they lined up
in their smart suits and executive hair
outside the foundation stone
of a nations ruin ready to eulogise
to heap praise upon a legacy
the traffic slowed
and the tempers frayed in a burg
where there is never enough
most had left by 8PM
save one expecting maybe
returning at the earliest light
most had moved into town
I popped my head inside a truck and said
"she's still dead you know"
one yet remains
awaiting the stone to roll back
my wife, the daughter of a miner,
council bread and butter raised
nods, obligingly at the checkout
as she scans the customers cloying praise
"its nice about the flowers isn’t it"
“yes” she replies “they look great on my fireplace”
she reads people writing
the miners were greedy and she spits
"tell that to those with emphysema,
white knuckle and crippled joints
go stand by the graves of the hundreds that died
better still come here and say it to my face"
(note: I live on the road that Margaret Thatcher wa born on, the home of the Roberts Greengrocery. Yesterday and today the town and road have been assailed by media from around the world. What they expected to find I do not know)
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Tue 16th Apr 2013 10:44
I totally agree with Solar - the only poem I felt inclined to comment upon. It's basically the same points but presented without the 'rant' element and therefore, IMO, more penetrating.
<Deleted User> (6895)
Fri 12th Apr 2013 17:57
another gem Paul-thank you.xx
Thu 11th Apr 2013 20:09
Thank you so much
<Deleted User> (9882)
Thu 11th Apr 2013 19:23
If one might be so bold as to say-
this is THE best of the Maggie musings.
Great piece of social(ish)history.x
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