INFLECTIONS OF MYSELF
I was there in sixty four,When icicles were a kids delight.
When paraffin heaters,
Kept us warm and toasty.
When mum's tucked us in at night:
Boys and girls shared a 4ft 6 bed,
Four girls down one end.
Four boy's at the other,
Sisters, Cousin's and brothers.
Cannot remember who they were,
As time moved on my mind's a blur .
When sirens tested at six pm,
Just incase war came once again
As well as all the histories,
Landing on the moon.
Elvis and the Beatles,
Made young girls swoon.
The day Kennedy was shot,
As well as being bullied a lot.
Forgotten smacks from my dad,
No understanding A. B.C,
For a unknown dyslexic lad.
Happy sad days the lot,
Martin Luther king;
Another great man they shot.
Love and kindness should
Go hand in hand,
Maybe it's my lexdysia.
That doesn't allow my brain,
To understand.
The need for self annihilation,
Instead of love and adulation.
Why must we seek self admiration,
When we go to war.
I wasn't there for slavery,
They were and are hated ways.
Very sad and cruel inhuman days,
If you must be a slave.
I've thought about this a lot,
Be a slave to oneself.
Save the world,
it's the only one we've got.
As for me and slavery.
I'm married to my ball and chain,
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Still cuddle and kiss in my mind,
Every worthwhile day.
My eyes are open I can see,
Macular still hasn't got a hold on me.
When God said love your fellow man.
He wasn't talking about sexualities,
That wasn't what he meant;
At least not in the biblical sense.
He ment we should be holding hands.
As we go skipping through his lands,
Singing a happy song, Andy Pandy's.
Coming to play tra la la la, la la,
Now that would be a sight I'd like to see.
As for me I miss those wrapped up ,
Newspaper sixpenny portion of chip's days.
Being given a packet of crackling,
Before being sent along our way.
Smell of baking potatoes in the grate,
Having childhood baths in front of fire.
This are some pictures in my mind;
I have no wish to ask for other things,
There's nothing left that I desire.
Back then life was so syren,
Our young thoughts were pure.
It was only when we're older,
That our minds turn to manure.
They won't take me gently in the night,
They'll take me kicking and screaming.
Unless I wake up in buttercup and poppy fields,
Then I'll know, All my life I've been dreaming.
Poetry by Alan J Ripley
Read 171 times
Written on 2022-03-23 at 00:16
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
D G Moody |
|
Griffonner |
