Best Neighbourhoods Poems
A boy lines up plastic soldiers
In straight rows across his floor.
He knocks them down with callow ease
In a naive game of war.
Far across the deepest ocean,
In between rich, well-known places,
Little boys become those soldiers -
Grow hard lines upon their faces.
Guns weigh down their frail frames,
As they march in groups like drones;
Passing by jumbles of bodies -
Messy piles of flesh and bones.
One cries softly in the corner,
Another cannot bear the sound.
He takes the blunt side of his gun
And beats the other to the ground.
In the streets they pass right over
Mothers murdered, sisters raped,
Countless men whose limbs are broken,
But whose empty eyes still gape.
Narrow roads become red rivers,
Neighbourhoods go up in flames,
Backyards turn into cold graveyards -
Still they play this twisted game.
Far across the deepest ocean,
In the richest, well-known places,
Boys line up their plastic soldiers
With blind smiles upon their faces.
The words that follow are not so grand
Because of The Streets on our countries land
By day they are light, lived and free
As night fades they change you'll see
Community spirit grows and sprouts
As the evening draws, neighbourhoods ooze doubts
The person you seen hours before
Is not the person you will come to adore
Gangs pimps in a darkened craze
Can't stand the light in a living way
They need the shadows to hide their souls
To capture the innocent in their putrid folds
Prostituted girls, our sisters and nieces
Become use able pieces
Nephews and sons, given guns
Do a deed and become one
The slime that rule, cowards are they
Hire big boys to do their say
Taken in, by dollars and booze
Where once they were someone
What respect they lose
Why should the neighbourhood
Not be able to roam
In daylight or night
After all it's their home
The scum all around
Should disperse and flee
Out of The Streets
Of our towns and cities
If it's ever a road you have to go down
We should have the right to clear our town
Vigilante or law, what ever to be
Its our right
For The Streets to be free
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life.php
This world of ours is not always a good place
behind closed doors so many terrible things occur.
Hidden from plain sight some suffer endless torture
by the very ones who should love them the most.
Terrible things done sometimes in loves name
horrific beatings handed out, just for the sake of control.
Murders committed simply because one person will not share
killing so no-one else can take their supposed loved one away.
Children living in fear beaten and starved flinching at loud voices
creeping round like little mice hoping praying they are not noticed.
Gangs that bully and terrorise neighbourhoods while selling drugs
slashing up rival gangs purely for more territory to increase their strangle hold
to continue their evil crimes. Young girls and boys sold into sexual slavery,
victims each and everyone and all for profit. War torn countries
full of horrendous abuse, dead and injured cast aside like trash.
Yet for each who deals out these horrible crimes once they were
different, once they were loved. Can all be explained away by the fact
that they were taught by those that reared them in these horrific circumstances?
Or is it true that some were born monsters who enjoy other's pain and grief?
Practicing their craft on helpless victims as they grow up pulling wings of birds
slicing and dicing up beloved pets. Always attacking the weak and helpless.
Plain bullies that carry out their crimes in secret afraid to face those of strength.
One never really knows what goes on behind those closed doors. Yet when a
victim finally snaps and turns the tables oft times they are the ones our systems
punish and lock away behind bars while their tormentor is left free to continue
their rampage. Who I ask is the beast? Mankind surely deserves this name not animals.
"NEMESIS"
“Where do Angels go in their dreams?
They go where wolves go to catch foxes,
venturing forth out of small caged boxes
to the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods”
NEMESIS
is watching her
from his dreams
prowling soft Silver fur
hear his soft-wolf tread,
Nemesis has left his comfortable bed
he is onto her, he is tracking her Heavenly scent
She is Light Angel
spreading luminous wings
shining it all around,
she thinks of escaping
barefoot from this sullied ground;
her skin is cold to the touch,
no longer standing sentry
she's lost in the murky
Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods,
Black Tulips abound
Wolf is stalking her,
her scent makes him wild;
lurking, nearer, ever nearer
invading her dreams of better
neighbourhoods and childish things
simple and clearer, she is
spreading brand new wings to freedom,
away from Black Dogs in their prisons
those kicked out of Heaven,
barking their ignored plea bargains
of rushed stolen innocence, begging -
all of their pardons are lost, 'tis a given,
her hot angel tears turn to frost
Nemesis soft-footed paw,
back arching, he snarls, bares his fangs
then he grins, he's closer much closer
he can feel her in the skin under his fur,
he’s hunting Her down,
breathes his turgid breath
all over "The Lost",
the hidden creatures running quietly wild,
in the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods;
beckoning her, his low growl ever nearer,
ever never, his hot breath on the prowl
reaching out for her
he’s raging to roar -
in her sees his mirror
There are stories, she hears,
of a Wolf on the loose from his cage in
the Between-Hours of Lost Love Woods -
she forgets the real reason she came,
calmly brings her wings down by her side,
she continues to shine her light all around,
she can feel him
Burning hot breath on her neck,
he growls ever so softly, so clear in her ear,
“Don’t Run Sweet Thing, Don’t Run,
You are found, I am here.”
Black Tulips abound
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
For those absent.
1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKiI4RvEyDk
I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road
Which runs through Shepherds Bush
Like an artery,
And in the mid 1960s,
Served as one of the great centres
Of the London Mod movement,
But I was raised in relative gentility
In a ward of nearby South Acton
Whose vast council estate
Is surely the most formidable
Of the whole of West London.
Although my little suburb
Has since become
One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.
My first school was a kind of nursery
Held locally on a daily basis
At the private residence
Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,
And then aged 4 years old,
I joined the exclusive
Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,
Where I was soon to become bilingual
And almost every race and nationality
Under the sun was to be found
At the Lycee in those days...
And among those who went on to be good pals mine
Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,
Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.
While my first closest pals were Esther,
The vivacious daughter
Of a Norwegian character actor
And a beautiful Israeli dancer,
And Craig, an English kid like myself,
With whom I remain in contact to this day.
For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:
"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting
To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.
But at some stage, I became a problem child,
A disruptive influence in the class,
And a trouble maker in the streets,
An eccentric loon full of madcap fun
And half-deranged imaginativeness.
("Born on the Goldhawk Road" is a versified version of one much reproduced in various forms throughout my writings, although it bears little resemblance to its original, which first glimpsed the light of day in around 2002. It's undergone much modification since then, including the alteration of all names of people and places for the solemn purpose of privacy.)
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree
How bright and cheery there you be
Your twinkling lights so numerous
Your chocolate baubles humorous
I stand and stare, you’re standing there,
With golden tinsel everywhere
Your shining star, how bright you are
You travelled from so very far
These neighbourhoods which have no woods
We love our oriental goods
So have no fear, we’ll keep you near
Up in the loft until next year
So Christmas tree, O Christmas tree
Your box, I’ve taped up carefully
But what is this? I must be pissed
I’ve found a bauble that I’ve missed
Our neighbourhoods our prisons
Outside fear, death, street barons
Streetwar innocent souls deadens
Guns, daggers, stickers in dozens
Nothing to do but the others hate
In dark corners the weak predate
Beware of tempting bait
You may end up in a strait
Join a wicked gang
Have no feelings no pang
Just follow the yang
Drugs, girls, bang bang bang
Form:
Hidden within the deep recesses of the dark green forest.
Hidden from the world, cocooned within the tall green grass.
Hidden in the yellow summer sun amongst the moss.
Hidden from humanity.
Immersed deep within the sea of my soul.
Within my dark shadowy existence.
In this forlorn time of skyscrapers, celestial apartments
And bricky neighbourhoods.
Images of their inhumanity and indifference festers.
Scratching a hole in the thick walls of my existence.
Searching to see without in that narrow tunnel.
Hidden within the sanctuary of my resistance.
Less no one will see me, but I will see their hell.
Hidden as I am from their power in their bloated world.
I will see these mortal creatures in their daily dance of routine,
As they become weak in the eyes of God with their sin,
In their power struggles within their empty hollowness.
Of their vain power and nothingness.
While I stand, wait and observe their mortal combat,
In the field of useless commercial life and gabbled debate.
While I revel in the misfortunes of their lot in the lotto reel of life.
While I smile at their idiotic attempts to break their own wall of damnation.
As they burn in the fire of their own hell.
Created by them from the fiery passion of their own lust and greed
In their violence and godless self-rule.
In these days of wrath, fire and hell, I bury myself deep
Within the salvation of my own soul, at peace as I weep.
Amidst the chaos of their struggles,
Within the wheel of their own explosive release,
As I am released into the depth of the green forest,
So my soul can revel in the blue sea of peaceful caress.
The day will come soon
As our safety ceases to exist
Mans determination
In his killing persists
Street crime is rising
To feed the life of drugs
Many people are afraid
Of these sick cowardly thugs
Society needs to change
Addressed by the powers that be
The ones that have been elected
In trust, by you and me
We need to change the rules
Prison sentences need to be revised
If your prepared to deal in drugs
Twenty years looks good in my eyes
Then it comes to murder
Where many citizens, they fall
But their killers are alive in prison
Their breathing, their living through it all
The world has so much compassion
It's time to channel it's feelings
No forgiveness for these scum
Execution, watch their feelings reeling
Compassion has to have passion
For the right to get rid of the wrong
And just maybe one day it will happen
As the whole world sings the same song
The chances of this happening
As they are sworn into government places
They stand proud to ask for our votes
Once elected, they appear to have two faces
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life-2.php
High in the mountains
Of the Albertine Rift
In the cloud forests
Another of natures gifts
Mountain and lowland
In the place they call home
Close to the Virunga Volcanoes
In their indigenous roam
Silver-back, black-back
The boys of this race
Who marshal their group
In pride of their place
Poaching, encroaching
In their neighbourhoods
Isn't it about time
We left their woods
Endangered they are
Its time to relate
We are barely their servants
The real King of the primates
" This poem is for Deborah Herber, and her love of the Gorilla "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature3.php
Each holy man there is, is convinced he's better than the next,
as his right hand tightly clasps prayer beads, whilst he judges others with his left.
Piety the reason that he wakes up every day,
just to forget that only God can judge, even if someone is gay.
Whether devoted to the gospel or in submission to the Muslim holy book,
many of these zealots cannot be told apart from crooks.
Their lies are so often inspired by an agenda that remains hidden
amongst claims they will be forgiven for each slip, no matter how forbidden.
Living in the future, they are consumed with the afterlife,
but it is so convenient to forget the rules every time they take another wife.
These hypocrites misinterpret ancient words however they see fit,
when the truth holds no advantage from which they could somehow profit.
Wars have been fought over less than a few acres of land,
both sides convinced the blood was spilled as part of their God's plan.
Self-righteousness surrounds us, humanity has ceased to exist,
replaced by laws made by hateful pastors and religious nuts like Kim Davis or ISIS.
Who can say that religion has done less harm than good,
when it can be held responsible for divided neighbourhoods?
When practiced with humility, it can be a beautiful thing;
praised for the prosperity it brings, and turned to for guidance in times of suffering.
But more often than not, Ten Commandments are ignored whenever we commit seven deadly sins,
we are so conscious of all our imperfections but ignorant of our blessings.
False prophets preaching in the streets take advantage of our desperation for something to believe in;
the confidence with which they spread their ignorance is rarely seen as deceiving.
Mankind will only survive this state of emergency if we unlearn all that we know,
once we accept that religion hinders us more than it helps us grow.
There is nothing wrong with having a little faith,
if it inspires love and does not advocate messages filled with hate.
God has no religion. There is no more need for these unholy wars,
let us not be so insecure that any offense is one worth fighting for.
Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or Jew; there will always be power in numbers,
lest we forget that before our dogma divided us, we lived together as sisters and brothers.
We can’t make this up.
We can’t justify the tears.
We’ll struggle to ask for their forgiveness in our prayers.
We can’t hide away the doubt and the fears.
We’ve lost so many now.
They do not seem to care.
We’ve seen families ripped apart because the promised; ‘the promised’ was never even there.
Where do we stand?
Where do the dark thoughts go?
Where does the healing hand hide?
Where did the dignity, the empathy, the humility, the kindness of our nation go?
We’ve seen our neighbourhoods change.
Crime seems to be picking up the pace.
Rights removed from our lives because profit and power shine brighter than the children whose parents think xenophobia is ace!
Where will it lead?
What will it spark?
When will the sun shine on the ‘sunlit uplands’ forever in the dark.
Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies.
Truth and honesty do not politicians do.
They’ve taken us for fools.
Yes, that’s right…
me and you.
Moving from the short century to the dead century,
dead of passions and hopes,
of nerve-wracking expectations for a future of fiery suns
and of well-being, a palpable sign of progress.
A sign of history traversing obligatory passages
trampling over defenceless bodies and arousing pride
and faith in heroes, who unique in the world
ignore selfishness and contempt for truth.
They are great men whose mission is
the brightening of the gloomy horizon
and the support of curved backs
and the calloused, greasy hands of the workers.
They gather in smoky rooms,
with the air impregnated with carnal passions
distracting from the black soot
of factories and neighbourhoods.
A mission without a messiah,
of faith close to the soul purified
of every animal instinct. A warm embrace
of comrades, friends, queens with bare breasts
and weapons hidden under their skirts, ready for battle.
Is God dead and the heroes dead with them?
Narrative, storytelling, are the soul of the world.
They are mazes of thoughts
and feelings that create the outer world.
Narrative dictates meaning,
the heartfelt feeling of others' pain
and human stories.
Without narration there is neither pity nor illusion,
only an empty chase of banality
and self-pity.
Would this be the meaning of human evolution?
Raw life without a prism of light to deceive perception
and give meaning to the woody slag,
to the concrete shores,
and the dreams of those who dream of the future?
They are nature's gifts to us,
A sign of its benevolence,
Her hands have sown and nurtured them,
They are to beautify our landscape.
They are evidence of nature's dexterity,
She watches over them with keen interest,
They are in her embrace,
They sprout spreading out their blossomed boughs.
All around us, they abound,
In our neighbourhoods, they can be found,
There's an aura of hope around them,
Some have weathered unfavourable climes.
We have lightly esteemed them,
We have discarded them from our communities,
They are not prized by us
as they are by nature.
Let’s heed the clarion call,
Restore the fallen,
Let’s be change makers.
Let's be nature drivers.
March 18, 2023.
Pick - A - Title, Vol. 35 Poetry Contest,
Edward Ibe.
Bremerhaven
Bremerhaven, 1957 was a stunned town
Illegal bars and whorehouses for the many sailors
Who brought material to re- built the town
It was a summer and in bombed out neighbourhoods
There as accordion music
And patriotic songs from the war were sung
I was so young back then, and the whores spoilt me rotten
So many ships coming in they were busy and
Then there was the American base to service, but even
Then, at my tender age, I could not stop thinking
How efficient the Germans were they had lost but were
Strangely happy re- building the lost years, the war
Had cleaned their souls.