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Steve Douglas

Updated: 14 days ago


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Resident in the dark Kingdom of Lancashire, exiled Manc moved to Bolton when I met my English Rose. Cancer survivor and just qualified for an old farts travel pass...but my rebellious mind is still in tact. Inspired by current and historical events and person centred stuff plus the many injustices in this world. Write mostly poems with some drama and short stories in the mix. No subject limits and have had several works published in printed poetry collections and in monthly on line Scrittura magazine. Admirer of the spoken word and the works and performances of John Cooper-Clarke, Roger McGough, Sylvia Plath, Oscar Wilde and Percy Shelley, plus those of my better half. Active Member of several FB poetry groups and contribute poems regularly to Spillwords on line international website. Manchester United Red runs through my veins and I read my own poem in tribute to the Busby Babes each year at the Munich Memorial at Old Trafford. I read Tarot cards and can on occasion connect and deliver messages and evidence from the Spirit World. In between all that I attempt to grow vegetables on an allotment and gain more inspirations from our young grandchildren's beautiful and querky outlooks on life.

Samples of my Stuff.

Humourless Cumulus. While it seems all and sundry care-freely frolic in sun-cream beams, scoffing giant jammed scones, piled high with Devon’s cream, perfectly perched outside Laura Ashley chintz tea rooms, their manicured, perfumed pinkies raised, salute gossip with Earl Grey ...I meanly lean on a broken lamppost, hoping for a smile from Lily Marlene, a shot or a hit to temp-ease the brain pain. Darkly, permanently followed by a humorless cumulus loathingly latched, hovering above my constricted, inflicted mind, a smouldering misty mass precipitously prepares to immediately piss on any brightish spark, constructed by a serial no-mark. Hope deserted my tawdry cobbled corner where once Formby crooned. and lads for a laugh dropped their Levi’s and mooned at passing coaches goin’ up the ‘Pool. Now I am nobody’s fool or tool, but mine own, reaping the crop of rotting seeds sown. ‘Closed’ ...cerebral confidence centre redirects to the receptor room marked ‘Self Worth – Knock & Enter.’ Hesitance freezes...I don’t deserve to go in. A psychologist measured my thoughts from one to ten promised to help me find the keys and then... listened...As I slowly sank within the clinical chair she answered her phone as if I wasn’t there... Felt like tearing her barnet till she’d got no hair. ‘Work out that anger by punching a pillow?’ ‘We’re not talkin’ minor peccadilloes!’ After two years there’s one broken minded bolt padlock to go... Open it now! Push it!..Gung-ho!.. Behind that door... an achievement rack, full of zeros, colourful shots of those who never wanted to know waving their ‘Thank God he’s gone!’ Cheerio. A dirty laundry black hole tempts in a corner, sobering shute leads down via a hundred self-cuts frowned upon by sneering dials, spat tut-tuts, straight back to clawed anxiety in the embarrassment cellar... Still ruled over by my taunting ‘Owd fella.’ Turn to my ‘Solutions’ Welsh dresser, cobwebbed and wood-wormed she heaves up cold turkey snaps, records of failed de-tox raps, she heaves under weight of cased escapee Vodka, spent joints, packets and bags of scores dealt at knifepoint. Spilling pilled drawers divulging torrents of tablets when pulled..Bar one... A yellow-black sealed cranny remains...on the bottom line. ‘Open in Emergency.’ Ripped off the tape for sanity urgently, to reveal an Acme ‘Do Us All s Favour Home Noose Kit.’... ...and the sound of canned guffaws and sarcastic wit.... The Joker squawks... ‘You might as well... Who gives a shit!’ My foot nudges the heavy black dog from slumber-snores under the sign ‘Depression- Cul-de-sac.’ Always there. Walked with him, a long way back. An extension built to my storeroom of guilt the bamboozled one is ram-packed to the hilt, turn on the lock and memories swamp vilified, judged, heartbroken, stomped. Drop the leash, run, run... to the brilliant light at corridors end the portal is open, there must be one friend? to rescue me from a toxic mind push on the door and see what I find... from this torturous life I must resign. There’s a silver gate manned by St Pete and a lad called Jesus is washing my feet, ‘Come on in my son I’ll show you the way your jammed scones and cream are on their way.’ Ode to Covid Carers. To intensive care and virus wards each day In every town they make their way. Caring souls, disguised in blue and white, To fight against the Covid blight. Shift after shift, through night and light Brothers and sisters of mercy face up to our plight. Masked, shielded, smocked and booted lonely, fearful, solely commuted on the near empty bus and tram where no-one speaks or gives a damn. So worried they may pass on this bug to those at home they dearly love… Many plot up in hostels and hotels Exhausted, in a room that feels like a cell Restlessly waiting to return to the hell Of wheezing coughing comatose souls Whose lives hang under God’s control. Mothers, Fathers from Bolton to Cannes, Uncles, Aunties, Grandads and Grans, Sitting ducks for an invisible killer, Waiting for help from the Governing tiller. Mavis, fifty knows all their names, Has no regrets from when she became A carer who sings and gives pale cheeks a tweak Trains young Alice whose been there two weeks. They play Bingo and Chairobics with laughs a plenty As each dawn sees another chair empty… Carry on with a plastic apron and a pathetic mask Risking all to perform their tasks… All the management can do is ask and ask… Politicians who have cultivated a mortal sin And consigned our old folk to the recycle bin. Ordinary people who deserve all praise Weekly applause? No! Just PPE and a raise. Posties, Farmers, Busmen and Food makers, Supermarket lads and lasses, Butchers and Bakers, Coppers, Binmen, Drivers and Foodbank folk Keep this septic country from going broke. Squaddies are helping to get us all tested So, isolation shackles may be lifted… Until then, lockdown breakers like Westminster Bridge Stay home you fools with your overloaded fridge. Was it you who bought all the gel and bog rolls? Should get your collars felt by the numpty patrol. One day in the future…if we are still here We will look back to this time and our great fears And judge whether fat cats came before compassion Or economic worries outweighed oxygen rations Failure to plan and stock up for a pandemic scene Voted down Nurses pay to cheers by the mean Decade of healthcare cuts and shaming disabled ‘We’re all in it together’ is just a fable. So, will those ‘in charge’ face the fallout? For them there should be no hideout. Will Boris pull out some of his blonde locks? It’s up to us at the next Ballot Box.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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