, I am now staid, Like the trees that branch this foliage glade. Our favourite path, where we used to go, Is now obscure under grown hedgerow. These woods were our enchanted place, Our initials are gone without a trace. My mouth that gives a silent smile, When you fell climbing on the gypsy stile. A solitary life, I must now concern, As I wander through this bracken fern. Like misty echoes of fragrant scent, Alas! Some things are just not meant. |
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Cuckoos Don't be alarmed about the noise, It's only children climbing trees, But there's something odd about those boys, Gripping the bark using only their knees. One by one they drop to the ground, My presence to them is known, Staring, questioning, without a sound, Expressionless like a stone. Looking away. Trying not to see, Scratched skin too sore for lotion, Swaying to swat an intrusive bee, Strangely infantile without emotion. Returning to their gameless play, My nervous sense for such unrest, A sudden shudder. I dare not say, Could this be their nest? Plucking berries, gathering fruit, Somehow feral yet there's order, Their table is a tree-stump root, Then from the woods I reach the border. Of course! My memory now out, Years ago I recall and frown, 'Twas the season of a desert drought, The children's home burnt down. |
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