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  • "I Had A Beautiful Childhood"

    __________________________



    I was never beaten by my mother,

    Daddy never stuck his thingie into me,

    I had a beautiful childhood

    One without abuse or injury.



    I was given everything I ever wanted,

    I was taken all over the place;

    I was taught to be polite and thoughtful

    And give and receive with good grace.



    I went to Sunday School when I wanted to.

    But was never told that I should.

    I was allowed my own thoughts and feelings,

    I had a beautiful childhood.



    So nothing prepared me for marriage

    For me to be a bullied little wife,

    To be beaten and burnt by a husband

    And thrashed within an inch of my life.



    I couldn't understand it at first,

    I wondered where I had gone wrong,

    I was weak and I was undemanding,

    And he was both evil and strong.



    I kept us together for the children,

    To them he was at first quite good,

    Until one day he raped our daughter

    And fucked up HER childhood.



    The years have now passed so quickly,

    I am middle aged, it's understood,

    But looking back on my life I have to say,

    I had a beautiful childhood.



    ---

    Tiffy Witherington.

    _____________________

    teacherangel  awoke memories totally lost, and for the first time since my stroke I remembered where my two main user names come from!

     

  • The Young Woman I Met At The Talk-In Centre

    _______________________________________



    The young woman said at first that she didn't want to talk to "an effing Catholic priest", I told her I was C of E. (Not that of course I am anti-Catholic!)

    "I hate the church" she snarled "I hate all it stands for, it's all evil!"

    "Nothing is evil" I smiled "nothing is evil about what is only a belief, it is what people do with that belief that makes them good or evil."

    "Well, a priest told me that Jesus wished him to f*** me! And he did, I was nine!"

    "I knew a policeman like that" I replied, thinking of my own past, "but that does not mean I hate all coppers."

    "Don't try to bullshit me father!"

    "Toby, please call me Toby." I was temped to touch the poor woman's hand but she might have thought I was...I sighed, "if I was in your shoes, maybe I too would think like that young lady, I wish I could say more."

    "If you want me to forgive, then you are wasting your f****** time!"

    "I do not expect you to forgive or forget, trust should never be broken, Jesus made a promise, and any one of his teachers who break a promise breaks one to God, that priest will rot in hell and deservingly so."

    "I will never have faith again Toby." The lady softened now, she started crying, and in fact we cried together.

    I looked at her and spoke softly, "I do not expect you to have faith, nor will God, He will understand, he will accept your reason. We all lose faith, even Jesus lost faith when he was on the cross. Faith is no big deal, it's how your heart beats that matters. It is how you treat others. Jews, Muslims, athiests, God loves them all as long as they in turn, love others and never betray their trust."

    The young woman smiled. I wondered how often she did smile. "A vicar telling me it's ok if I do not believe in Jesus?"

    "Yes," I said "as long as others believe in you, as long as you yourself never betray your trust with man woman or child, then God will love you as surely as if you were a devout nun."

    ---

    Of course I have no clue whether I was right or wrong, but if that poor lady does not go to heaven, then I too will not wish to be there.



    ---

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby +

  • Fin Du Temps.

    _________________



    Dear Diary,

      I picked up the paper this morning & the usual cheerful crypic message of my star-sign felt wrong. I just knew it was going to be one of those days.

      Even as I closed the paper, the house across the road suddenly vanished in an earthquake, seven kids too.

      At 9:30. My brother rang up to say he was falling over a cliff, & I found in the post a suicide note from my punkish son. It had been posted second class.

      At eleven, a gormless bloke came to the door & told me my cat had just been flattened by an "elegog", By 11:30. I heard my wife had died of a heart-attack whilst disco-roller skating up Big Ben, & by noon, I heard my drug-crazed daughter had been killed by a mad alien.

      Well, what with one thing or the other, I was getting pretty depressed by now, & I nipped out to buy the rest of the morning papers to read their horrorscopes, they all said pretty much the same, "it's going to be one of those days...".

      Just after reading the last astronut column & putting out the fire that had just engulfed my garden-shed destroying a twenty-year collection of rare garden gnomes, I heard that my mother-in-law was coming to tea. Damn: That was the last straw! What was I going to tell the old moo? Out of a family of four, a brother & a cat, I was the only one still alive, she'll be bound to blame the whole lot on me!

      At 2:0'clock, a drunk Russian general started a nuclear war.

      By 5:15, the ten-minute warning siren was heard, just then my mother-in-law came up the garden gate, I let her knock for ten minutes. 

      Well, diary, its been one of those days...

     

    ---

    ff % 243 (published under the nom de plume "Horace Smith Esq.")

  • "On This Island"



    The shadow has not yet fallen

    On the Holy One,

    So they say

    As I sit on this island

    Full of Christianity

    Full of the ghosts of monks,

    Full of flowers

    That have been fertilized

    With centuries of prayer.



    I sit on this island

    And watch the sun

    Turn the grass

    From green to olive

    And the sea

    From blue to black.



    Soon I am sitting in darkness

    And in the abbey behind me

    I can hear the blessing for the night.

    I should have been joining in,

    I, a man of the cloth,

    But the ghosts around where I sit

    Sing their own songs

    And I reply softly

    My words dancing in the breeze.



    And on this island

    There is a peace.



    A child comes up to me,

    I had not seen her before,

    She says to me

    "Mamma says will you visit her

    She wishes to see you."



    I hold the child's hand

    And we walk into this cottage.

    The mother, whose young face

    Is like the rocks of the sea,

    Smiles and says

    "I have made you some soup."



    "I feel silly" I smile in return,

    "Sitting on that bench

    In near darkness."



    "You are not the first to sit there Father,

    You will not be the last.

    It's the voices you see

    From the souls of the monks

    Who had asked to remain here

    When they die,

    For this is their heaven

    On this island."



    For a hour longer

    I sit on the bench

    Until the voices of the island

    Sleeps in the night

    That will never fall

    Onto this land.



    ---

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby.
    ____________________________

    A new classic poem on my Nonffpercentpoems
    site. Poems not by me but loved by me.

  • She sits alone in her flat on the 17th.

    She likes that, sitting alone,

    Except for the fear,

    And the waiting for him

    To return home drunk.



    She tries to forget him

    But each throbbing bruise reminds her

    As does the smashed doors

    And the broken chairs.



    She lights a Gauioises,

    Her doctor said she shouldn't smoke,

    Bugger him.

    What has he ever done for her?



    It us getting dark,

    The lamps in this city of romance

    Twinkle with love

    As they once did for her.



    Poor bitch

    (She calls herself)

    She should have listened.

    "He has form" they said,

    "He's violent!"

    But he was not to her,

    Not then, then it was all

    Gentle dinners by candlelight

    And music by Edith Piaf.



    A key turns in the door

    A swear word is heard;

    As she prepares herself once again

    For his drunken fist.



    ---

    Marie St. Denis.

    _______________

    Random Props will be deleted.

  • You part the sea in a ship

    To let the people home,

    To let you, the viewer decide

    That all roads lead to Rome.



    You know a song Elvis sung

    You know how to switch the computer on

    You know the speed of light

    The French for good is "bon"



    Your head is full of such info

    They stick inside your head

    Facts about living matter

    Much of it long dead.



    You know Jesus died on a cross,

    That the letter d follows c,

    That George Bush is a President

    The Titanic was lost at sea.



    I know how to change a barrel

    What act I've booked for next week,

    How many bats hide in my outhouse

    That Earth was never inherited by the meek.



    Info inside my mind won't go away

    And I suppose if it did I would cry

    As I did about my mother

    Years before she finally died.



    She forgot a lot of things,

    Like how to spell yellow or blue.

    Soon she was in a hospital bed

    Saying to me "who are you?"



    She did not know about Moses

    Those brain cells were not there,

    She did not know about Jesus

    Or how to climb a stair.



    Soon she just lay there

    Looking aimlessly and dumb

    And I was beginning to get bored

    At visiting my dear old Mum.



    One day they phoned up my pub

    Told me mother had passed away

    I felt she had died years before

    And felt nothing much that day.



    I hope where-ever she is now

    She has regained her brain

    And that she remembers where Rome is

    Once again.



    Oh if ever I lose my mind

    Let no-one visit my silent bed

    For I will be no longer with the world

    When I am near brain-dead.



    I cry now when I think of you

    And grow so very numb,

    I never told you how much I loved you

    My lovely Mum.



    Now I stand by a plaque

    Up in a cold windy crem.

    And I can't even think of a rhyme

    To give this poem a clever end.



    Thank you Mother for all you gave

    I love you, I really do,

    Can I say anything else standing here

    But God bless you.



    I change the flowers in the pot

    I feel so cold inside

    I hope to see you again

    When I too have died.



    Thank you mother for everything

    The sun, the sea, the sky.

    I cannot say anything else now

    For I am about to cry.



    Goodbye Mother, goodbye.



    ---

    Tiffy Witherington.


  • "The Flood"



    Soaked to the skin

    Of a thousand dispersive clouds

    We walk on.



    There is no where to shelter

    Except under the floating tears

    Of those who walked by

    Yesterday and yesterday and yesterday.



    No one speaks

    There is no laughter

    Only the realization

    We are getting fewer and fewer

    In the teeming rain

    That never stops.



    And this time

    There will be no Noah.



    ---

    Jacques du Lumèrie

    ______________________________

     


    (untitled)

    ________

    You who was born silent

    Spoke but once in a thousand years,

    Saying that you were sorry

    To crack the quiet reflections of the day.

     

    Your silence is a gift

    In a world of so many words.

    They will not understand you

    For your silence.

     

    Your ears are for the stream,

    For the wind;

    For the people of snowflakes.

     

    You only communicate

    With a smile.

     

    I know you have not forgotten

    Those times we shared

    Before they began to kill us

    For being silent.

    ---

    Jacques du Lumèrie
    _________________________________

     


    "End Of Time"

    ______________

     

    Our children's children

    Are all we sing for

    In these black fields

    Of loneliness.

     

    They are all that matter now

    We realise,

    As we carry our little bundles

    Onto the edge of eternity.

     

    Each one of us remembering

    How beautiful death can be

    To a dying man.

     

    ---

    Jacques du Lumèrie

  • "A Brand New Morning"

    ______________________



    It all began as I remember,

    On the dawn of the 27th;

    I was laying in bed procrastinating

    (As you do)

    Trying to get up steam

    To be ready for

    Another dreary day's work:

    When it occured to me

    That the sky was very dark

    For six-thirty am

    In the month of July.



    I had looked out of the window,

    And my heart missed a beat.

    I did not wake my family,

    They will know soon enough

    And there was little I could do

    So I climbed back into bed.



    "What's the time?"

    My wife asked me,

    "I thought I heard the alarm go off.



    "One of the kids must have been

    Mucking about with it." I lied,

    "It's only three-thirty am

    The start of a brand new morning...



    Oh yes, and Christ has risen."



    ---

    Reverend Tobias Trontby.

  • Mummy's lovely

    garden plant

    is dying.



    I don't know

    it's name,

    I only know

    it's name

    is v e r y long

    and far too hard

    for me

    ever to remember.



    But I do know

    it is dying.

    Just like

    my grandma.



    ---

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged nine).

    -------------------------------------------------


    The goldfish

    swims

    round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    it's bowl



    "What are you

    thinking

    about

    little goldfish

    as you swim

    round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    that bowl?



    "Are you

    wondering

    little goldfish,

    why I am

    staring at you

    as you swim

    round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    and round

    your bowl?



    "Or are you

    in fact

    thinking of

    nothing

    much

    at

    all?"



    ---

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, (aged nine).

     

    ______________________________
    _______________________________

  • "In The Country"



    The sound from the waterfall

    and the sounds of the river birds

    were all spoilt by the sound

    of you complaining.



    Why don't you seek silence

    and stop thinking that your voice

    is more worthy than

    the other sounds that I hear

    in the water, in the wind or in the air?



    ---

    Marie St. Denis

     

    _______________

     


    Yesterday My Angel



    Yesterday, my angel

    helped me to come,

    he put his mouth on

    my sad little prick,

    I closed my eyes

    and I came.



    "That was for earlier"

    he smiled.

    "Earlier?" I asked.

    "When you helped that old lady onto the bus,

    I notice these things,

    for of course,

    I am an angel".



    All day today

    I am hoping on and off buses

    looking for little old ladies to help,

    just so as I can feel again

    my lovely angel's mouth.



    ---

    The Poet Known As "Empty Chairs"

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