Come my boy,
Sit down,
I’ll tell you about my time,
My time in my old town,
Which I hope is doing well,
I passed and left long ago,
Keeping the comedy alive,
For you see there was nothing grand about my time,
But it was a charming time,
A warm time,
All we had then were jokes,
All we had were our mountains,
Mountains full of pride,
Which stood so tall,

It was a charming time,
Difficult nonetheless,
For you see,
My beloved lost her mind,
And it was difficult for me,

From a Lawyer and Poet

Legality and poetry
are two different things
when you post a snap or poem
'tis yours,
yes
as time is recorded

but you also permit it
for sharing and commenting
see the guy coming
with cement behind
he will cement poetry
with legality
both will solidify into one bulk
so don't sulk

poetry is simple emotion
legal guys
work is to exploit
well up tears
so the jury may feel
how hard up may
one may have been

Windscale gardens are reading hot
below the high box chimney top
equipped the bomb to join
the race
Uranium oxide
saving face
and cesium too
strontium 90
particles spew

in 57' they stopped
the two
no more toxicity
too the blue

...

In cosy Western Camelot
(on humankind , another blot)
seems Aylan's been remembered, not.
The world forgot. The world forgot.

So now we have another sign.
Another icon for our time.
He's only five, concealed in grime.
He could be mine. He could be mine.

I watch him slowly wipe his brow
then stare, confused it seems, as how
his hands are dirty, bloodied now.
My head I bow. My head I bow.