Tuesday, 30 April 2013

Malala

Young Malala was shot at point blank range in the head.
Not in the arm or the leg - they wanted her dead.
They did not want her to have an education.
They had not counted on her determination.

Showed Resilience.

She had life saving surgery in the UK.
Yes, her speech is impaired, but may improve one day
She is alive and is more determined today
Just a child yet they tried to take her life away

Now Fighting Back.

She survived this terrible attempt on her life
she will be educated, may become a wife
They will not decide what she has or has not got
they will never be able to decide her lot.

Mind, Soul, Health Stronger.

Media cameras flash.
She flashes a smile of elation
Camera shutters fire.
Shot after shot after shot
Point blank bullets didn't kill her determination
it just increased her resolve
To fight for the right of girls to have education
So much inner strength in one so young.

Flashback to earlier news.


Her voice shakes but is assured
speaks of her happiness.
This first day back at school
A testament to her courage
A light for other girls to follow.

Today she launches her counter attack
an assault on those who wished her dead
by launching her charity to fund girls education .

They may have shot her in the head but she has won through and they may have shot themselves in the foot instead.

© Graham Robinson

Malala Yousafzai and Angelina Jolie launch school fund

Monday, 29 April 2013

Boston Reminder

Bombs pull flesh from bone,
sickening sound,
leaving glittering,
snow-white
reminders that we are
only organic material,
crafted by
love with the promise
of decay

This is not the tragedy,
this is (really) the
only way

We must understand
why nothing beautiful
can ever stay

 © Emily Rebecca Adams

Sunday, 28 April 2013

Sunday review.

Monday's poem was Care Plan for the Newly Bereaved by Jan Harris which was a humanising look at the death of Margaret Thatcher. A good thing for us to remember.
'Best Loved Book' by Judy Ugonna followed, on Tuesday with a look at a story that spoke to the outsider in us all when we wonder "What would it be like?"
Wednesday's poem 'Three Payments Away' by Carolyn Cornthwaite  reminded us about how thin the veneer of civilisation gets sometimes and how that can be fatal
Recovery Room, Maternity Ward by Doireann Ní Ghríofa on Thursday was a sad poem that give us pause to think about a tough time in someone's life. One of the things that Poetry24 does so well.
On Friday Luigi Pagano's poem 'A Bolt from the Blue' cleverly used figures from ancient times to talk about very real trouble in modern times.   
David Mellor's 'Streetscene' wrapped up the week on Saturday with a look at that most endangered of creatures, the local community. 
I hope that you all have a good week and that you keep sending in submissions

Saturday, 27 April 2013

Streetscene

That’s a tanning studio
That’s a chippy
That’s a tanning studio

That’s a hairdressers

Empty shop
Empty shop
Empty shop

That’s a smoke free Wetherspoons

That’s a closed pub
That’s a closed pub
That’s a closed pub

That’s a couple strapped
for cash

That’s a family next door
whose giro
couldn’t last

That’s a fake tan
That’s a discarded chip paper
That’s another fake tan

That’s just a street
come to the end

© David Mellor

Small shop closures are progress, says ex-Tesco boss



Friday, 26 April 2013

A Bolt From The Blue

One can imagine Aphrodite’s disquiet
when she arose from the sea in Paphos
and saw the Cypriots running riot.

She thought, at first, that her siblings,
The Erinyes, had wreaked havoc
to punish the people for their failings

or that, Zeus, in Olympus, being cross,
had discharged a thunderbolt on the isle
to show the islanders who was boss.

She soon realised that her supreme god
had been superseded by other deities,
such as Odin and Thor, and that was odd.

As the new regime advocates pragmatism
a meeting was arranged to sort the crisis;
yet some proposals could stifle dynamism

© Luigi Pagano

Portugal and Ireland to be given more bailout repayment time

Luigi Pagano is a contributor to Poetry24 and other websites. He has published three poetry collections the latest of which is Poetry On Tap.

Thursday, 25 April 2013

Recovery Room, Maternity Ward

The procedure complete,
I awaken
alone, weak beneath starched sheets.
As the hospital sleeps, my fingers fumble
over the sutured scar, a jagged map
of mourning stitched into my skin —
empty without and empty within.
Beyond these white curtains,
stars shine bright as Diwali
in a cold night sky.
Someday, within these walls,
I will hear my baby cry.
Cradling my hollowed womb,
I trace this new wound and weep.
The only sound I hear now is the fading retreat
of a doctor’s footsteps, echoing my heartbeat.

© Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Final hours of Savita’s life recounted by nurse at inquest

Doireann Ní Ghríofa’s poems have appeared in literary journals in Ireland and internationally. The Arts Council of Ireland has twice awarded her a literature bursary in 2011 and 2013. Her pamphlet of Ouroboros has recently been longlisted for The Venture Award, UK. www.doireannnighriofa.com

Wednesday, 24 April 2013

Three Payments Away

The world turned slowly
last night. Shrouded
in bittersweet agony, clothed
in tarpaulin spread
upon concrete
pillows.

The world turned its head
as you slept and frost
gripped you in crooked
fingers, knuckles whitening
in blessed
despair.

Your audience a mangy dog –
teats dripping, fleas parting matted
fur, and the drunk
who pissed
in your doorway then staggered
to his comfy bed.

And the woman, creased
with time. Eyes kind and hand
outstretched
to tend the dog,
to feed and warm
yet leave you

to your final
dreamless
sleep.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite


Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at http://wimpywriter.wordpress.com/

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Best loved book

Christopher Knight walked into the woods
in the wilderness one day.
He never looked back and was not looked for.
Robinson, cast away against his will
upon his island, did not stop
his search for a sail upon that empty sea.

Crusoe’s  beard grew long and ragged,
clothes shrank to makeshift shreds,
about a whipcord body,
that hunted, fished and farmed,
as Knight could not.
Crusoe sequestered the spoils
of wreckage in broad daylight,
built a beacon on a hill.
Knight stole out in the dead hours
to different camps, broke and entered
to acquire supplies,  hid in his tent,
never lit a fire, meditated.

Why? Knight asked himself, but could not say.
Yet, after all those years, he seemed
glad to end his solitude.
Perhaps. He had not seen himself
as we saw him, a well fed man,
neatly dressed, his weak eyes
squinting through
vintage spectacles,
his shaven face and head
shining with wholesomeness,
his clown face mouth
compressed to stop a tremble.

So what book did Knight love best?
Robinson Crusoe – or so they say.


©Judy Ugonna


Judy is part of the Zest! Open Floor Poetry management team, and  writes poetry with the Poem Shed.

Monday, 22 April 2013

Care Plan For The Newly Bereaved

Wrap them in words
spun from fine Merino fleece
to ease the phantom ache when
a car door thuds in the night,
a greeting goes unanswered.

Observe their heart.
It flutters like discarded paper
and may tear at any moment.
Cup it in the palm of your hand
until rhythm is restored.

Bathe their eyes with beauty.
They are large with horror
and now they must gaze
no further than the blackbird
who waits on the doorstep for food.

Observe their vital signs
until the wound starts to heal.
Be gentle at all times.
These things are the least
and the most you can do.

© Jan Harris

Carol Thatcher: Tough and tearful week for Iron Lady's daughter

Jan’s work has recently appeared in Abridged Online, Universe Magazine, Ink Sweat and Tears, Bolts of Silk, Ribbons, FlashFlood, and A Night at the Movies, a Poetry Kit e-book.

Sunday, 21 April 2013

Sunday Review

Well, it's that time again. How quickly my turn seems to come around. Here in Cornwall we have seen at last the first signs of some better weather with sunshine and light winds and, on Friday, my mother was able to enjoy a drive out to Helston Boating Lake to celebrate her eighty-fourth birthday. This was followed on Saturday by a visit to the Hall for Cornwall to see a production of 'The Misanthrope' written by Roger McGough after Moliere. A good time was had by all.

On the poetry front, though, it has been a controversial - and somewhat divided - week. On Tuesday we began with Niamh Hill's Pissing Against the Wind which pays tribute to the late Margaret Thatcher and 'her golden reign'.  Here at Poetry24, we were keen to present both sides of this particular argument. As it turned out, however, Niamh's was one of the few pro-Thatcher submissions we received.

Wednesday, of course, was the day of the funeral  and our poem was Laura Taylor's Dear Margaret which, if one of the functions of the poet is to call forth a response, fulfilled that requirement admirably. Not everyone liked it but, speaking for myself rather than as the representative of the editorial team (naturally, I would not presume to speak for either Michael or Hamish) I found its intensely personal view  both poignant and hard-hitting. The poet's grim conclusion that 'there's no absolution,/ no forgiveness, or pity or grief' may not be comfortable for some but it is a position honestly held.

Then, on Thursday, it was our own Michael Holloway who described the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon in his Boston 15th April 2013. It was, as one of our contributors, Luigi Pagano, commented: 'An incisive and realistic portrayal of the horrific act'. Thank you, Luigi. I could not have said it better myself.

Friday saw us in the very capable hands of another regular contributor, David Subacchi. David took as his inspiration for the poem, Homecoming, a very much gentler story concerning the return home of Nelson Mandela following a stay in hospital. 'Madiba is home', he says, 'The nation's father'; even 'Death runs scared of him'.

All of which brings us to Saturday and Carolyn Cornthwaite's Bleak House, a reflection on UNICEF's recent report that British children face a grim future under the coalition government in 'this barren land devoid / of jobs, of training, and further / education'. It was gritty stuff and it made for a grim end to the week - and one that was, perhaps, at odds with the week's beginning.  Do you have something to say about the world? We are waiting for your submissions. Have a good week and enjoy the sunshine if you can.

Abigail Wyatt

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Bleak House

Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit
this barren land, devoid
of jobs, of training, and further
education.
Suffer little children,
peering from the trappings
of another’s misspent youth;
parting the shreds of a brown paper bag
of cider – counts as five-a-day? – sweetened
with an anti-depressant
or a cigarette on the way
to a dead-end
apprenticeship.
Blessed are the poor
of spirit,
stacking shelves to break
the monotony
of fertile wombs and
teenage mothers and
increased risk and
bullying.
Must I walk
in the shadow of
death,
as my footsteps echo
in this bargain
basement
Britain?

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Unicef: British children facing bleaker future under coalition

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at wimpywriter.wordpress.com

Friday, 19 April 2013

Homecoming


Madiba is home
Home from hospital
Once more he survives
His strength is renowned

He is ninety four
Minus twenty seven
Years that were stolen
By a cruel regime

Madiba is home
The nation’s father
He is victorious
He will never yield

He fought apartheid
Paid a heavy price
His lungs were damaged
Tuberculosis

Tata is home
He walked to freedom
Death runs scared of him
He will overcome

Nelson Mandela
Beacon of justice
Now and for ever
Will live in our hearts.

©DavidSubacchi.2013


David Subacchi is a well known poet and performer of his work especially in Wales and the North West of England. He loves to write about the news and is a regular contributor to Poetry 24. His collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press last year. http://writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi

Thursday, 18 April 2013

Boston 15th April 2013

The clouds fell and drifted and people appeared in the dust.
And we saw blood and silent screaming photos from three thousand
miles away. And above them, The Lennox, and the American flag
and the sky dotted between ash and debris.
And a glance of fire burst in blameless faces.
Yellow fluorescent jackets made swarms of confusion
and the words Physician, Police and Adidas.
And the tears in the eyes of a girl holding a man and
the blood spilled and stained the flag
next to a giant m&m mascot, ignorantly grinning.
A girl wrapped in foil. Her feet red and dirty and
a man’s legs gone, now a sharp stick of bone and his mouth
in an O shape, screaming, in a wheelchair,
crossing the finish line. And we all watched and
they lay on the ground in the deep, sinewy blood shapes,
as the clouds faded and showed the time: 4:09:55

© Michael Holloway


Michael was born in Liverpool in 1985. He studied English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Central Lancashire until 2008 and graduated with his Masters in Writing from Liverpool John Moores University in 2012. He has written a number of novels, which are currently unpublished, and often writes short stories and poetry. He also works with PIYE magazine. He is now one of the editors of Poetry24.

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

Dear Margaret

For Orgreave, the Beanfield, and Hillsborough.
For Operation Swamp 81.
For the miners, the unions,
the working class heroes,
the people whose skin you denied.
For the innocents turned into criminals.
For giving the Force a free rein.
to wield batons and tear gas and horses,
to weaken and batter them all.

For the families who died.
For the lies you allowed to be told
all this time, not giving an ounce
of the truth or of justice for this ‘96.
For the mass destruction of all our communities,
psyches and spirits and faith.

For my dad, ex-Services, thrown on the dole
fifteen times in as many long months.

For my mother, dug deeper in poor mental health;
the poverty making her sicker, and sadder,
and madder than she’d ever been.

For my brother, who lived without wages for years, burned out
on a pyre of your making.

For the youth of myself, for the public disgrace
of the free-dinner-queue, for the old cast-off shoes,
for none of the school trips or cookery lessons,
for shrinking grey socks, for the punches and kicks
that my mother let fly in her madness.
For the ice and the mould inside every window.
For the hunger, the shame, my family’s pain,
for the living we scraped hand to mouth.

For all the above, for all our lost years,
for all of the grief and the depths that we reached.
Dear Margaret
there’s no absolution,
no forgiveness, or pity or grief.
Your legacy lives in the fat of the rich.
May your soul never find any peace.

© Laura Taylor


Laura Taylor has been writing and performing poetry for just over two years, and has finally found a space in which to air her grievances with Authority.
 

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Pissing Against the Wind

She stood,
she ruled,
she rained iron
on the supposed mighty
beat them at their own game,
the spray back did not faze her
she remained firm against the gale;
her vision clear,
a nation to be proud of
working towards a goal
of people united yet independent,
earning a wage,
owning a home.
Some fell by the wayside
and still they lay the blame,
they rail at perceived injustice,
soaked in ineptitude,
they made no gain
from her golden reign

Margaret Thatcher's death

© Niamh Hill

Niamh Hill is a former accountant and primary school teacher on a career break, indulging in yoga, reading and writing.

Monday, 15 April 2013

Farewell Dear Lobster

Farewell dear lobster; your services
no longer required. 

Run along now
with your steak and dancing
partner,
in the twilight, overlooking the Hindu Kush.

Our sights are set already –
reducing costs. 

A latte and
your wellbeing
no longer de rigueur.

Haircuts will continue as normal.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite




Carolyn writes poetry sporadically or relentlessly (depending on the season) and is influenced by travel, former careers and people watching. She dreams of Booker Prizes and a life in France.

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Sunday Review

For us, the week began on Tuesday and we published Ruby by Luigi Pagano, a look at the Berlusconi trial and the dancer, Karima El-Mahroug – Ruby Heartstealer. The story was about Ruby who staged a protest outside a court in Italy to deny having paid for sex with Berlusconi. The poem is filled with mixed imagery of a shining jewel and fallen power, and the final line sums it up: ‘The jewel in his crown brought him down.’

On Wednesday we had Shinjini Bhattacharjee’s ICU. It was about a man who admitted to torturing a prostitute in Seattle. The poem was met with favourable and positive reactions at Poetry24 and a favourite of mine. The final two lines were notably memorable: ‘Your vastness shrunk to the size / Of my eyeballs?’

The editors at Poetry24 have been extremely busy and so Thursday was missed, however we published Alcohol is to be Restricted on Friday. Carolyn Cornthwaite’s poem was about Asda welfare cards given to the poor. It was a satirical look at the economy and the status of the poor in the country. ‘Apples and cheery smiles won’t fix our economy.’ Says it all, really.

We decided to publish two poems on Saturday due to the news story of Margaret Thatcher’s death. We had Strike Against the Miners by Andrew John, a poem that seems to remember the pain felt in the country in the 70s. And remembers that ‘She did that.’ And respectively we had Weather Change by Martin Marriott. The poem sounds like a school yard chant with the repetition of ‘Margaret Thatcher’ and expresses how even villains die because of nature.

Hope you all have a good week and are beginning to enjoy the Spring weather.

Michael.

Saturday, 13 April 2013

Strike Against the Miners and Weather Change


Strike Against the Miners

Comfortable in their comradeship,
they marched to the pit-head baths,
faces shiny black, teeth gleaming through –
a minstrel show mid-melody.

Their smiles would be evident
in the Miners’ Club later –
some fizzy beer, a bingo game,
talk of blokey things.

No more. The pits are dead,
communities crushed, diffuse.
Secretly, many will rejoice
that she, too, has gone,
she who broke their backs.

How are we to greet the tributes –
oleaginous from friend and foe alike –
glaring from the TV screens?
Do we say good riddance, glad she’s gone?

Or will we sigh and say, “Oh, well,
she did what she believed in”?
Ah, yes. She did that.

© Andrew John


Andrew John has been writing poems on and off since the 1970s. He recently had the “Poem of the Week” on the Poetry Kit blog www.poetrykit.org and provided one here on Poetry24 in March.

Weather Change

Margaret Thatcher, milk-snatcher
the nice grim reaper at last did catch you
and me and mine all wish you well
in the fiery hell to which you now descend

Margaret Thatcher, global disaster
I smile because I did out-last you
you hated unions, loathed the poor
and supported every wretched war

Margaret Thatcher, vile and mean
porn-star whore of the bourgeois scene
you made the economy really lean
and killed my dad to fulfil your dreams

Margaret Thatcher, no more rhymes
far better fruit for this boy’s mind
I glance outside, it’s no longer snowing
nor cold as hell, which is where you’re going

The sun is out, bright flowers abound
and one evil bitch is underground
and I pray no child conceived today
will ever have to learn your name

Let boss and bureaucrat shed a tear
nature spoke, in the springing of the year.

© Martin Marriott
 

Martin Marriott lives a stone's throw from Tottenham Police Station in North London, UK. He is a performance poet and visual artist.

Friday, 12 April 2013

Alcohol Is To Be Restricted

I’m sorry madam, it’s not your age, put your ID card away.
Wine is not the answer, won’t clear the memories of abuse
and – on the whole – such simple pleasures are
just for honest tax-payers to use.

Now sir, I’m sure, that you’re well aware no top-ups feature on the
list of essential items that your gift card can provide –
so you might miss an interview – but mobiles are
a privilege – restricted from your kind.

And tobacco, that’s a no-no and
I’m sure that you’ll agree,
you’re honoured that us tax-payers
take your health so seriously.

No ma’am it’s not possible to shop just where you want.
At markets? Where the traders give bruised apples out for free?
This card is for a major chain; come now –
apples and a cheery smile won’t fix our economy.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Asda welfare cards to be given to Birmingham's poor

Carolyn writes poetry sporadically or relentlessly (depending on the season) and is influenced by travel, former careers and people watching. She dreams of Booker Prizes and a life in France. http://about.me/carolyncornthwaite

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

ICU

You towered over me, oh dear sky,
Thinking that you have finally succeeded
In keeping me beneath you, suffocating me with your sun,
And clouds and moon and stars,
Slowly lulling me to celebrate
A false reality uncontrolled by me.

But look at me now as I look at you,
Staring right into your immense void,
Can't you see, right here, right now,
Your vastness shrunk to the size
Of my eyeballs?

© Shinjini Bhattacharjee

Man admits to torturing Seattle prostitute

Shinjini describes herself as a 23 year old jabberwocky who loves to explore the poems garbed in emotions of varied hues every moment of her life composes.

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

Ruby

It is the most powerful gem in the universe;
placed under a pillow it wards off nightmares.
This fact has been celebrated in many a verse:
as a stone that is filled with love and passion
it brings much luck to one who owns a ruby.
He is bound to have contentment and peace.
It may be true for some but for one booby
it’s meant a lot of aggravation and chagrin.
Most rubies come from Burma or Thailand
yet the one that he got was from Morocco.
Foolishly, he buried his head in the sand
and ignored the rumours doing the rounds.
A symbol of friendship, if given as a gift,
but it was said he bought it with hard cash
for lust - not love - if you catch my drift.
The jewel in his crown brought him down.

© Luigi Pagano

Berlusconi trial: 'Ruby' Karima Mahroug at Milan court

Luigi Pagano is a contributor to Poetry24 and other websites. He has published three poetry collections the latest of which is Poetry On Tap.

Sunday, 7 April 2013

Sunday Review

We began the week with 'Peter Doubt' by Grant Van Wingerden which looked at the new Pope and how it could affect the church.
Carolyn Cornthwaite's 'Behind the Pyramid' reminded us that the Arab Spring has not blossomed into everyone's life.
Luigi Pagano's 'Moral Dilemma'  on Friday showed that the blossom can be a long time coming where religion is involved.
Abigail's poem 'The Great Betrayal' gave us more proof that the saying about politics being personal can sometimes get very very real. Best of luck in your fight, Abi.
Autumn has just begun in New Zealand and we have all been shocked at the plunge in temperature. Long trousers are needed for the first time in a very long time. I hope that you Northerners are beginning to thaw out.
Have a good week all, may your muse give you that tap on the shoulder.

Saturday, 6 April 2013

The Great Betrayal

(with a special dedication to Cornwall Council)

You come, you say, where it is your right 
to stay in defence of your heritage.
You come with your children, your dogs, 
your tools, your, white, gleaming vans.
You come with all the trappings of your trade, 
your pick-up trucks, your cars and your money.
All night in my bedroom, your generator hums; 
a sleeping giant grumbles in my ear.

You come on Good Friday as the sky wears
its shroud and the telephone lines fall silent.
On the hillside lies the gleaming stone,
rolled away too lightly and too soon;
there is no hope here, though, only sprawl and spill 
and the clamour and clash of modernity.
You come, you say, in defence of your heritage
yet you batter at the gates of my peace.

© Abigail Wyatt


Abigail Wyatt lives in the shadow of Carn Brea near Redruth in Cornwall. She is in real danger of financial disaster due to a series of planning decisions taken by Cornwall Council. The most recent of these was to evict a group of travellers from the car park of Carn Brea Leisure Centre and invite them to take up residence in a field just a stone's throw from her home. Abigail hoped to sell her house this summer. Now a sale appears most unlikely.

Friday, 5 April 2013

Moral Dilemma

Today is market day.
Women have come down
from their remote villages
to their nearest town.
They greet one another
among the busy stalls
but pay scant attention
to the vendors’ calls.
They talk about their lovers
and extol their virility
yet point out the dangers
that go with promiscuity.
The opinion is prevalent
we ought to warn all maids
not to indulge in shenanigans
in case they catch Aids.
It would be so much better
if they could get protection
but they are subjected
to religious objection.
Clerics of different creeds
raise their hands in horror
and declare we shall live
in Sodom or Gomorrah.
So prudence is requested
and also self-control
but, given human nature,
it won’t work at all.

© Luigi Pagano

Religious leaders want ‘Weka Condom Mpangoni’ advert withdrawn

Luigi Pagano is a contributor to Poetry24 and other websites. He has published three poetry collections the latest of which is Poetry On Tap.

Thursday, 4 April 2013

Behind The Pyramid

The moon wept the night you were not born.
I kissed ten curled fingers as the stars
balled in tune to the river of
blood that stained my blankets.
The night you were not born.
The pyramids bowed to your cry for freedom as
tears streamed and sticks and stones and steel
bars rained down upon hunched shoulders –
silhouettes of the women who fought.
The night you were not born.
And, as I cradled you, sang sweet songs and
crossed my legs to stem the flow of
blood the doctors would not touch,
I heard the echoes of my screams – my fight –
the night you were not born.
The palms whispered at your hungered howl
as I placed you on my paltry breast and the
sand bloomed blushing red as it mopped
the blood the medics couldn’t heal.
The night you were not born.
Plucked from school to marry
(one less mouth to feed).
Pleased my womb could carry.
The night you were not born.
The moon wept, as blood and body
spent
and twenty child’s fingers and twenty child’s toes
ceased their curious wiggling – forever
intertwined.
The night you were not born.
  
© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Babies born to underage girls in Egypt cannot be registered and their mothers cannot receive medical attention, yet underage marriage remains rife.

Carolyn writes poetry sporadically or relentlessly (depending on the season) and is influenced by travel, former careers and people watching. She dreams of Booker Prizes and a life in France.http://about.me/carolyncornthwaite

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

Peter doubt

I couldn't place Peter the Roman
in the conclave
He's not supposed to come from Argentina
nor is he a humble man huddling with the poor
catching the bus
mingling with the throng

On this rock
I build my role
The key to the crypt
keeper of immortal secret

Til the last one says
Jorge Mario Bergoglio
will not sack Rome

© Grant Van Wingerden

Peter the roman means Pope Francis from the Jesuit order

Grant van Wingerden is a poet from the Bush. He may not resemble Henry Lawson or Banjo Paterson, but his town of origin still remains un-mapped by Google. Grant currently lives in the comparatively green and lush Blue Mountains of New South Wales where he looks out over a remnant stand of melaleuca.