Sorry for Leap Frogging here, this is the second draft so I had to remove the old one. Big thank you to Alan Morrison. This is a response to his last entry. Thank - You. x

 

 Wimborne Road

 

 

             I ran along such a road once,

The Wimborne Road the track - a point to point

Racecourse jockeys use to please a crowd,

            The bets, illegal and legal too,

Depending on how the sly of hand

Deals in shadows as the sun bakes

A Sunday morning mass.

 

            The church down south is

A little different from the holy exploitation

Of our poor selves, but still I place my bet,

Gamble a Saturday or Friday night –

No point to point but a point of poverty

And cheers a plenty down the pub as clowns

Congregate a frown at numbers blighted.

 

Numbers blighted?

            Numbers street lamps in The North

Outwit in throngs the rows of Oak, and Spruce and Birch

And Beech, but still I’m reminiscing of the

Wimborne Road,

                        The only Birch I frequent

Now a hospital, a grave of memories and

Tragedies and symphony’s the angels

Cannot sing for tears.

 

            Persecution is a dire thing!

A dire thing that authority wields when

You voice of all the faults that ail,

Then it comes to be; that no-one seems

To want thine intellect roam free,

And alarmed I am by such wasted lives

In wastelands where the trees don’t grow,

            But bend to cajole a steady lamp,

For no-one is allowed voice pride.

 

            In the wind the trees move their shape,

Talk and pass on ephemeral tones of Good

Will to each and every lining

Sainted roads,

            Here, the concrete hides the many

Trunks and at night they in turn hide the many

Stars of Gods glorious universe of hope,

Not one round here, painted green.

 

            Sometimes in my own sad heart,

I paint a picture of The Lakes, The Countryside,

The rolling hills and green pastures of Dorset,

And Devon, and Cornwall, Hampshire

Wiltshire and Surrey, and if my heart

Seeks the wilderness of bleakness that

Conjures the self to pity the loss of self

Respect; I am painting The Pennine Way

Or even the Grampians or Three Peaks,

For the further North, the desolation of

Man can see the loneliness of poverty;

And the only riches are to be found

When stumbling across an ancient bird;

            Mating within the Heather to provide

Cover for his fragile soul.

 

            A Picture paints a thousand thoughts from

One, if within his honesty he has the talent to explore,

But if a picture wronged is painted once by a thousand

Hands,

            Then Here I Am,

Remoulding my features to provide

The scorn that never allows I be set free,

Just to suit their needs,

For if I am who I am,

It only allows the ridicule of those

Who would force I live amongst the lamp

Posts,

            And my face,

                        And my intellect

                                    And my heart,

Then becomes the concrete I abhor.

 

 

Michael J Waite 26^th June 2011.  0159hrs.

 

Thank You Alan. Big Respect to You!