No Warm Arms
By Alfie Shoyger
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When the gang vermin, thrashing hard,
had left me fit for the scrap-yard
and the guard outside Ward Three
rebuked my swearword-peppered thrum
of “Let’s just shoot the thick chav scum”,
no warm arms comforted me.
Empty-futured and stood in line,
no choice but stack a shelf or sign,
no benign help from the tree
of justice that states nothing harms
my kind, we’re all Sirs and Madames,
no warm arms comforted me.
At fifty-nine my father croaked.
He’d boozed, industrially smoked
and provoked not one degree
of my thanks, and as he transformed,
entombed, into a flaming swarm,
no warm arms comforted me.
Each year and then each year again
all my love gurgles down a drain,
disdained and serving no needs.
But I won’t hold just any hand.
I’ll be the horse to no-one’s brand.
And in my land – hatred breeds.
From “Disoccidented” by Alfie Shoyger:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disoccidented-Alfie-Shoyger/dp/1999922859
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Comments
A well written moving poem.
A well written moving poem. One to be read out loud most definitely.
Jenny.
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I am guessing this is a
I am guessing this is a lament form? You move so easily in any form as if you are just riding air currents
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