Wondrous Elf

 

I left the beaten track of usual Sunday strolls
and chanced upon a clear sweet stream
which through a swire ‘tween ancient hills did run.
My fancy had me follow and seeking,
I discovered, in a dappled glade, the source
of this bright water gushing forth from shining rocks.
Upon a knoll nearby there sat a wondrous elf
dressed all in green and leafy brown.
This elfish wright, wielding tiny hammer
to the sylvan rock bad me good day and
putting down his tools offered fairy bread
and mead as greeting to this stranger in his land.
I swear that time stood still that summer’s day
and oft’ have thought it all a dream, but for the
pocket full of elven riches that I found
‘pon my return

It makes me as angry as hell

It makes me as angry as hell
and I can’t look away,
I can’t look away.
Bodies in the dust
Rubble and blood and the ghosts are screaming,
“Stop.”
 they know – but have no voice.
Terror and fear
Bullets and bombs
and I can’t look away,
I can’t look away and
it makes me as angry as hell.

Drifter

 

That ole sunshine beatin down on my head,

feel like I should be dead

with them vultures peckin out my baby blue eyes

but if I ain’t wise to some tricks by now

I ain’t worth a light.

 

Shit kickers left me here ta fry

when they run me outa town,

drove me to the edge

an rolled me down by

this trash heap here.

 

Hell I weren’t doin no wrong

just suckin down a beer before

movin on but them ole rednecks

took a disliking ta me takin

a rest from my hiking an settin

 my boots on the porch of a gal

I used to know so

 

they whooped my ass an out I went

with the trash bags an fifty-cent

soda bottles, rolling in the gulch

an here I am with a mouthful

of mulchified crap in my face.

 

Glory, I think I prefer them ole birds

ta the human race so I guess I’ll jus

gather up my dignity an my bones

an scramble on up, head on out

an hit the road.

 

Street Boy

Into an alley
a young boy stumbles.
It’s occupied,
his courage crumbles.
Gap tooth jeers and
beer breath fumbles.
“Lookin’ fer a place ter sleep?”
He mumbles.

“Runner are yer?”
The drunkard whines.
“We can always
spot the signs.
This alley ‘ere
is Fred’s and mine’s
It’s where we
sleeps an’ drinks an’ dines.

That’s Fred right there,
the scrag beard junkie.
Eatin’ drugs to
feed ‘is monkey.
Treats me like
a flippin’ flunkey.
See ‘is eyes,
all red and gunkey.”

Fire licks in metal bin.
Warmth entices
young boy in.
“I’m Stan,” the man says,
proffering gin.
“tell us yer tale.
Go on, begin.”

The boy is scared but
joins the pair.
They have a smoke
and food to share.
Some comfort
in his black despair.
The junkie smiles,
a vacant stare.

“You got a sleepin’ bag
young man?
Spread it out
by Uncle Stan.
You wants ter
keep warm if yer can.
Now, come on tell us
why yer ran.”

Fortified a bit
with tea
He tells them why
he had to flee.
“Mum wouldn’t listen,
wouldn’t see.
I told her
”Dads abusing me.

Dad shouted,
told her that I lied.
He beat me up.
I nearly died.
I stayed for her sake.
Really tried
but couldn’t stop
the fear inside.

I ran and
now I’m on the street
in rain and wind
and snow and sleet,
with stinking clothes
and rotten feet.
When I was little
life was sweet.”

“B*****d should be shot,”
they said,
“we’d pound him
till our fingers bled.
You stick with us son,
Stan and Fred.
We’ll see yer right,
make sure you’s fed.

Yer story’s made us
want ter weep.
We’re sorry
you’ve been ‘urt so deep.
We’ll be yer fam’ly now
so sleep
an pray the Lord
yer soul ter keep.”

A Moody Minor Chord

Look at him,
up there on the stage.
Brown trilby hat,
suited and booted,
grinning like
the cat that got the cream.

Strumming
and humming and
capturing the crowd
with a phrase,
a howl
and a moody minor chord.

Someone Touched Me

Someone touched me.
Some words; just words
on a screen
speared my soul;
dragged some…dormant emotion
screaming and kicking
from the very guts of me.

Really made me think,
that did, those words did
and then
that someone became many
and the words………
they marched up and down
on my screen; telling,

compelling and inside me
something stirred.
A straight line, wired in
connection
between brain and machine
and I…
touched someone.

Some words, my words
on their screen
jumped out
and tugged their soul,
sparked their flame
and in that fire
another link was forged

Social Services

Oh the twisty, nipping thumbscrews
of the multi agency Gestapo.
Do this, don’t do that.
They can’t imagine our shoes.
They don’t want to know what we know’
They read things in and smell a rat.

Reports, retorts, results and risks
all neatly minuted and foldered,
responsibility requests and lists and lists
adding to familial burden shouldered.

Just lie on this rack while we stick in pins,
invade your brain and stretch you,
manipulate and vex you.
Let us in little piggies to poke in your bins
investigate and screw you.

Reports, retorts, results and risks
all neatly minuted and foldered
responsibility requests and lists and lists
adding to familial burden shouldered.

Hair do.

Your tiny island, red leatherette chair
in a sea of nodding violet rinses
holds you and enfolds you as

no lovers arms ever will again

and your dreams are all of yesterday
when Jimmy bent, with wicked eyes,
to lick the strawberry ice cream
from the corners of your mouth

and lust was a word you’d never heard
but the breaking in his voice

and the sound of his breath in your ear
span you dizzy and you were lost.

Tweeting

.I have lately taken to tweeting in a fairly concentrated and serious, sometimes frivolous, manner. One of the reasons I find it satisfying is that NOBODY THERE KNOWS ME therefore there are no preconceived ideas, biases, likes or dislikes of my personality. I am only those 140 characters and in those characters I can be sarcastic, political, witty, friendly, silly, incensed, cheeky and show aspects of myself I might otherwise not let out of the cupboard on more personal social media sites like Facebook.

I can exchange a quick tweet with an American tv star at three am, retweet a cutting political jibe at the tories at midday and tweet hug someone who seems to be having a hard time at seven in the evening.

I love to communicate but as I have got older and a little disabled by a chronic condition I have found that my usefulness to friends and colleagues has diminished, indeed diminished is a word I would use to describe how I had been feeling until I decided to delve into the twittersphere after leaving an account started ages ago but going nowhere. Now I have a very modest but growing following and seem to have developed a more left leaning bent than I ever imagined happening.

I have supported anti badger culling, signed the WOW campaign, re tweeted over and again to point out the lies this government is spouting about benefit scrounging and am standing up to be counted on numerous other petitions and spreading the word about some fantastic people who are in the forefront of these campaigns.

This, of course, ALL TAKES UP TIME!!!! but time is something I have plenty off since the horrid fibromyalgia dictates that I spend a lot of it sitting down. I was beginning to feel very alone. Facebook is ok for sending a message, keeping in touch with my kids and posting interesting articles I have discovered on twitter but as I said before, it sometimes seems that I have given away too much of myself on there. A conversation would be nice, a string of likes, well ok, some jokey pictures, hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Real pictures of my kids are great and occasionally a discussion but it all seems tired somehow.

I like the speed of twitter. I love talking to strangers in the night.
It’s almost like a glance across a crowded room or a conversation on a train.
So, for now, at least, it is a place I wish to inhabit. It keeps me company and lets me discover all sorts of things about the world which strangers point out to me. Thank you all you lovely twitterers.

@Tradascanthia

Brown envelopes are very scary.

Some are thin and some are fat.

Approach with caution and be wary

as you lift them from the mat.

They are sent by faceless workers

from some buildings in the north

making out that you are shirkers;

they say your pleadings have no worth.

You open them with trepidation.

Are their findings yay or nay?

Have they skewed their observations?

Can you afford to eat today?

Brown envelopes create a feeling

in your gut and in your head.

Will they relieve or send you reeling

in denial to your bed?