When you put Britain First...

Good evening readers. This week on the blog, we're looking at the theme of Britain.
Britain, that geographically similar bundle of island parts that has, for several centuries now, escaped all attempts to break it apart. Sure, we could all be better off with some crazy devolution-maxi-plus option where a layer of government on every street corner allows all of us all to manage our own affairs but, whatever your recent persuasions on the Scottish referendum may be, it is hard to deny that every extra level of such bureaucracy will bring with it enough red tape to make the bunting for a jubilee.

We are, as we've been all our lives, united. In fact, we're not only united but proud. Proud to be British. The best of British. Good old fashioned British values. But what are these ideals, these values,  for which so many people are prepared to fight.

Last month, former Prime Minister and failed public speaking champion Gordon Brown was roused enough by these ideas to give what many have called a barnstorming performance of a speech in favour of the union. A plea to all of those still not convinced by the notion of togetherness that we are, in fact, greater as a sum of our parts, better together.

Why then, in the month since our estranged partner decided not to divorce the rest of us, are we now seeing a rise in the popularity of the Britain First movement?

I must confess that, I've only just come on to this one- given to my avoiding the internet and the turmoil facebook brings, but, as my news feed is steadily being filled by these Britain First pages, I, like many people, have finally noticed it.
A quick look at the website feels like a second coming of the BNP and their fascist rhetoric. The homepage runs a piece about the absence of a white history month and the abhorrence of having a Black History Month. It then demeans any point it may have been making by talking about a Gypsy History Month.
These people, as far as I can see, have been dropped on their heads. Either that or the severe bashing of rhetoric and fascist literature they have been subjected to has left them dazed and concussed. What other reason can there possibly be for someone to claim they are putting Britain First whilst at the same time demanding that the repressed, those forced to flee, those put through the most inhumane and unthinkable injustices known to man, that seek refuge on our island in the long held knowledge that they will be accepted and taken in- where they can live a free and happy life and where they can contribute to society in a way impossible in the lands of their past must look elsewhere? Who are these people that believe their birth right is to look down on difference?
For anyone in doubt, I can confirm that these are the people who believe it is their right to be before anyone else in the dole queue. They want their imported A&E service before any foreign cleaner, doctor or nurse- despite the fact that they've been there all day and that the service only runs because of their input. And yet they're happy to share their own powerful mother tongue with the rest of the world, nay, take offence when it isn't used at all times.
Well, I say let these people have it.  Let them have the language they've half learnt yet feel so strongly about and let them keep it just as the day they were born. Not for them will be the new mongrel terms being coined everyday. Not for them are any of the words required to order takeaway food. Not for them are the words of technology or the language of the internet they will need to survive.

Let them instead own the word bigot. These people, these 'Britons' don't deserve even the term used to describe them. They show nothing of the values of inclusion, of compassion, of growth, togetherness or industry. They wouldn't be opening up their hospitals for those in need and they won't be giving anyone a leg up in the world when they need it the most. No, these people look out for themselves and nobody else. They'd have poets, writers and radical thinkers against the wall quicker than you could say fascist and so, this week when your facebook wall is peppered with the Britain First posts, I'd ask you to please take a moment to think about what exactly Britain is and what exactly their message is. Don't repost, don't share or like. Simply give them a little Anglo Saxon reminder of your own- in the roughest, most primitive words they understand.

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Animals

Animals

This week on the blog, the theme has been animals. As I'm still recovering from Latitude and my birthday last week, I'll keep it short and sweet. No coloured sheep, just three very silly and tedious little pieces from me.


1.

If you've got the trots
After barbecue burgers
Perhaps they were horse.

2.

We're all a bit like sausages
With their meaty cumberland grin
Chewed up by machines like mincemeat
Encased in a glistening skin
Yes, we're all a bit like sausages
With a mish mash of flavours within
But please, no one tell Suarez
Or we'll be running down his chin

3.

A Song of Innocence

Little lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know that you're for tea?

------

Thanks for reading,
S.

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End to End: A Brazilian Round Up Poem

This week the dead good bloggers have been looking at anecdotes. I haven't, I've been watching the football. A world cup full packed full of end to end football, have a go heroes and stoic performances has come to an end and, after a surprisingly cagey final, the world of football now offers its congratulations to Germany, who have given nothing short of a masterclass!

With that said then, I'm happy to  share with you the product of my evening- and given that the whistle went only moments ago, this is probably the first world cup round up poem posted anywhere in the world. You're welcome...

End to End

The vanishing foam and a swandive
That efficient first German win
The tweeting of Barack Obama
Then Spain sent home by Chileans
The swerving first left foot of Messi
The fresh Costa Rican surprise
A wave of delight from the Mexican bench
Then the striker that had too much bite
Football struck back- James chests, turns and volleys
Before diving, a shamed Arjen Robben admits
The US went crazy for Howard's heroics
Then Zuniga left Neymar in bits.
The Krulest of penalty mindgames,
Ein Siebening to forget for the hosts
Before Argentina's spot kick win
Launched a two day invasion by coach.
Then the final, an anxious encounter in Rio
Saw the prize lifted high by a great German team
The passion, the pain and the end to end football
With the eyes of the world- what a reason to dream.



Thanks for reading,
S

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In Complete Refreshment

Ironically, a poem about finding refreshment and inspiration is proving hard to finish.

Thanks for stopping by though,

S

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Salvations

When it comes to performing poetry, the space and the venue that you're in certainly makes a difference. At the start of the month, I found myself at Poulton Gala with a poem I'd written just the night before. As it happened, I had been notified that the back up plan was to use the church in case of rain so, I suppose coupled with the Brazilian carnival theme of the Gala I was swayed into my decision over what to write about.
You'll be surprised to hear that I managed to focus on football and religion for my poem and so, when the rain did indeed come down heavy, I ended up reading my piece in a packed St John's- straight after the Gala Queens and Dignitaries had been awarded- no pressure!
In any case, both Joy and Al read superbly well so as part of our little 'representative team' it felt great- I just wonder how much I had been influenced by the knowledge of where I'd be reading the piece during the 'creative' process.
Here it is though, out of carnival day context and up before it's out of date. Hope you enjoy.

Salvations.

On the hunchback Corcovado mountain
Cristo Redentor stands, arms raised.
He watches over each favella,
every high rise, every stage.

Around him, in the evening twilight
lit up with a purple hue
fans of many different nations
gather, taking in the view.

And from this vantage point, he watches-
waiting for the game to start:
Arms half way to celebration
Half way to catch each falling heart.

One whistle cuts straight through the samba.
One ball watched around the world.
Streamers fly around the terrace
as passionate songs are unfurled.

And nearby in the cramped favella
locals swell round one TV,
the gunshots stop for ninety minutes
and passion lifts the great city.

They feast on sweet Bolo de Rolo
sticky, like the evening heat
but it's hard to watch the world cup football
not thinking of bustling streets.

Of Rocky, in his homemade shelter
a one man ambulance of the hill.
He raises sick above his shoulders
to bear his share of Rio's ills.

Of mothers, fearful for the children

growing into the wrong scene-
not quite lucky, not quite out yet
struggling to hold their dreams.

But set in soapstone, towering over
Christ's redeeming pose holds strong.
Four weeks of idol celebration
then the gaze of the world is moving on.



Thanks for reading,
S

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Thank you for the words

In recognition of the blog hitting 1000 posts, this week we've been picking some of our favourite lines from our archive of posts.
Trawling through blogs from the last few years has been no mean task but, given that we're out of the world cup and I'm still down in the dumps about it, I've spent the day cheering myself up with the distraction.
The poem below is made up entirely of lines and phrases taken from the site over the last three years. Lines from past and present contributors join lines from guests including Jamie Field, Jo Bell and Jacob Silkstone and if you're wondering why you haven't made the cut- either you haven't written for us yet or I simply couldn't weave your line in. 

Thank you to all of you though, whether a reader or writer of the blog. We couldn't have got here without any of you. 

Poets

We work in different rooms, 

but we occupy the same house.

A spectrum of waste

Exploding in a million ideas

For all worries form a cloud of plankton

There was the bittersweet Karate

Webs so thick we cannot see

Cross Stitching meant nothing to me

But of all the things I miss in light

The moon's smile showing me the way

There was a ‘bang’. A small, dense state 

that expanded rapidly- lulled me into comfort

In the tea-bleached bedroom light

Poets all have Viking blood

We are pirates; travelling across a vast ocean

plundering images, forms, ideas

to find each piece increase in value

simply by the keeping.

Thanks for reading,
S.

 

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Milestone

This week will see us reach 1,000 posts on the Dead Good Blog.  In celebration of that fact, the current bloggers will be creating found poetry using snippets from our favourite past posts. 

It goes without saying that I am just as proud of this blog today as I was in June 2011 when the first post went live.  Since then, we have seen an abundant variety of inspiring and surprising posts on poetry, for the most part, and writing in general.  I want to take this opportunity to say thank you to everyone who has ever written, or commented, for us and express my desire that the blog should stretch on for another 1,000 posts as it continues to engage readers and writers across the world.

Here is my found poem.  If you click on any line you will find yourself transported to a piece of imaginative blogging.  Enjoy!

 

One Thousand

Something to a few,
a woman whose life was a mess

before the bitterness

do I starve this year?

Come hold me now
come see the sun
come stand with me

lay down the tracks

From a wild sky painted furious

crumpled metal objects

the brass blasts of the Salvation band

hear the horses coming closer, see the gallons of blood

twisting grey

tunnels, stale urine light and a voice

like dandelion seeds

that warns of gaps

This is the light to live in

Thinking

I could bring him to life with nothing more than hope

and the power of my own mind

religion and fecking psychics

they weren’t my first choice
not my intention

You will be left wearing pants

being trodden underfoot

Rabbit holes lead to burrows
and gardens aren’t a secret

The place we lay when no more days to give

it won’t be sad.

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Beacon

Good evening readers. This week on the blog we've been considering writing spaces. For me, the best writing spaces are the places where poetry almost finds itself- the brilliant countryside, the breathtaking views, the cross-country journeys are just some of my favourite places of inspiration. I always remember Lara telling me how her tutor Paul Farley loved to write on trains- and given the abundance of train poems out there, I would say that he is not alone in his poetic rail loving.
We all know of the great poets based in the Lake District and there have been many great observational poems written from cafes and bars, which leads me to deduce that the only key factor in a 'writing space' is the chance to ponder and to breathe for yourself- that it is somewhere with the ability to be secluded and allow the thoughts to dance.
On that note, this Wednesday I will be taking a workshop for the Walking on Wyre project at Rossall Point in Fleetwood. I took a stroll out there yesterday and as always, was amazed by the serenity of the sea. It made me think of journeys, of holidays, of mythical creatures and of childhood. I like places like that, and there is a wonderful, over-leaning building from which we'll be writing so, if that is your bag or you like free tea and coffee, I'll see you in the week.
Until then, I'd like to share a brief poem with you that was inspired by a recent Beacon Fell visit with Lara. It really is a cracking place to sit, eat and think so if you get the chance, it is well worth a visit.

Hillside view from Beacon Fell, May 2014

Beacon

A hilltop view out to the coast
as the sun sinks in the sky
provides a chance for looking on
as birds below us fly.

The cattle graze on buttercups
a chewing sound serene
that's permeated now and then
by a two-stroke farm machine.

And as we picnic on that hill
set in oranges and greens
it's not just trees casting long shadows
but nights stretched out like these.


Thanks for reading,
S.

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Cut and Paste

This week on the blog we've been looking at music. I used to think that music had a lot in common with poetry because, at the end of the day, they both have lyrics set to a rhythm but, in trying to piece together the blog today I've noticed that there has always been a lot to learn from music- and that I've always enjoyed learning it, even if I hadn't realised. 

If I told a class of children that poetic analysis might have a lot in common with a club remix, they'd try and eat me alive. I wouldn't get a chance to explain that by unpicking the piece you can work out just what the key parts are and that, given the proper care, they can be highlighted further with an edit. They would probably gawp at me if I asked them whether words have quite the same meaning when not accompanied by a guitar solo, a powerslide or a saxophone. Do these elements of performance translate to poetry and without them, do the lyrics hold true at all or can they be reshaped and take on different values? 

Thinking on these lines led me to compile the kind of list I haven't made since my early twenties. I assembled all the 'influential bands' I could remember, flicked through my records and picked out some of my absolute could not live without artists. Below then, is a compilation of lyrics and words taken from some of my favourite artists- all out of context, all lacking riffs and kicks and all reformed into some kind of cut and paste found, stolen and salvaged poem. 

There are 27 artists in all, with two of them having an extra lyric. I've been nice in alternating the colours when the performer changes so with that in mind, have a go at unpicking the piece below- and don't be using google!

Cut and Paste

I'm so happy 'cause today

I've found my friends ...

They're in my head

Slowly walking down the hall

Faster than a cannon ball

We smoked the last one

An hour ago

I'm pushing an elephant up the stairs

I'm tossing up punchlines that were never there

Get up, stand up

That's how it goes

Everybody knows.

Well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe

We gotta move these colour TV's

Smoke some fags and play some pool, 

Pretend you never went to school

We don't need no thought control

The beautiful people

The beautiful people.

Like a drunk in a midnight choir

I've seen fire and I've seen rain

I could be one of your kids, white America

Don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Commencing countdown, engines on.

I don't need your civil war

It feeds the rich while it buries the poor

So if I can shoot rabbits

Then I can shoot fascists

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth

And anyway I told the truth

This is what you get when you mess with us

He's got morning glory, life's a different story

Everything's going jackanory

They call it paradise, I don't know why

You call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye

And you realise then that it's finally the time

To walk back past ten thousand eyes in the line

I'll show you a picture 

A picture of tomorrow

Paradise put up a parking lot

This is our destiny calling now

Smashing up the woodwork tools

Don't think twice, it's alright

Say you stand by your man.

Thanks for reading, S

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Last Day Nerves.

The football season has reached its climax and by the time you read this, it will likely all be done. The final day of the year never fails to excite and ignite us as supporters, whatever end of the table you're looking at.
Today, it happens to be the top as anything but a West Ham victory (with Andy Carroll surely the man to do it) will see Manchester City crowned victors at the expense of the long suffering Liverpool fans. For them, the hangover from the bank holiday looks set to be a memorable one.
I'm a fence sitter as to which way I want it to go, I'll admit but, given that I support a football league club rather than the top flight behemoth, I've had a very different experience this year.
As it happens,  the mighty Blackpool got out of jail by accident and after a decade of promotions and 'best trips we've ever been on' to quote the song, it was a massively tense encounter. So for Bristol Rovers' sunken pirates, Birmingham's escapees, the wandering Wycombers and everyone else whose beloved side had a last day twitcher- this poem is for you.

Last Day Nerves

The scarves are on for one last time,
silent prayers made not to be beaten
as we gather in the turnstile lines
for the last game of the season.

The tables checked and checked again;
each contender for relegation.
When the whistle goes at three o'clock
we know every permutation.

This scene played out across the land
from the South West to North East.
It might be in other people's hands
on this day of destiny.

The ups and downs at various grounds
bring updates with every goal.
Hellish minutes as rumours spread around
and you're reaching the end of the road.

So for chewed fingernails and tearful grown men
next year, please start out as you ought to.
These sleepless long nights and taunting from friends
are just pain for the football supporter.



Thanks for reading,
S.

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The Ballad of Nick and Nigel

Good evening readers. This week the theme has been White- which reminded me somehow of the UKIP election broadcasts and the BNP website I look at now and again. Now I know, hate isn't something we normally associate with white but, in good spirits, I've written a little poem to shine light on the issue.

Hope you enjoy,
S.


The Ballad of Nick and Nigel

Herr Farage and Monsieur Griffin met in a first class carriage
They shared croissants, drank red wine and discussed a peculiar marriage
For who are they to judge, they say, the colour of Britain's skin
Whilst both men feared being overheard and accused of racism.

So Nick and Nigel pondered over how to shut the doors
Whilst deep in their office bowels, the ghost of Enoch holds the floor
Enough's enough, he tells them, there are more than ever before
(Not one of the bright sparks realise they both work on foreign shores).

But putting that aside, they keenly swap offensive views
They argue how it could be wise to keep on side the Jews
We don't want to seem too far right, Nick reiterates to Nige
Then under the cover of night they get to work on hateful signs

Britain's doors are open and they're coming for your jobs!
There's millions lining up at Dover set to clean the bogs!
They're coming in their droves to claim YOUR seventy quid a week!
Did you see the dirty rats leaving bin bags on Benefits Street!

So Nick and Nigel set a plan, "Let's tell them we're like them"
(which is really like comparing Tory Boris to Red Ken)
"We'll drink pints in city pubs", Nige says, "stuff the rules and smoke at work".
Not realising half the country are laughing at the berk

Because little do these two men know, they're as loved as they're detested
We know they're riding slapshod towards a European election
But neither man is smart enough, they just turn up, speak and smile
They're choosing all their policies based just on what's in style

This week it'll be 'stop the gays, God's tears are bringing floods'
Next week a return to calling rooms of women filthy sluts
Then on through crime and fear until they get to the expenses
Where both men claim they're playing fair whilst looking over fences

But the hero of our poem, has been lurking out of view
He's been using on board wi-fi viewing websites of the two
Enough's enough! (He's on his feet) Have you idiots forgotten
These two are feeding from the fears that make society rotten.

The last claim Nick made was to take a jolly flight to Greece
To make a speech for Golden Dawn- what a way to keep the peace.
In his tax funded office he employs an old chief of the national front
no-one else applied so, jobs for the boys, he gave his son in law a punt!

The other one is just the same, he employs his German wife
Says no one else could do the job, it must be all the strife.
His manifesto just eight pages (and that includes a poster)
With the time he's not actually in the pub, you're as well voting in a toaster

By the time the Eurostar pulled in, news had spread with quite a fuss
The speak out hero disembarked and was told "You're one of us"
Go spread the word about these two, get all the people knowing
So Chaucer like, he thought it best to stick it in a poem.

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Lost love in Blackpool.

Good afternoon readers.
This week I saw a sign for a girl at side of the road. A please call notice for a lost love from 50 years ago- with a mobile number on to contact. Once upon a time I'd have probably called it for a laugh, being a bit of an idiot but, these days I'm a much more romantic and mellow person- I write poetry and things. 
The sign inspired my poem for the theme of Anonymity- in that I found it quite sad to think that for half a century someone had harboured an idea of a woman, a perfect snapshot that moves and talks and dances- both ever and never disappointed. Anyway, I've written the poem below as a result- hope you enjoy reading it.


Taking the Chances

I didn't catch your name in '62
But we danced under the Tower, me and you
Until the last tram home
And then I never managed call
And I wonder, are you free now
Did you get to see the world?

I've imagined how your ringlets waved
From Tokyo's snapshots and NYC
How your flowered dress and dancing shoes
Have turned heads across each world city
How your blue eyes still might search the sky
How I hope you found your perfect guy

But, girl from the Tower, June '62
If you've still not found love- it's been looking for you.

Thanks for stopping by, S.

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A Voyage of Discovery

Good afternoon readers, and happy Easter to all of you.

This week, on my voyage of discovery, I saw an article on The Guardian online about the British Pathe archive coming available online.

Having visited the excellent Manchester Museum with Lara last week, I have already found plenty of inspiration for a poem I'm now working on redrafting. I found the whole place fascinating with all the nooks and crannies filled of wonderful old things- and I mean stuffed.

I've long been a believer that the internet is just as full of treasure troves but, admittedly, find myself on the same seven or eight sites all of the time. So, as it isn't actually one I frequent too often and the kids at school rave on about it, I've decided that this Pathe archive going up on YouTube must have some creative inspiration in it.

It seems it is a pathway to a by-gone era. A chance to see from the comfort of your armchair what life was like in the the early part of the last century, without having to sit through the dodgy sky channels and adverts.

It can consume hours of your time just the same though, so I've picked out five videos that may just be that kick of inspiration you were looking for today. Hope you enjoy.

With Eve At Blackpool (1926)

10,000 Guides and Scouts... (1930)

1890s Traffic Scenes

New Paint for Blackpool Tower (1926)

The Champions (1931)

Thanks for reading,

S.

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From the silence.

This weekend, football grounds across the country have fallen silent to mark the anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster.
On the car radio today, I listened to the names of all 96 supporters being read out before the Liverpool game and found myself, in the middle of Tesco car park with tears across my cheeks.
It is an emotive thing football. It brings entire communities out in uproar and drives hard divides between rival towns yet, once a year, all that tribal behaviour is put aside as we look back and remember the 96 fallen supporters.
Every year, I try to write some kind of poem about the event. Things that move me on the news and continue to move me for so many years later, I feel deserve to have poems written about them. Every year though, I fail at writing something I am happy with. I'm conscious that I have no real right to the subject matter other than the fact I'm a football fan and so, every year I move aside, leaving it to someone who can better capture the emotion of it all.
This year though, marks 25 years since the disaster and finally, after a huge wave of public support, things have started to move in the right direction- that is peace for the families and importantly, justice for the 96.
With all this in mind, and with the inquest getting under way then- I've decided to post my effort from this year. It clearly needs some sharpening up but, given that I've spent the last week trying to work out how to read Hamlet's soliloquy for an upcoming event- I've simply not had the clarity of mind to tackle such weighty tweaks.

Thanks for reading, and here's (enjoy is the wrong word) the poem.


A Warrington Inquiry

Has finally come around it seems
the slurs and poisons of two dozen years
the anguish. All the lies.
It is a mere dream that truth will out
So much evidence has little clout
Due to testiments from undrunk yobs
All suited still to uniform jobs -
(some writing for The Sun).
But hold this inquest- it is due
Not for us, not for them but for people who
Could have easily been in that Leppings End
If their team had made it happen.
If we'd put our passion there that day
The news would hone in on our family ways
We'd be freshly slurred and left in a haze
The terror. The bloody carnage.
But a warzone this was not- no way
Two teams the country loved watch play
In a neutral ground for their own safety
Just to watch it gives me shivers.
It's emotion running up my spine
from my deepest guts through my heart to mind
Every time- the tears well in my eyes
So, yes, justice must be seen.
Because every week I support my team
And whether in red, bright blue or green
It seems everyone's feeling the same.
There's no reason for it. No fan blame.
Whispered, cold faced decisions with no-ones name
Those on duty there daren't recall that game
When their memories differ from statements.
This is not just law its protection rackets
It's a cover up that had Margaret flapping
It's a bloody disgrace that they've still not cracked it
This is England's public shame.
We've had twenty five years of hard nosed scandal
Honest folk pursued as vandals,
Hooligans, thieving drunken
Animals. It just simply wasn't true.
For them and their loved ones, memorial's due
There's a plinth in Trafalgar Square would do
For they've fought and they've fought
and they've fought the law
They've put petitions in the PMs front door
They've been knocked back and hushed up and still
they've sought more. There's no number of red chiselled bricks
Can make up for the 96.
But in their name football understands
In the front rooms all across the land
Whether Cockney or Manc, whether Red or true Blue
Supporters seek truth. Only justice will do.

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The Family Business.

The family business.

A bastard child from Nick and Dave
Will rise one day to centre stage
For that's the way it works these days
In the land of hope and Tory.

Perhaps it's how it has always been
Just to be believed it must be seen
The takings still rife it would seem
Though that's another story.

But on the day he rises up
From a private school with swelling books
The kind where coke's the only cut
Don't just let him take the glory.

With his perfect health and his gleaming teeth
Vaccinations, check-ups twice a week
Spending fiddled cash on posh retreats
Life for him is hunky dory.

For it is true money makes worlds turn
Ensures salaries we'd never earn
In investment jobs with cash to burn
Before someone finds a jury.

Is that the world we live in now
With jobs for the boys that can milk the cow
There's a ladder, sure, but it stops somehow
Half way up the multi-storey.

So before he grows to take the stage
Let's remind his folks we're still enraged
It's more cuts and costs. It's have's, have not's
It's still us and them, Oh Lordy!

We must spread the message far and wide
That we'll not keep being taken for a ride
There's no growth here, it's just daily lies
In the land of hope and Tory.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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Not in fear but thanks. A mother's day poem.

Twelve years ago when I went in for an operation (the first and only one so far), I learnt the true meaning of fear. I gave the doctors and nurses in the hospital complete control over my life in going under the knife and, in doing so learnt that life is so much easier when there is someone behind you, making sure everything is going right. There are some people in life that it is hard to do without and, if my medicated state is anything to go by, today is a day of celebration for that very person. Yes, today is Mother's Day and anyone who speaks to my mother will know that as a hormonal teen, fresh from surgery, I came round from the anaesthetic crying out for my mum.
I've never been in the situation since and don't intend to start now but thinking back, I know it would have been a much harder night in hospital had I not had such a caring companion with me at the time. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a completely gushing mummy's boy and have always been more than capable of doing things on my own but, in the times of need, there is always one person a boy can rely on to sort things out and so today, on Mother's Day and after my unscheduled visitation this morning, I've written a poem for those women all around the country (nay, globe) that do such a tireless job in bringing up the men and women of the world. The ones we can rely on from the darkest hour to the brightest moment. Mums, we love you and so today, it feels more appropriate to write in thanks than it does in fear. After all, would anyone choose to live in a world without mothers.

With thanks

For drying every child's tears
For putting them back on the bike
For quashing the financial fears
For keeping on the lights
For loving deep within the womb
Til the day their face grows old
For being there when women leave
For clothing against the cold
For feeding them relentlessly
For showing us just how to fend
For the times when boys feel so alone
For being there right to the end
For teaching us right and loving
Just the same when we get it wrong
For showing young men how to care
For always carrying on
For teaching us just how to live
For the guidance we could all do with
For giving every drop of milk
It is possible to give
For cradling each infant
For teaching them how to read
For each essential lesson in life
For living without greed
For the days when things are helpless
For strength when worlds fall apart
Thank you, just for being you
And for building the young man's heart.

Thanks for reading. And mum, I love you.
S.

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