Another day, another year

Another day, another year,
This time I plan to pass with cheer.
No gloomy disposition at how,
The age has crept upon me now.
Instead I choose to gather friends,
And celebrate as this year ends.
Even the sun is shining down,
To don on me a birthday crown.
And if a frown should try to show,
I know I must tell it to go.
A year older, no wiser still,
No sage words do I distil.
Instead I urge you join with me,
Make this birthday celebratory!

The Glass

You stole my youth
The angry woman cried,
Her firsts clenched tight,
A tremble in her voice.

The years have passed,
All she did was hide,
A watcher on the edge
Not daring to jump in.

Inaction is to blame,
And now with eyes so wide,
The tears they fall,
Upon the ageing cheeks.

The truth is hard,
Removing all the lies.
Self-inflicted desperation,
As she stares into the glass.

Though time’s not done,
It may yet be on her side.
Inaction turned to action,
Could yet her life revive.

Pity the Wench

No writing has come to me recently, a dry spell. But then I read Robotic Rhetoric’s most recent post and a response started to form.

Hopefully the end of the dry spell for me. Thanks to RR for the inspiration!

Pity the Wench

Pity the Wench,
Bent,
Bending
Over backwards,
To make
What could barely be called a living.

Pity the child,
Who sits before,
Eyes averted,
An attempt to ignore,
The person who is hiding,
In this dank, depressing, depraved cave.

Pity the mother,
Who never dreamt,
Her child would grow up,
To such a life.

Pity the future mother,
Impregnated by the one whose money couldn’t be resisted.
And the future child,
Who will long for better.

See beyond what you see with clouded eyes,
Find the person, the life, behind the lies.
That is really what is being sold,
An attempt to exploit you and gain a hold,
Which brings you back again tomorrow, today.
Stay away.
Stay away!

Run

Oh dear, it’s been nearly a month since my last post. Apologies readers. I will try to find more time.

Here is a little poem. Sometimes we just need to run.

Run

I run , I can not bear to stay,
And so instead I look away,
I turn my eyes not up but down,
And stare upon the well trod ground.

Whilst others gather round to see,
I plan diversion all ready,
To run, to flee, I can not be,
The one left left waiting to be set free.

I had my turn and bore it true,
Some other’s turn must now ensue.
It can not fall to me once more.
I choose to close the open door.

So past the trees and fields I fly,
Shielding myself from passers by.
The time for standing still has gone,
Now is the time for running on.

The hour of four

Four AM, my old friend,
We find ourselves here again.
Brought together, I don’t know why,
You look me squarely in the eye.
I used to think you were my foe,
But I have learned it isn’t so.
It felt quite good to pass the blame,
It’s you, this time, that causes pain,
Disturbs my slumber with intent…
Yet now I see it’s me hell bent,
On waking and staying awake,
The blame alone I do now take.
My thoughts, the ones that keep me here,
Are why I sometimes keep you near.
Your company, although not sought,
Joins my encounter with my thoughts,
Within the quiet hour of four.
I must now turn and close the door.
Old friend I leave you with the moon,
My hope to see you no time soon.