A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay.
There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, a police constable fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours, we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.
In the city's streets
Cars bought with loans-
Second-hand,third-hand models,
Number two cars
Soared in number.
Parkings sprawled into
The hearts of the roads.
E- rickshaw halt
Blocking the paths.
Women vegetable vendors
Occupy the footpaths.
Traffic police are busy
Qualling quarrels between
Auto rickshaw drivers
And woman vendors.
Police constable lurk
For bribes in the shadows.
The goverment and people
Go their ways often
Ignoring the rules.
A chaotic dance
For all to see.
This is the plight
Of my city.
(Depended on a local newspaper in writting this poem)
RIP Police Constable Keith Palmer 2017.
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
Who shall we bury today?
Who has been taken away?
Not me yet I’m pleased to say.
So I can write these words today!
As we mourn loved ones lost.
Or friends we knew, in days gone past.
Lost to us but not high above!
Where innocents go to be loved.
Cry not more tears, I beg of you.
Remember me as you should do.
The last time you were full of glee.
Remember that time you spent with me.
We mourn a special man today.
Killed on duty policing I say.
Policing outside our country’s Parliament.
Unarmed on duty in these days of torment.
In heaven, he will surely take his place.
Head held high, with no disgrace.
So when we all pass Saint Peter’s gate.
Don’t be surprised to see his face.
Of course off-duty he will not be.
Saint Peter’s gate is so busy.
Yet all who queue to enter there.
Cause no trouble I do declare.
So when we finally do die.
Shake his hand, will you and I.
For he did not die in vain!
At Saint Peter’s gate he is on duty again.
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