Street wishing

I wish I wish
I could catch my dreams
And touch the farthest stars
Not heard the sound of passing cars
My blankets used and torn
I share with cold midnight air
I do not know if I'm here or there
I just wish I could dream a dream
And just touch the nearest star

the dead man

Hello, tis I said the dead man from his bed as he raised his head
We all looked on, stunned, shocked, amazed and sort of dazed.
For this really dead man spoke
When he awoke.
Is it you? is it really you? his wife had cried
His son said dad they've read the will because they said you had died.
His doctor now wide awake said my god oh my god my mistake
And to think last night we had your wake.
Oh that's OK you had just another off day
Then a voice from the back of the room was heard to say
If you're not dead in that there bed
It means we were all wrong to sing the death march song
And killing you was a big mistake
Because in death and life you were a big big fake

Rivers run their course
Tides ebb and flow
Me, I just wonder what to do
With no particular place to go.
Tired sitting just waiting for
Who knows what to come
Heart beats loudly beat away
Who cares, who knows
Its just another day.
Frigging hell I'm wasting time
Sitting waiting on, what should be mine.
But as rivers run their course
Tides just ebb and flow
Here I am just sitting still
With no particular place to go

Evenings with myself

An evening in
No one sitting at my side
A time where tears and feeling guards are down
Relief from tired feet and thoughts
From wandering round my town.

Yet from myself I cannot hide
This stranger from deep inside
My aching head and heart
keep replacing views and news
And I can't tell them both apart.

Yet they are me
The man that's free
The man anew
The wanna be
That's me

Oh these evenings in with just myself
Leaves me feeling low and a little on the shelf
But I am who I am
Who I want to be
I am me.

Views from below

Alone am I.
Am I a lesser man?
it's just that sometimes I think I am
I am on the streets
I am living life but rough
No hope of change
Well, not real soon
I wonder why I have no silver spoon
But this is for now is my normality
What I'd like to know
Who stole my dreams?
Who stole the silver from my moon?

Am I normal?
Am I just an ordinairy girl?
Sometimes, well, most times I think I'm not
I've no home
No bed
No where to rest my head
I've only hopes and dreams of what could be
but for me right now.
Nothing is my reality.
Plus I'm me but not who I want to be.

Are we here or there?
Is this our normal permanent world?
Have our futures been preordained
Or are we a abnormal a little kind of strange?
Are there things we are not meant to see
Like sunlight in our eyes
The moon and stars to wish upon
Can someone truly say?
Our futures changed.

I was reading a book last night and suddenly found myself writing a short poem and this is it

The calling

I sit by a brook
With a sandwich and book
Brush a strand of my hair
Wipe a tear from my eye
Suddenly I ponder the question of why
Have I read something between the main lines?
Has something ignited?
Has something been drawn from my mind?
Has the echo of time swelled and become flowing
Have I suddenly become the one that's all knowing
As I sit by the brook with my thoughts a sandwich and book

I touch the void in sunlight hours
I stand alone in midday showers.
Yet I do not cry one single tear.
Because I am that man with inner fear.
I stand in midnights haze.
Remembering all my saddest days.
Yet with that warmth of sunlights soft caress.
Returns a certain glow of happiness.
Once again I see my days.
As misguided dormant plays.
For I am me the man that wants to be.

What Else Is New !

'Have you something for me?'

'Now why I give a bugger like you anything. Piss off you little piece of shit'

'Now that's no way to treat a long lost friend mate!'

'What "long lost friend?" You nicked my tellie the last time you were here, you wanker--get thee hence before I set Buster on your ass!'

'Hey! After all the trouble I went through to get this special little lot for you, one would think you would at least look at the goods'

'Ok--this had better be good'

'Well, I have this little bit of gear--purest stuff--straight off the boat'

The old bag lady

The old bag lady shouts and shouts
What's my name what's my name.
As if she were a child again
With all her wears of years gone by
Not one tear did she cry.
She just screamed and screamed
What's my name what's my name
Someone shouted
Oh no it's you again
Then she whispered
Yes it's me
It's really me
Not so young but yet I'm free
And I know that I am me
The old lady of number seventy three.

Boy it's tough

Boy it's tough to be quite normal on a rainy day.
Yet should you still should be smiling through the come what may.
For days are like a grain of sand.
That quickly slip from your hand.
Boy it's tough to be quite normal even on a sunny day
For people are just not friendly no matter what they say
life's too short a journey to make it on your own
And there is no big secret why you're spending a life time all alone.
Boy it's tough just to be quite normal
Boy it's tough just being you.

Love lost

I love you she whispered in my ears
Oh so many years ago
Then when love had died
We found it hard in letting go.

I hate the sight of you she screams and screams
But we still entwine our bodies each and every night
And when our child cries out in pain.
For him we become the perfect sane
Yet there's something still not right.

The child we thought would tie us both
Forever and a day
Love has lost it's lasting glow and we our the last to know
It is the child who has to pay

POORMAN’S STORIES

This town, this city
In which I’ve hidden with its secrets
The youth that time tried well to hide
Infected all with seeds of rage
To follow in fabled legend footsteps
Into the Poorman’s house of stories
To adorn another age
So many sad lost stories
So many to be told
With every street you enter
All that glitters should be gold
From rags to riches
The fairy tale
Come, come its urging call
In this town
This city you cannot fail
Along the way side
Luckless
A cast of many
But this story has grown old and stale
Turn back the clock
Life’s twists and turns are just the same
And Poorman’s stories are told again