My Poetry: First Blooms of Spring

First Blooms of Spring

---

With the first blooms
of green,
the warm winds begin,
to melt away
that winter,
and by summer
the coldness of our goodbye
will be gone forever.

My Poetry: His Royal Moggyness

His Royal Moggyness

---

Beneath his chin
his knees neatly folded
his royal moggyness sat
caring not for what hid
behind the sofa
or the lace curtains
or even the door
on this day
when clouds were being
rung dry of their water
like an old bit a rag,
or a lover stood at window
waiting for an adulterer’s return.

Jack, for that was his name,
sat still as a nun’s blouse
silently thunking
about all the ickle mouses
he would catch when sun come.
Trapping their tiny tails
with the pad of his paw
in pastures dyed green
by showers of summer
sun and drenchy 

rain

.

How he would gently coax,
with hirsute whiskered grin,
the scaredy ickle mices
from the hidey corners
into playing catchy
and go runneth, when
they wished neither to be caught
or to be a play thing
for this nefarious feline
who only cared to play
when his regalness
was feeling rather frisky.

But that was for all
another day,
thought Jack, as he sat
on his mat,
for this day,
was perfect for purring
and dreaming
as the grey day filled
the windows with steaming.

My Poetry: Boundary Road, 11:15am

*please be aware it has an astrixed swear word*

 

These are the people,
For whom the plastic spoon
Was their birth right,
Menial work their inheritance.
These are the people
Who live hand to mouth,
Benefit cheque shopping days
In pound shops and discount stores,
For whom whole weekends are wasted
F**king and drinking
And reproducing,
Waiting for it all to manifest
In some medical emergency
Robbing them of breath
Their only god given right.

 

These are the people,
Who clean toilets, tend tills
Stack boxes in warehouses
Serve bad beer
In bad pubs to afternoon boozers
With 40 a day coughs
Yellow fingers and B&H perfume,
Who dream of lottery wins
So they can buy the things
They think Beyonce does,
Watch news for celebrity gossip
So they can bitch on a c-lister
One reality show above them
On a ladder leant against
Bourgeoise wall where
Wit and will will not overcome.

 

These are the people,
And I recognise them,
But no longer know them.

These are the people
For whom subservience,
Hegemony, poverty and deference
Are the price they pay
To Eton’s old boy mafia.
These are the silent majority,
Who laugh and swear and gossip
About TV shows
Cus any dream will do
When reality is a foe.