The rules we obeyed..

There are some people during this pandemic that seem to plough their own furrow, sadly they are the ones who make up the rules.

The rules we obeyed:

Tell your children

about our lives,

living and not living

day after day after day.

The death chart rising,

and my guilt increasing

resisting the call to volunteer.

Looking back

obeying,

until the bald one

with his viper tongue

sat at his decorating table.

Denying and defying

his own rules.

Bending them in the hot sunlight

of the Rose Garden.

The stench of deceit,

a miasma in that scented place.

250 miles of essential journey

he was blinded to the common man.

And then the thatched, stained one

defending his innocence

polishing up the looking glass while

doubling down on lies.

We all looked on,

at this breathtaking show,

transfixed, fascinated in the terribleness

of this treason.

So where did that leave us?

As fools and incompetent parents?

Unable to read the rules,

lacking compassion and common sense.

I don’t really think so, we know

so well these traitors

who will sell their souls to pursue the

despicable game of power.

Signing up to free courses in lockdown

There are a lot of virtual free courses at the moment.  I recently found one that explained how to write poetry.  As I have been trying to write poetry for at least fifteen years, a course covering this was probably a good thing!

This was written on VE Day,  I watched some old television footage and missed those who have gone before.  The title was supposed to be The View from Here.  I called it Nostalgia.

Nostalgia

Old white rose in the garden, sweet and pungent, I can

feel fiery sun burning my feet.

Roses in summer – hot days, security, cold

ice cream in a bowl, chimes from an ice cream van.  

Brown knees. 

M & D, the void left behind, 

weaning abruptly torn apart, their voices gone, and I am 

trying to seam my jagged skin.  

Silence.  

Through the blueprint I see

Dad digging in the garden, spreading seaweed on the earth.  

Our asbestos garage with chrysalis in the eaves. 

Mum grasps a silver teapot, hot tea, hot sun always,

In dreams.

Sleepy quiet sunny days of rhubarb and sugar, peas stolen

from the vine, 

voices drifting over gardens sharing

stories and laughter.