10,000 POEMS – Posted freshly most days
It was first called ‘Welfare’ by a proud state –
no more ideal – we are now told to berate –
Ever less likely to be paid to me –
freelance with Parkinson’s at fifty-three –
Welfare – not there – services sold –
uprooting our ill – our poor – our old –
Any vacuum is filled – so it is said –
but they’ll suffocate welfare until it’s dead –
One nation built high on the backs of the old –
we should pay more in tax so welfare’s not sold
Sunlight momentarily exploded
from behind fleet clouds –
then was gone [sleet-showered] &
a return to mourn-shift-shrouds
Seven days before [without dropped ice]
our team was crushed
in a one-sided match –
so in training our stick-kids are bellowed at –
– On to the ball
– Off the ball
– Down the line
– Mark-him – mark-him
Their coach never mellows/
Bunched fathers & mothers
[now soaked] are hardly talking
as long minutes dribble
to that longed end-of-session
Murmurs in our wet-stood section –
– Is it ten, does he know?
Eventually – after extra time
their coach lets them go
We parents are first in the cars –
door-slammed – venting at nature/
Our dripping-kids stare at the sky
& wish for release from failure
Friday, I think, I partied late in the night,
throwing rookies with kids, to their delight:
A crafted toss of farmers’ munitions,
as parents blew cancer cloud emissions:
One screeched at her child, ‘Stand well back!’
(a danger she glimpsed through her cig-smoke-stack).
I showed a lad how to light the short fuse,
quick fingers gripped the lit-fizzing tube.
That rookie he tossed into uncut grass,
flame-furious complaint pre-empt of blast:
Exploded jump-thump of pressure on chest,
the rook scarer’s life, an explosion, no less.
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 