This Place

There is decay here,

an almost death,

a dying of a heart.

Here,

in this place this town,

behind shuttered windows

shuttered doors

lays desolation emptiness,

history long ago     

absorbed

into echoes in its walls.

And in this doorway

here he sits, half in half out,

looks up as water spouts from cluttered gutter,

cascading down on already sodden hair. 

He plays well his part, knows his well-practiced line.

This waif this clean-shaven ragamuffin

(Sim Free buzzing in his pocket)

waits for the next passing soft-hearted sucker

and grinning, he thinks he sees her coming. 

This is it (he thinks) and he plays his part,

wears his most soulful face and utters:

Can you spare a penny missus?

She hasn’t any and hurries by. 

She wears the worries of this winter,

can differentiate

twixt wants and needs,

knows an empty purse

will not feed her waiting wailing mouth

shivering in his shabby buggy.

Across there,

the market square, once bristling –

now bare and barren

bar dog leading doleful master. 

He [dog] cocks leg into the air,

fountains golden arc into

downpour splattering from the highest heavens. 

They walk a little further and he [dog]

bobs down and defecates. 

Master looks around

and sin unseen (he thinks) they carry on.  

Someone else’s job (he smugly muses).

(She has seen both man and dog,

 tuts in disgust and scurries to the docks,

hoping praying for a waiting sailor.)

The Jolly Roger is nigh going under…  

Outside, paint cracked and peeling –

and over there,

seagulls squawking screeching squealing

squabble over tasty morsels

titbits of last evening’s discarded drunken suppers.

Inside, mein host, angst-ridden

raises a silent toast in hope

of better-things-to-come,

hopes the louts of yesterday

will come again tonight,

the louts who cuss and fight with who/whatever/over

their half-dressed drunken flirting foul-mouthed tarts. 

(At least they bring a paltry income in.) 

He sighs;

there is a poverty in our young (he thinks) –

a poverty of ideas. 

But they are all he has as docks lay ship-empty –

as empty as his once-stuffed till.

The lout – still in his doorway,

Sim Free buzzing in his pocket,

begs beer money as another sucker passes.

There are no ships here,

no sailors here to buy her body,

her body once freely given

to some loud-mouthed cocky lout

(Sim Free buzzing in his pocket);

she then discarded like some drunken supper.

She has no hope. 

She has nothing

but a poverty –

a poverty of ideas.

Anna :o]

The above are imaginations based on observations of my once-bustling & vibrant town centre.  My town centre is dying – and being allowed to die as my myopic council refuse to lower rents.  And on the town’s peripheries, supermarkets flourish…

Entered at OLN at dVerse, hosted by the lovely Beth – thanks Beth.  
Entered today (28.04.14) at Poets United Poetry Pantry - hosted by the lovely Mary - thanks Mary.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Rept0n1x

Little Things

The littlest things mean a lot is often said

and how true when you are dead and gone

for how long and wide the plot    matters

when you are squashed beneath the sod –

how undignified. 

Tis not only mourners cried –

pallbearers too with body pains

and aches as they undertake

delivery to your god

and crumble under the weight of it –

of you. 

So what to do? 

Sutton Bridge and Wingland PC have it all worked out;

PC they are and recognise your need

of a greater place of rest; best interests

served for those demised deemed supersized

and indeed for those who bear the load,

your place, your last abode

will not be far in those green fields,

but near as dammit by the road.

Little things mean the most.

Anna :o]

Björn at dVerse has us writing poetic journalism and above is my effort, based on this article that appeared in today’s The Telegraph.  Thanks for the inspiration Björn.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Dennis Turner

Third Person Singular

This day has promise (she thinks)

as sun blinks through clouds

that only seemed to offer grey. 

She pours herself a drink

and gulps in earnest hope,

a hope the twitter-birds will stay away. 

But no, here they come

with their ever helpful words

(they think) (they think by rote),

they must complete their tasks

and ask him if he wants to pee,

needs to change his pad

and she says:

He goes himself, please don’t baby him;

in hope that they will maybe listen, comprehend,

but no, instead, off they go (by rote);

Would you like a cup of tea,

breakfast; here’s your meds. 

Promoting independence – bah! 

At midday, here comes the ha-ha bird,

all bright and cheerful with her ha-ha words;

and all she wants is for her to go away –

but no she won’t, she will fulfil her tasks

and asks him if he wants to pee,

to change his pad, does he want some tea,

a sandwich maybe and: Here’s your meds. 

By end of day ‘she’ (third person singular)

(with twitter-ha-ha birds words ringing in her head)

asks him if he wants to pee, to change his pad

and realises she is slowly going mad…

Anna :o]

This year has been ‘eventful’ for me and my handsome one.  Handsome one has been quite unwell and required hospitalisation and his homecoming required that a ‘care package’ be put in place; otherwise he could not come home.

This care package gives me peace of mind when I am at work – but on days off it really makes me unhappy – it is so obtrusive and I want my (right of) privacy back – for me and my handsome one.  But I will have to go with the flow – for such is the power of social services…

Erm – please note the morning drink was coffee – although my evening drink (now) is somewhat alcoholic…

Brian, at dVerse has us writing ‘Self Portraits’ and the above is my offering of my self portrait of today.  In reality, the above is an understatement of ‘my today’ for this afternoon, if anything could go wrong – it did, as of a spanner in the works.  (Woe is me!)

Thanks dear Brian.

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Delacroix, Eugene