неділя, 6 вересня 2015 р.

Richard Atkinson - 2 poems


passed  by an  old  man 
who  looked  about  as  old as  anyone could.
bent  up  double, one  hand  on  stick ,other  on  wall
crawling  along, you  could  sense his  determination

to move  along. every  small  inch  forward counted .
stopping  me, he  looked  up, his  eyes  appeared  bloodshot
at  the  bottom, almost  gone

like  they  were  on  their  last  legs as  well
he  asked  if  I  had  any  matches
I said  I  had  a  lighter but  he said ,
showing  me  his  fifty  pence
that he  was  off  to  get  a  cigar.

he  called  at  my  door  once 
asked  me  if he  cleared away
some  of  the  rubbish  and  weeds
if  I  could  spare  some  change
I  told  him  not  too  bother 
gave  him some  change anyway.

so  I  guessed  he’d  got fifty  pence  from  someone 
for  clearing  weeds
and  had  decided  he  was  going  to live it up , for  a  change
and buy  a  cigar and  probably  did  not  have  enough
for  food ,tobacco or even matches.

would  have  offered  to go  get  his  cigar  for  him
but   figured he wanted  to  make  the  journey himself
and  that  just being  outside getting some  air
and  seeing  some  sights must  mean  a  lot
when  you know their  won’t  be  that  much more
air, rain, sights and  ugly funny people to take  in.

hoped  it wouldn’t  be  his  last  smoke ,
everyone  needs  a  perk
now  and  again, to keep  them  going ,
especially  when almost  their,

weed  clearing
looking  for  half  forgotten memories
of  better  times

amongst  weeds  and  rubbish
their only  real  friends  left.

at  the  top  of  the  stairs

three  or  four maybe , sitting, huddled
with  elder  brothers and  sisters
in  semi  darkness

shush  they  say, keep still they  say
stop  fidgeting  they  say
trying  to  hear it  all

tiny  head on  scabby  knees
arms  clung tight around legs.

shouting , crashing , coming from  kitchen
mum screaming. dad  back  from pub

back  from  going  to  see  a 
man  about  a  dog  again
more  screaming, banging.

what  had  I  done ?
everything  was  always my  fault,
I  was  just  plain clumsy  and  stupid,
or  so  I  had  been  told.

the  dim light shining from  the  kitchen
illustrating  the  source
of  the  disturbance,
in  the  shadowed dust trail light.

is it the  kitchens fault
and  not  mine, it  sounded so  angry,
I  mused.putting  my  hands  over my ears.

then  leaving  the fold for Grans.
what had  I  done ?
maybe  it  was  the kitchens fault  again.

returning  to  the fold, un-noticed
years  later to  a Saturday only dad.

what  had  I  done ? I thought,
wishing  the kitchen
would  take  the  blame
for  a  change.

years  later,once, upon  drinking  too  much,
I would  find  myself, attacking  a kitchen,
in   a   blind  drunken rage.

as  though  I  were still mad at  it,
for  letting me  get the  blame ,always,

for  scabby  knees, separations, arguments
broken  plates  and  lurve dreams
turned ugly  again.

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