Sorry for Leap Frogging here, this is the second draft so I had to remove the old one. Big thank you to Alan Morrison. This is a response to his last entry. Thank - You. x
I ran along such a road once,
The Wimborne Road the track - a point to point
Racecourse jockeys use to please a crowd,
The bets, illegal and legal too,
Depending on how the sly of hand
Deals in shadows as the sun bakes
A Sunday morning mass.
The church down south is
A little different from the holy exploitation
Of our poor selves, but still I place my bet,
Gamble a Saturday or Friday night –
No point to point but a point of poverty
And cheers a plenty down the pub as clowns
Congregate a frown at numbers blighted.
Numbers street lamps in The North
Outwit in throngs the rows of Oak, and Spruce and Birch
And Beech, but still I’m reminiscing of the
The only Birch I frequent
Now a hospital, a grave of memories and
Tragedies and symphony’s the angels
Cannot sing for tears.
Persecution is a dire thing!
A dire thing that authority wields when
You voice of all the faults that ail,
Then it comes to be; that no-one seems
To want thine intellect roam free,
And alarmed I am by such wasted lives
In wastelands where the trees don’t grow,
But bend to cajole a steady lamp,
For no-one is allowed voice pride.
In the wind the trees move their shape,
Talk and pass on ephemeral tones of Good
Will to each and every lining
Here, the concrete hides the many
Trunks and at night they in turn hide the many
Stars of Gods glorious universe of hope,
Not one round here, painted green.
Sometimes in my own sad heart,
I paint a picture of The Lakes, The Countryside,
The rolling hills and green pastures of Dorset,
And Devon, and Cornwall, Hampshire
Wiltshire and Surrey, and if my heart
Seeks the wilderness of bleakness that
Conjures the self to pity the loss of self
Respect; I am painting The Pennine Way
Or even the Grampians or Three Peaks,
For the further North, the desolation of
Man can see the loneliness of poverty;
And the only riches are to be found
When stumbling across an ancient bird;
Mating within the Heather to provide
Cover for his fragile soul.
A Picture paints a thousand thoughts from
One, if within his honesty he has the talent to explore,
But if a picture wronged is painted once by a thousand
Then Here I Am,
Remoulding my features to provide
The scorn that never allows I be set free,
Just to suit their needs,
For if I am who I am,
It only allows the ridicule of those
Who would force I live amongst the lamp
And my face,
And my intellect
And my heart,
Then becomes the concrete I abhor.
Michael J Waite 26th June 2011. 0159hrs.
Thank You Alan. Big Respect to You!