Best Carers Poems
It’s one thing to be senile
and lie in your own drool.
It’s another to be President
and be that droolin’ fool.
So ask yourself, America,
of all the President’s men…
who was runnin’ the country
signin’ with Joe’s autopen?
Note: To those who have eyes it was obvious that Sleepy Joe wasn’t just sleepy but in cognitive decline before he was even elected President by supposedly receiving 80 million plus votes. He wasn’t fit to run a lemonade stand but the media convinced you he was on top of his game lol. Joe wasn’t physically or mentally up to the job and so his Democratic masters and media overlords set about carrying out the great subterfuge that he was in charge. They stage managed every event and choreographed his every utterance until he inevitably went off script and his handlers (carers) had to shut him down.
So the next time some loony tune tells you that Elon Musk has too much power for an unelected member of Congress just remember the White House for four years under grifter Joe Biden was run by unelected bureaucrats. Yep, the country was ruled by President Autopen. Let that sink in.
If I had 10 wishes
I would use them this way
Homes for the homeless
So they will have somewhere to stay
Supply food to the hungry
Where constant sun hits the land.
They also need water
Because their soil is all sand.
To the countries at war
I send them peace.
Cos to live by the gun
Is not at all nice.
To the barren countries
With no birdsong to hear,
I send them music
To help bring them some cheer
A wish to say many thanks
To the carers that care.
So people can stay at home
Find their independence there.
Wish for love for the sad ones
So their hearts will be raised
A hug for the sufferers
So their pain will be eased
To the poets on poetrysoup
I give them the fame
Of people seeing their poems
People knowing your name.
The last wish if you don't mind
I will keep for myself
So I can ask God
Please don't let me be left on the shelf.
Patrick O’Flanagan’s covert shenanigans
Make people ask where he gets to at night
There’s a perception that Patrick O’Flanagan
Visits a door with a glowing red light
What people don’t know about Patrick O’Flanagan
Is he has only one goal
Each night at ten to ten, visits his gran again
She does a dance with a pole
Old Ma O’Flanagan dances for Stan and Ben
Over in County Kildare
The nurses and carers all turn a blind eye
As Stan sticks his pension ‘down there’
Pat’s her announcer, he's also her bouncer
He keeps them old fellas in check
Old Ben can get frisky and that’s a bit risky
Unless he desires a sore neck
These is the rules says Patrick O’Flanagan
That shrivelled todger of yours
Grandma will make that old thing come awake again
And you place hard cash down her drawers
But Ben said those wrinkles don’t pep up our winkles
We only watch her to rehearse
For what we might see on the CCTV
When you nip out back with that nurse
[Wrote this during Covid in a ‘Ring a ring a roses’ frame
of mind. Wasn’t sure what archaic rules were in place around
the world, so sat on it. Basically… in England, ‘other people’
were ‘death on legs’. This may or may not sound amusing
but it’s pretty much how it was… laugh ye not!]
———*———
Keep your grandma distant for theres ‘nineteen’ around
If she dies don’t watch somebody put her in the ground
If it's short, feel lucky for you may get up and walk
If it's long the reaper’s raven may decide to squark
Air holes aren't at liberty when it goes here and there
Mister, it ain't normal to go breathing everywhere
Should you see me coming take a breath and amble on
And don’t you dare release it till I’m quite a long way gone
Cough cough - too much wheezing
Sniff sniff - most displeasing
Croak croak - time for bed, Sir
Till you’re dead or better
Grandma’s in the shadow of the steeple, yeah
Grandma’s with the other people resting, there
I wonder if they put her in clean underwear
I wonder if she wonders if we just don’t care
Grandma’s in the shadow of the steeple, yeah
I wonder if they took the time to do her hair
Maybe I could ask the ones who took her there
But they’re not taking visitor’s from anywhere
Cough cough - too much wheezing
Sniff sniff - most displeasing
Croak croak - time for bed, Sir
Till you’re dead or better
Grandma’s in the shadow of the steeple, yeah
Nearby, carers sporting masks and safety wear
Cannot stand too close; the law says, ‘Don’t you dare!’
She stands alone to watch them bury grandpa there.
Cough cough - too much wheezing
Sniff sniff - most displeasing
Croak croak - time for bed, Sir
Till you’re dead or better
Time’s dark veil floats slowly to Earth
As people of twilight wait for rebirth
A species is stirring, about to take charge
The men of the gloom, dark workers at large
Moonlit toil revealed by the morn
Papers now printed, babies now born
Cities scrubbed clean by fastidious hordes
Nocturnal writers put thoughts into words
Samaritans listen to sad people crying
The carers attend to the sick and the dying
Harvesters counting their catch from the sea
A jailer considers a recidivist’s plea
Men of letters with addresses unknown
Those of the air, many miles have been flown
A glow in the sky tells of morning’s first light
It’s the end of the day for the creatures of night
>Although I love writing, I would also like my books to sell. Then I can grant my wife her wishes and buy her a house by the sea. And if there is enough in the kitty one for me. I never miss a chance of free publicity. Last year our local BBC Radio Station, had an open day. I was raising funds in a small way for their charity of the year Suffolk Family Carers, So I was given a ticket by the nice lady on reception. Lots of local celebrities were there and me. Tractor Boy is football spokesman.
Have you met tractor boy?
I have and him perhaps did annoy.
I criticised them men in blue.
Well it's something, controversial to do.
Was because I'm a writer see.
Wanted some free publicity.
But when him I did meet.
He was sitting, not on his feet..
Was on a certain radio station open day.
The name I'm not allowed to say.
As when on their Facebook page did write.
They struck me off, they did one night.
Was only in a light-hearted way.
I mentioned my Smarty dog's I say.
Alright they spoke, both night and day.
Usually agreeing with what I did say.
But now my laptop's sick and away.
At the menders now I say.
So I don't worry night or day.
About that page, where I have no say.
I can get on with my Smarty book.
But at my files, when I did look.
I see I finished his latest book.
Oh this poem was about Tractor Boy.
I used his name, just as a ploy.
Just so you would read, about Smarty.
And his author, blinking me.
I'll try a short poem.
Having a tiring day.
Come on hands, knees and toes.
As upstairs I climb with those.
When day ends and I retire.
Where can I find new ones to hire?
As when that final step I take.
Make my weary way to bed.
I wish it was a stairless house.
A bungalow and not a house.
I know I used the house word twice.
Both the same reason, not poetically nice.
But if a bungalow I had got.
My hands, knees and toes, knackered, would be not.
I know that last line, sounded not right.
But was how I felt, is that alright?
But as I climb those stairs each night.
A bungalow, would serve me right.<
Form:
Is it not time yet to end this food bank life
And desperate youth killing each others with a knife
Short of support, help and education
Short of understanding it's not that complicated
They don't don't see equality in this society
What people see is the have and have nots
What poorer sections of society see is how much more
Some of the more fortunate have got
Paying footballers tens of thousands every week
Yet carers, nurses and doctors and public workers
Are down on their knees hoping food banks will supply their needs
Meanwhile tax evasion is still rife
Ignored by a government who have shares in each slice
MP's and ministers as corrupt as the corporation bosses at the top
Zero hour contracts to keep people down
While those at the top do many jobs
For an obscene wage for working only a few hours and few days
This is how society plays it's game
Ensuring the poor lose and the rich gain
Causing division, hate and blame
Creating classes instead of equality and unity
This is sign of a government pathetically failing
People living on the street in a so called advanced society
Is a sign of failing and a lack of compassion
And is a form of neglect and cruelty
Which the government dies nothing about
Because it treats people lower than them brutally
And hope seems to to go by with such futility
In the knowledge that nothing will ever change
Because we don't do enough to bring this about so on us
I guess that's where the shame lays.
My future happiness depended upon school,
They’re understanding of religious older parents,
Them constraining them with supervision,
So that I could have autonomy in my garments.
I mean, my parents let me wear what I liked,
But were unspeakably forceful poignantly,
Regarding who was going to dress and shower me:
Women, not men who could interact with me perfectly.
I wasn’t asking for all male carers,
Just one or two out of maybe five,
And I even offered to employ male nurses,
Rather than just anybody alive.
But my mum was disgusted at my suggestion,
Said it turned her stomach and made her ill,
Posited that I was not in my right mind,
Said that I made her queasy and gave her a chill.
The school’s social services seemed traditional,
Just like their toilet facilities, old and outdated;
The social worker had white, permed curly hair,
And so for parent disputes you could be slated.
So I never got the help I required and needed,
For my first care package at Glasgow University,
So I suffered from rejection, shortness and selfishness,
From my carers who were supposed to offer identity.
The wardens made it better for me every day,
Reprimanded them for disrespect and impoliteness,
But I never even imagined that voluntary carers,
Could suffice for my own future astuteness.
It upset my whole life, the schools neglect and indifference,
When I think that living success could have been sorted out,
My personal dignity and freedom could have been secured,
With a bit of determination and secular, atheistic liberal clout.
School is really just about your future,
It claims it by its very definition,
And the whole child should be taken and loved,
Not just his or her abilities with cognition.
Americans, Algerians, Australian aborigines,
Corrupt leaders of the world involved in illegal activities.
Bloodthirsty bullies brazenly bombing bystanders,
Militaries full of corrupt army commanders.
Charities for children, carers in communities,
Third world countries deprived of equal opportunities.
Doctors, dentists, drugs, disability and depression,
An angry generation full of negative aggression.
Evil egotistic eejits entering elections,
Profiteering politicians with the right connections.
Foul mouthed fools fighting over fossil fuels,
Crooked government clowns creating their own rules.
Greedy gangs gambling, goons glamorising globalisation,
A sad and unfair planet, full of frustration.
History of horrific holocausts, hate crimes, hard times,
Skull and bones, secret societies, illuminati hand signs.
Isolation, intimidation, immigration, inaccurate information,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki still suffer from radiation.
Judge and jury, jam-packed jail cells,
Relentless rebels not doing it for the medals.
Kalashnikov culture, killers keep killing,
The reality of climate change is extremely chilling.
Lame loud mouthed liars living in luxury,
Corrupt politicians should be in custody.
Microchips, machine guns, military madness in the Middle East,
The rich get richer while homelessness continues to increase.
NASA, NATO, new world order, negative nonsense,
Celebrating Columbus Day, do they have any conscience?
Outrageous organisations occupying oil fields,
Double dealing leaders involved in shady deals.
Pitiful pessimists publishing pointless propaganda,
While aids and malaria increases in Uganda.
Quality over quantity or quantity over quality,
An overused phrase that’s used too commonly.
Radicals rallying, ready for revolution,
Air, water, soil and radioactive pollution.
Sick, sadistic sinners selfishly selling slaves,
Fredrick Douglass must be turning in his grave.
Terrible terrorists taking over territories,
Religious beliefs still creating enemies.
Unconscious unkind useless United Nations,
CNN plus Fox News equals bias news stations.
Various victims viciously victimised,
Deadly missiles falling from the skies.
Wars, weapons, whistles blowers on the World Wide Web,
While others sell their souls just to become a celeb.
If i could retake my life to bake again,
I’d say exactly where, what and when,
To my family and fundamentalist church,
To those with importance as a crutch.
I’d take that offer of life and health,
By taking that clinic of great wealth;
Carers set out all just for hurt, torn me,
Who could never openly climb the tree.
I would just decide to take that blow,
Which my society could directly throw,
If the police couldn’t constrain my dad,
If the social work couldn’t stop the gad.
If the doctor couldn’t prohibit my parents,
From their motorway journeys and vents,
When they wanted to visit me at Uni,
Every month, which was not of beauty.
To accept that rehab right and fair,
To become functional to toot and blair,
Would’ve been against their beliefs,
‘Cos they wished for me Christian motifs.
But that clinic appointment firmly offered,
As Hereward College would’ve proffered,
The ability to leave my parents straight,
To cold shoulder ‘em with my atheist gait.
So I’d change that, that day at college,
When an honest answer i didn’t manage,
To the question of whether or not i did wish,
To see the doctor, for a needed clinic swish.
My parental guardian would’ve agreed,
To that rehab, possibly, ‘cos she did heed,
That normal script of life and its doors,
Which opened to me any path on my shores.
She told me i could do just as i pleased,
And life any life i wished to, she greased;
She was fighting on my side, in my corner,
For my dignity, happiness and honour.
There's two of me, but only one of you,
So can I please use your hands to see me through?
As my invisible person in a group of five or more,
Having no mandate to boast, control or score.
Will you watch me multipy whilst I thrive?
And question that rude, domineering carers' hive,
Where the bossy claim to know and be in control,
To see them leave to steer their own precious bowl?
Oh care manager! Will you let me define?
My invisible person, without my family line?
'Cos she is my motion and my engine of ablutions,
By which I drive my ambitions, with intentions.
I think I achieved a lot of what I desired,
But failed at my best physical aspiration,
Only dressing myself for ten days admired,
Because I couldn’t overcome agitation.
My parents came over all the way in the car,
Scoffed and scoffed at me, got me foul looks,
Because they knew that I could cold shoulder,
And become credible in my atheistic hooks.
However, I am happy everyday in knowing,
That I attained normality, my real condition,
Having been given a male OT for controlling,
My spasms, having to that person a relation.
Also, I think my mum didn’t want the blame,
For failing with me first time when I was three,
‘Cos she claimed it was my personality, lame,
Not hers, and her faith healing posits definitely.
So when I tried hard with my doctor when 20,
At university, after forty-minutes of OT time,
When he happily became my desired male OT,
And I dressed myself, I then had a normal line.
But I reverted to my disabled self upon looks,
From my parents after ten days and exploded,
A volcano came up right inside of me, no nooks,
So that was that, and I spasmed again defeated.
But I have made most of the friends I imagined,
Related to people with the same mind and heart,
Had good times up the pup and on crawls destined,
Answered questions in tutorials and took part.
But I was isolated cold by my parents for my poetry,
As a teen when I only had my poems on computer,
When I only showed them to friends, carers, gentry,
To acquire the care and get the respect perambulator.
So I am happy now to be in an atheist anthology,
With a few of my poems published for all to read,
At Waterstones as well as in ebook technology,
About Stephen Hawking, my hero of good creed.
I was a highwayman, a mercenary,
For my own moral fibre and future happiness,
But they interfaced me with religion and tradition,
Which offset my deep contentedness.
They had a different crux from me,
Which upset my balance and control,
Made me think that I was lost,
In a world with no death toll.
Pluralistic teachers and carers,
Make for broad minded, accepting kids,
Not dismissive scaremonger’s,
Of those with people values and bids.
God may be a concept in our society,
But he’s a people conjecture benign;
Your projection makes a difference,
Gives the outcast and deacon the sign.
School should not be certified,
By religion’s insipid breath and touch,
But should be monitored for the exclusion,
Of minorities with no god as such.
Why was my whole special school life,
An interpretation of nature and school?
A philosophical contemplation and analysis,
A freeway inquiry into the education tool.
Because the god concept was lain out,
On the household table, delicately spread,
I was sharp at social phenomenon,
Even as a primary child was not off my head.
When I journeyed down the corridors,
Slowly, because of my disability,
I was more often than not on my own,
‘Cos the others would show off their mobility.
So I thought about the politics,
Of the special school and our integration right,
Our need of ramps and disabled toilets,
The importance of everybody’s mindset height.
I classed the whole organisational structure as wrong,
For using the carers as playtime supervisors,
‘Cos in my old nursery school the teachers contravened,
In any tit-for-tat playground misdemeanours.
The teachers knew us in the classroom,
So adjudicated fairly and with respect,
Were able to administer justice,
Wherever there was a point of regret.
The carers were just not on my level,
And you had to do what they said,
Which overshadowed my whole experience,
Which made me much see red.
It was believed that the carers had a light on,
Because they scribed for us in maths,
But your profession level sets your reception,
Of high-flyers’ stares and laughs.
I mean, I didn’t ever laugh at them,
For their low rank and position,
But that just meant they never put me with,
My parents speech and religion.
But I considered myself determined philosophically,
Not in the free-will line of thought camp,
And just needed a man, board or committee,
To rejuvenate myself and amp.
So I often spoke with the school doctor,
The boss of the cliques and staff,
But the other pupils resented it,
Laughing at my physical prospects, chaff.
When your life does not go right,
Insist, if you can, on calling the shots,
Make appointments with the gods,
And beam with importance watts.
I knew my ancestry and my dad was a joiner,
But verged on disowning my mum for labour,
Not married in history yet throbbing with spark,
Love, truth, kindness fibered the gelled dark.
A stunner - intelligent, muscular but sensitive,
The royal in me saw the people as plaintiff,
As steering the vile lark of determining troughs,
In a grass-roots democracy to nullify the toffs.
Prolific at speeches, education never lacked,
Peeking as child into the ear in discern I jacked,
I knew nothing was unproven, cleanliness won,
Joules inside quenched the human sown son.
In the health profession I beamed, overcame, won,
Differences waged exacted to desecrate the sum -
Poor, minority, stealthy and dragon ignored asunder,
No equality known to hook the solid, base shelter.
Mobile, but wherever I tread met haters and lovers,
Pranced about suckered by vulgar ruling bearers;
Taught children life and followers’ carers’ quick,
Stead ahead hailed by the people as their wick.
Freedom held my blink until shown as the trait -
Real by weight for the sick to crop myself as bait.
Therefore human aim, space, time shouted ball,
‘Cos the individual is right, by the pinnacle, wall.
My twelve friends accepted my way and my mind,
Chose to love crook, crank or by altruism behind,
Meant rear - banned and ashore, but fully sentient,
No restorative, candid deeds to strike ambivalent.
People glued came to see me - the Nile drawn,
Dealt troubles without ways n’ routes to spawn;
Yet state and common folks both, themselves,
Killed me for a movement shooting with shelves.
But those many who loved me would never forget,
Forged sail by the integral identity never truly set:
They said afterwards that my substance, way, holds,
It’s life that affords me, not the shined, bold folds.
There was a court case and everything, a slot,
When they asked if I was a god, king, mad, a shot:
Dumb. Bitter I’d gone and cut short, they said I’d live,
Within them as their memory as the cultural give.
My existence is not a point - your location, for always:
It’s not belief in me that matters but it's your sways;
Your life is important and it's your existence that calls,
MLK, Lincoln, Walker ball for the sentient, rugged stalls.
Who am I?