September 28, 2004

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  But you don’t see me crying,
  tired of all the worry
  you have given me,
  never knowing where your hand
  will strike next
  on one of my late mother’s pots
  or across my face.
  

  
  

  But you don’t see me crying
  like piano hemidemisemiquavers,
  like onto a cold cobweb of a face
  long since lost it’s beauty
  hated by a mirror
  and any other vanity
  I once had before you married me
  and made me so ugly.
  

  
  

  But you don’t see me crying
  when I have to say to you
  that I love you,
  so the children will not wake again
  hearing your foul language
  and you threatening to kill me.
  

  
  

  But you don’t see me crying
  when someone tells me
  they have seen you kissing a girl
  half of my age,
  and you come back
  and near rape me
  you having locked the children
  inside their bedroom.
  

  
  

  But you don’t see me crying,
  oh no, oh no, oh no.
  

  
  

  And you never will,
  not even if I filled up the tea-pot
  with my tears.
  

  
  

  —
  Tiffy Witherington.

  
  

  
  blog updated

  
  

  ___________________________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  As I climb the mountain and look down,
  

  
  

  I wonder if this is how heaven will be.
  

  
  

  For below me, far below the tree-level,
  

  
  

  A million voices cry upwards to be helped,
  

  
  

  A million sad people asking for that something
  

  
  

  To make their lives a little better.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I sit on a rock, and run my panting fingers
  

  
  

  Inside my collar of God, and I look below
  

  
  

  And I hope their prayers can be answered.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  For their prayers are rarely for themselves,
  

  
  

  But for loved ones, those in trouble across the sea,
  

  
  

  And for hope and peace to replace the hatred.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And I climb up to the summet of the mountain
  

  
  

  And I pray myself for the tears in the valley below.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I suddenly realise I had not even left the church-hall,
  

  
  

  And yet the mountain was real to me.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I had climbed the mountain of my heart
  

  
  

  A mountain higher, and with greater views,
  

  
  

  Than any earthly mountain I may ever ascend
  

  
  

  With map and bible in my rucksack.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Rev Tobias Trontby.
  __________________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  Text Don’t give a trucker an easy cake.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Feeling down on my duck, and tired of my boss saying we should put our sacks to the ball and pull our cocks up cos there’s no such thing as a tree crunch, I decided that enough is Abroath, and it was time to sack up and grieve and cry my sand elsewhere.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I was shore I could shoe it, start a new wife, this time keeping my nose to the rindbone, and watch my ‘t’s and ‘u’s, for when the twit hits the scan, I want to be smiles away, for I am not the whack sleep of the family.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “But bang on a blow, and toad your forces” he cried, not sleeting about the crutch, “you owe us a witty kenny before you get your thistle and see if the pass is meaner on the other side of the bill.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  But I stuck to my runs and I cold him where to wet cloth, and left him to his gob and so he had to wet me ho, and here I spam at your floor, wanting you to give me a dance.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Horace Spliff Esq.

  
  

   

  
  

  The Three_Headed_Sarahs are back from their own planet, visit them or be damned.

  
  

   

  
  

  ————————

  
  

  ‘Isn’t gravity a wonderful thing,

  
  

  Holding us all in place,

  
  

  Otherwise we’d just go “ping”,

  
  

  And head off for deepest space.’

  
  

   

  
  

  (b) Mervyn G. Powell.

  
  

  And NO, he’s NOT another of my personae, but a great poet met tonight. (28th September) Hope he joins Xanga! Terry.

  
  

   

  
  

  Updated this, it’ll be Saturday before I’m next here.

  • 7:03 pm
  • 50 Comments