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Make me a child

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I asked her to wrap me in cotton wool,
She said would cotton sheets and a duvet do?
I said make me a child again
Because of all of this world hurts too much
Adulthood is a pale imitation,
Of childish games.

I used to make shapes out of the clouds
The rain was never unwelcome
Everything unfolded with half fear wonder
And the elements took joy in scaring us,
Beneath the bed .
I don’t care for splashing in puddles anymore
And boots only get stuck in the back
I learned to time the lightning crack too clinical.

This social Science has killed the child

Can’t make magic circles anymore,
on the way back form school.
The world makes fledglings,
from mothering wings when moved away
And it’s like your life just started
cartwheels in the playing field, made with a beaming smile
pigtails flailing,
a half-mast marker to the soon departed children
To be replaced by anxious looks down the aisles,
Of fancy goods markets
Wondering if we can really afford to go on
And as the vipers nip at the purse,
The loose change rattles,
Makes an almost ugly look of our pretty face.
It’s a jarring verse of discomfort these days.

If only I could afford that childhood cotton wool
the hocus pocus witch hazel swab,
Cleaning the cuts of the tick Toc robbing time.

I have dug a hole in clay and laced it not with icing powder

but with lime

I put a mattress on the bottom,
the size of mortgage, mider-downpayment,
and I tore at the ten toggles
Of a seven day week overtime.

ever so
Make me a child again





I don’t need to ask.
-she shovels softly in the most golden and generous sand
Almost awkward but so precise
This tenderised vice, the jaws of a subtle hold
This anxious anvil, I, upturned by time
Keeps it ready for my eyes
She’s like a turtle mum
A calming equilibrium just beyond the shore
I’m getting ready for this departure every night
Into dreamland
Keep a pen handy for the dreams that fascinate
She said
Keep your thoughts on magic things
Close your eyes find your own cotton wool

Make yourself a child
And hide for a while.

abstract surreal

◄ at the end of your arms

the speed of life ►


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Ron Scowcroft

Fri 11th Jun 2010 21:48

The Hiroshima poem is a very powerful piece. Great work Peter.

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winston plowes

Fri 14th May 2010 22:06

Could really connect with this... Isn't poetry an amazing / powerful thing, it can bring the strongest, most unexpected feelings / memories to the surface. This did that for me Pete, Thx. Win x

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Wed 5th May 2010 16:44

I like both parts - they go together.Childhood has it pluses - freedom, lack of responsibility and in theory stress. I think it often depends on what type of childhood you had. There were good and bad bits to mine. I was always acutely aware, in an adult kind of way, of just what was going on around me. I would never want to go back to it. I love the fact that as an adult, you are in control, and can make the necessary changes. It's fascinating when you think about it - our childhood shapes us as adults - if we want to regress then maybe that childhood has had its dark side that we choose now not to acknowledge.
The second part is more about losing yourself though - in dream, in sleep - just letting it all go - like most children do - in theory...

I like the image of the turtle mum also - and the gentle calm of the second part.

Fascinating stuff.

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Cate Greenlees

Wed 5th May 2010 12:16

Some lovely childhood memories here Pete which all of us can relate to. There is a strong nostalgic flavour to this that I find very appealing.
Cate xx

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Andy N

Wed 5th May 2010 08:19

good one pete

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