******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******
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Monday, February 1, 2016
There's a line in the sand
drawn in dark distant lands,
where the guts and the glory
and fine marching bands
will all die in the dust
and play into their hands,
till they all say, NO!
Those invisible walls
across seas oh so wide
are not worth all the tears
in the storms where they hide
and the sailors and captains
should close the divide,
they should all say, NO!
Then the skies overhead
drawn with lines of deceit,
like the cracks in the path
beneath cold marching feet,
but the soldiers and victims
should stand in the streets
and should all say, NO!
Let the bullets and bombs
from our very own guns,
never fall on the graves
of our fathers and sons,
let us all walk together
to where it began
and we'll all say, NO!
All the fortunes and futures
within corrupt hands,
as they roll out the dice
and decide and demand
that the power and glory
is theirs to command,
we must all say, NO!
The dark and the deep fear
of what is unknown
is the harvest we reap
from the seeds they have sown,
for they govern our lives
more than anyone knows,
we must all say, NO!
Will our children be raised
in a world of elites,
where they search through the rubble
for something to eat,
will we then bow our heads
in dejected defeat,
or will we all say, NO!
Just a short simple word
with such power to wield
but it leaves no more doubt
about how we all feel,
we must rise up united
in townships and fields
and just all say, NO!
Will we cower and hide
from the one's who impart
all the laws and the lies
that leave lives torn apart,
or we all stand as one
and raise hell with our hearts
as we all say, NO!
All the pimps and the whores
in their halls upon high,
with their airs and their graces
will start in surprise
as they look upon unity
in all they despise,
when we all say, NO!
A cold deserted alleyway,
dark as a desolate grave,
away off in the distance
dogs howling their dismay.
A winter wind is gathering,
blowing old papers away,
with tired forgotten faces
and news of yesterday.
Discarded cans and bottles
clatter on down the street,
the chill night air is biting
as he pulls in his frozen feet.
So many dull and dreary nights
spent seeking private reproof
as the familiar pitter-patter
sounds upon his cardboard roof.
His heart is filled with shame
and a cold, deep hollow pain...
...and here comes the rain.
In and out of a fitful sleep
his dreams are demon-filled,
taunting him and teasing him
destroying the last of his will.
He hears an awful scratching
and he’s searching all about,
the sight of rats around his feet,
he screams and then kicks out.
Scuttling away in the darkness
squeaking out their complaint,
off to find some other poor soul
to torment and to taint.
Another wretched creature
living life down in the drain...
...and here comes the rain.
Traffic swishing here and there
on dampened tarmac lanes,
home to loving arms and
a fire of flickering flames.
Safe within their warm embrace,
they watch the hot flames dance.
No need for words between them
as they drift into a trance.
Silently they kiss and cuddle
and gaze into each others eyes,
warm, dry and safe inside
each others contented sighs.
But the long distant memories
are all that now remain...
...in the cold and pouring rain.
His body starts to tremble
with a deep and longing need,
the painful image beckons him
and then it slowly recedes.
A sob escapes the willful wall
he’d built to hold it all in,
it turns into a mournful moan
that’s lost amidst the din.
His body is wracked with baleful cries
for a life that he once enjoyed,
so fragile he soon discovered
as he’d watched it all destroyed.
And all he now has to show
for all those precious years
is a glimpse of sunlight memory
between clouds of doubt and fear.
A bitter, painful afterimage
and a slowly sagging shelter...
...from the cold and pouring rain.
And as the slow dawn breaks
he lies motionless and quiet,
whilst out there on the busy street
people talk about their diets.
Oblivious to the lifeless victim
enshrined in a cardboard tomb,
a helpless soul in a world of indifference,
he lost his fight too soon.
The report will say hypothermia,
they'll tie a tag upon his toe
but the real tragedy in his tale
is that nobody will ever know.
That a once proud and happy man
could no longer take the strain.
He died of a broken heart,
in the cold and the dark
and the rain.
THE BALLAD OF THE LOOPY HAMSTER
“You’ll be safe, I promise”, reassured his mum.
“But its not you who’ll end up sat on your bum!”
A conversation they’d had most every week
but it didn’t make his knees feel any less weak.
“Now come along, Harry, stop messing about,
go finish your homework whilst I clean up this house.
The show doesn’t start till the end of the week
and all this chatter is making me Squeak.”
Harry slumped away with a frown on his face,
it wasn’t as if he was scared of the race,
he loved going fast with the wind in his hair
but a loop-the-loop, well that just wasn’t fair.
The circus wagons rumbled and bumped their way
from village to town over many long days,
the shows were such fun and well worth the wait
from building the tents up to opening the gates.
Smiling families came from miles around
to watch the acrobats, the magic and the clowns
but the act they were waiting for, the No.1 star,
was Harry The Hamster in his red racing car.
The children beamed as they watched all his tricks
skidding and spinning his way round the track
until it was time for him to aim for the roof
and attempt to complete the dreaded loop.
A family tradition, passed down through the years
but that didn’t help at all to get him over his fears.
He hadn’t yet made it, though he’d tried really hard,
a last minute panic and he skidded into the yard.
That night as he slept, he tossed and turned
as he dreamt of disaster at the very last turn,
he made it to the top but then ran out of speed,
he landed on his bum and was not very pleased.
The weekend came and they raised the tents
but Harry wasn’t happy for he knew what that meant.
He put on his costume and polished his car
with its flashy white stripes and the shiny chrome bars.
The crowd started clapping and cheering him on
but Harry would be glad when it was over and done.
He whizzed round the track going faster than ever
he was determined this time; it was now or never.
He made the turn lifting up on two wheels
to the sound of cheering and children’s squeals,
racing along to the end of the track
where the loop was waiting, there was no turning back.
He entered the loop with a scream of pure fright
that turned into laughter as he started his flight,
pulling up into the climb, he was having so much fun
as he reached the top, would he land on his bum?
But luck was now with him, he finally saw
he was going to make it, so he cried “Yee Haw!”
Up and under the crest of the loop
he was flying back down with a “Whoop Whoop Whoop!”
At the bottom of the loop he shot out at full pelt
and he couldn’t believe just how good he now felt,
heading straight for the cushions at the end of the run
he came to a stop with a jump; he had won!
The crowd was standing and cheering for more
from Harry The Hamster, the star of the show
as he strutted his way back over to the start
with a spring in his step and joy in his heart.
His friends and his family all shook his hand
till he felt like his arm was a rubber band.
His mum looked on with a tear in her eye
she knew he could do it if he would only try.
That night as she tucked him up in his bed
she bent and kissed him on his soft furry head
“I’m so proud of you, Harry, for not giving up hope
and I always believed the fact that you’d cope”.
Harry smiled and gave a twitch of his nose,
holding his mum in a cuddle so close,
as a lullaby, she started to sing and hum,
he whispered in her ear, “I love you, mum”.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved
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