A poodle lived in her shadow,
it was not ill-treated, just ignored,
its matted form
wandered around the house
looking to be noticed.
The living room
was littered with her underwear,
discarded bras, panties, garters and negligee.
I had no idea
why these things all came to rest here,
scattered around her like that.
I was an occasional pal of her son.
Once she fed a pink baby
from her own white flesh
as if not even noticing us boys.
The soft upholstery of the sittee
settled around her
proclaiming her sovereign presence.
The poodle hesitated to enter the room,
knowing, as we did,
we would never be part of her kingdom.
The lost class
I was watching a program called “Vera” when I recalling
I once I lived in the northwest of England.
What I remember best was the greyness of the place.
A council estate for the poor and working-class
Which often is the same.
Young skulking men with nothing to do their eyes told
me they had given up this was their life.
Young girls dress for dance hoping to get married
For love and a sittee and on the list for housing, but to do this
They had to be pregnant with one of the young men
in the street.
There are no flowers here and, a few gardens are a dumping place
for prams and broken toys.
They were not educated the system responsible does not care
To give the young a proper education, they are cannon fodder anyway.
A generation dumped before they were born.
Education for all should be free, mandatory a duty
Only then will roses grow and beauty not vandalized by those
Who has lost respect, and for those whose meaning of life meant nothing?
The Sittee River
Tumbling down from the magnificent Maya Mountains,
The rabid Sittee River rushed headlong,
Over-flooding its banks and the giant mangroves
On its long journey to the open Caribbean Sea.
Once forest green, the River’s color was now a dirty brown.
Hundreds of floating logs all rafted and chained together
Like creeping caterpillars lined up on a dead leaf.
These lumbering mahogany logs, once majestic living trees
Would be transformed mostly into polished furniture.
Attention captured by this rambling rapidly roving River,
As a child I sat at my window wondering,
What other dark secrets did this wandering River hold?
Could it reveal the life of the ancient Mayas, other civilizations, or more?
I may never know.
Today the old beautiful River is clear and bitingly cold,
Keenly listening –
Vigilantly watching -
Waiting for new adventures to unfold!
Note:
As a child, I grew up in the Sittee River Village in Central America, and this is
one of my earliest memories of the River.