Tag poems about life
It’s moving day
All my possessions in boxes
Memories due for collection, when that big lorry finally comes
I’ve left behind the carpet and the wallpaper and stuff like that
And I’ll be sure to leave next doors cat
She used to love to wander in at breakfast, at the smell of bacon
I’ve taken down the posters of 1 Direction
1 Bloody Dimension if you ask me
But little Jessica swears by ’em, and as long as she’s happy
Oh and I’ve left you a little something in the fridge
You seemed never to fit in
You’ve searched your soul
looking for a reason within
but there was nothing you could do
because the problem was never you
You were simply not on the same page
could not connect with children of your own age
a flag of stars and a flag of strife.
The man encased there in pine
he was my equal, a brother of mine.
We met one night on a bus
because to training, it was for us.
We had both signed papers with words that said,
“I will protect my country, even ’till death.”
Through the shouts and the screams,
that persisted all day it seems,
my brother would smile and say,
“To me, it’s just another day.
I’m used to hollers and screams,
to being told nothing is what my life means.”
I would look at this man with a frown;
a brother from another town.
Then the day we became men.
Our families and honeys, greeted us then.
“My little boy is now a Soldier.”
wept my mother on my shoulder.
without fail,
no time to wonder
or unveil,
but as the future unfolds
No picture does justice to the life on parade today.
Waitresses carefully place and disappear;
As faces cheer with greetings.
Another; Another.
Tracks are made for those coming after,
A life of white and laughter,
The milk of being.
I was young and fascinated with the whistle.
The deafening sound that came from your mouth.
They weren’t birds, but they can whistle as the wind!
Whistling, whistling
I was fascinated, looking at my brothers whistling.
How can I whistle? My question came.
My brother teaching me, while my father screaming at me.
You are a girl! Girls don’t whistle!
Then my father whistles.
It is unfair or is it just me?
A girl who couldn’t whistle.
It’s the day for a wild whistle competition.
Then flogged em off behind the pub so I could buy some
bloody grub to feed the kids and wife.
They adn’t ate for firty arrs wiv rumbling guts ‘n’ aches.
Saw the tears roll darn the cheek
fer yet another bleeding week
wivart some bread or cakes.
Worked me bum off day ‘n’ night to make a bob or two.
Ad a shilling left for rent
wiv all the rest already spent…
didn’t know what else ter bleeding do.
Couldn’t bear ter see ‘em starve or ‘ear the baby weep.
So like a little ‘ungry mouse
I snuck inter ‘is Lordship’s ouse
while ee was fast asleep.
Some bastard at the Bull ’n’ Bush seed me do the deal.
Ee recognised the silverware;
ad the allmark to compare….
and so me kids never got that meal.
They cuffed me ‘ands behind me back and threw me in a cell.
They put me in the Bailey dock;
and kept me under key and lock,
then sent me darn ter hell.
They said I’d ang at Tyburn, but then they changed their mind.
Instead they give me seven years
of labour ard wiv sweat and tears…
cos they was really kind.
Wivvin a week I’m in an ulk ‘n’ off ter Noo Sarth Wales.
They beats yer ard ‘n’ whips yer bad,
sends yer nearly effing mad
inside them floatin’ gaols.
I gets there March of 1812 and lives me life in chains.
It urts to work ‘n’ urts to walk
and even urts to bloody talk,
so few of us complains.
oh much deeper than our own pain
Wisdom and strength they all borrow
washed by waters of life’s own rain
Each of us ponders life’s reason
looking deep within our own soul
We follow each path and season
that vainly we seek to control
The disease locking away his memories.
He no longer remembers the stories he once told me.
The stories that made me smile.
The stories we all remember, all of us but him.
