This is the poem I meant. The next poem will be different I promise, though as I see my own end in sight I remember the others who went before me.
The next poem is based on reality, it happened some years ago, this was one of my first newspaper stories in fact. For though the poem itself was only wrote this week, the memory is still fresh. This woman, whose husband was killed in the war, brought up her child alone, and no matter how much love she gave him he still did wrong. There were three women raped and murdered in the north of England, and this woman found out the killer was her son, so she went to the police. After he got Life, she killed herself.
A true story, only the names are changed.
Terry.
---
"Brian"
He was always a strange kid, she thought on,
The way he had thrown those snails on the fire that time,
The way he had teased the cat for hours on end.
The signs were there, there for her to see
But she had hoped that he would grow out of it.
He could be so loving at times,
Those flowers he had brought her,
Sure they were from someone's garden
But he had not picked them for gain.
She said the Lord's Prayer.
She had never been all that religious,
Not until the now.
She was so cold, so cold, so very bloody cold.
The man sent to her, to help her
Was kindness himself,
It was as if he understood what it was like to be a mother,
A mother of a boy
Who had murdered three women.
"Brian" she had whispered
As they gave him life
And he had stood there
Hatred in his eyes.
"Brian" she had repeated
As they led him away.
The mother of one of the young women that her son had murdered
Had touched her hand
As if to say
"We have both lost children."
The night grew dark,
She did not turn on the lights though,
Only the gas.
She left a note, on it were three words:
"Brian, my son."
---
Lord Pineapple
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(don't forget my Nonffpercentpoems site, it has few visitors but it's going to contain all the poems by other people I have loved for the past 40 years)
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