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we're such a benevolent lot
we give the Welfare set
our hard won dough
they sit on their *****
and do not a thing
while we're out working
for a wage
but our kindnesses
are being exploited
by the dole collectors
those ***** mothers
having broods of kids
and we hand them
our toiling quids
those kids
should be supported
by their daddies
let them get a job
and become
responsible
for their sprog
the Welfare system
is getting plundered
every day
by those who won't
get out and earn their pay
how nice
our honey *** has been
taken for granted
and bled of its generosity
Terry Collett Jun 2015
Lizbeth finds
dinnertimes
a right chore

sitting there
at the oak
table with

her moody
mother there
facing her

her father
glum as hell
beside her

and Lizbeth
trying hard
to ignore

both of them
its beef stew
thick gravy

and drowned out
vegetables
you're quiet

Mother says
anything
wrong with you?

nothing's wrong
Lizbeth says
gazing at

the beef stew
you've a mood
I can tell

Mother says
if the girl
wants silence

why complain
Father says
I know her

and you don't
Mother says
to Hubby

Lizbeth stares
at Mother
I'm just on

nothing else
Lizbeth moans
on the rag

Auntie's come
sandwich week
THAT'S ENOUGH

Mother shouts
rattling
the windows

I won't have
you talking
like that here

at mealtimes
it's not nice
Lizbeth stares

at Father
as he mouths
the beef stew

in silence
did you know
Lizbeth says

that Tudor
King Henry
the 7ths

mother was
married at
12 years old

and had him
at 13
Mother sighs

your point is?
that's my age
she sprouted

her king sprog
at my age
Mother glares

at her child
with her dark
angry eyes

Lizbeth thinks
of Benny
pretending

he's upstairs
in her room
stark naked

all waiting
eat your stew
Mother says

no more talk
of those things
outside it's

countryside
fluttering
butterflies

a bird sings.
LIZBETH AND HER PARENTS A MEAL AND A ROW IN 1961
ShirleyB Jan 2016
The ugliest woman that ever was born
was called Margery Pilkington-Brown.
If a monkey was born half as ugly as that
they would certainly have it put down.

Her head was as bald as a billiard ball,
yet the hair on her chin was quite long.
For a girl to be cursed with a whiskery beard
was, in anyone’s thinking, quite wrong

Mrs Pilkington cried, “Nurse, please take it away.
It’s a miniature monster from hell.”
“Put a bag on its head,” said the nurse, with a wave,
“If you need a supply, ring the bell.”

So Mrs P stayed for a month and a day
‘Till they told her, quite firmly, to go.
The nurse sympathised with a rolling of eyes
as she packaged the Lady-Shave Pro.

“Oh, what a disgrace when they look at her face
and they see she’s a hideous brute?”
“We’ll give you a bag with a hole in the top.
You can hide her away in the boot.”

So Mrs P left with a feeling of dread
planning what she could do with the sprog.
She drove to a wood at the edge of the park
and left Margery under a log.

“That’s a terrible thing that you’re doing,” he growled.
Mrs P jumped a mile or two.
The Park-Keeper peered at the face in the bag.
“Can’t you find it a home at the zoo?”

Downhearted, she took little Margery home
to a cupboard, until it was night.
She couldn’t risk anyone catching a glance
of poor Margery’s face in the light.

When Mr P saw his new daughter he scowled,
“God Almighty, my dear, what is that?
Has it crawled from a stone in the corner of hell,
or been dragged from a hole by the cat?”

“It’s our baby, dear heart,” cried a hurt Mrs P,
in a trice, feeling rather endeared.
“She may not be nice, but she’s our flesh and blood
with my feet and your belly and beard.”

“Well, yes, I suppose with her seventeen toes
and a nose that could open a tin,
she is rather unique in a curious way
and we’re blessed that she isn’t a twin.

She’s ours, as you say. We can’t give her away
So she’ll stay as a Pilkington – Brown.
We’ll  give her a shave and a hat with a brim
And avoid going into the town.”
For Martin
Marolle  Oct 2015
Åbent vindue
Marolle Oct 2015
biler kører stærkt forbi ude på Ringvejen
barn cykler rundt og råber på et fremmed sprog
flere biler kører forbi
computertasterne siger de velkendte klik’s, når jeg skriver dette
barnet cykler frem og tilbage
jeg kan høre cykelhjulets tikken
der bremses hård op på cyklen
en motorcykel i det fjerne gasser op
og en bil kører forbi ude ved blokkens gade
et andet barn i det fjerne råber: ”Papa, papa…”
der er fuglesang af fuglearter jeg ikke kender
og efterårsvinden suser i de gule trækroner
der er fodtrin nedenfor mit vindue
tunge skridt der bliver slæbt hen ad jorden
trafikken står aldrig stille
der vil altid være lyde at høre

*(Marolle)
llcb  Jul 2018
døv
llcb Jul 2018
jeg har lyst til at fortælle dig hvilken idiot du er. spørge dig, hvad du havde tænkt dig. høre din forklaring, undskyldning, høre dig sige undskyld, men du ville ikke lytte ligeså selv som jeg. jeg ved ikke, hvordan det kan være at vi har så svært ved at forstå hinanden selvom vi taler det samme sprog. ingen af os taler i koder, men intet går ind. vi folder vores ører sammen med vores hænder hver gang vi åbner munden. jeg har været døv så længe nu at jeg er blevet stum. åbner ikke engang min mund for at tale til dig.
ungdomspoet Jan 2016
begyndte at græde i danskundervisningen idag
men det er da også uforsvarlig at en ung pige
med en depression på bagen og friske sår på håndledet
skal side og analysere digte der handler om selvmordsforsøg
og netop dét som *** går rundt og kæmper med
at hendes evne til at forstå disse digte bliver til en skrøbelighed
og denne helt samme skrøbelighed kommer nu til syne
for hele klassen og alt hendes arbejde for at virke glad
falder pludselig til jorden og *** føler sig gennemsigtig
som om at hendes langærmede bluse nu ikke er lang nok
til at skjule de lange sår på hendes håndled og de
er til offentligt skue og skaber frygt og rædsel
og alligevel sidder de bare dér og kigger med store øjne
som om *** er et fremmed dyr der taler følelsernes sprog
og det lyder som vulapyk i deres øre fordi de aldrig selv
har følt apatien
aldrig har indset at der ikke er noget
der er værd at leve for
llcb Nov 2014
Ivrighed efter indbegrebet af intelligens
bestræber de erhverv, som normalt var mænds

Vinter, forår, Sommer, efterår, endnu vinter
sprit, sprog, regression igennem sindets filter
Tid siver igennem som var det vand
men vand kommer igen, hvad tid jo ikke kan

Onomatepoetikon
hmmm... aflæses i sindets lektikon

Lidt for meget at nå
lidt for ekstremt at formå

Lidt for mange dage af de grå
lidt for få af de blå

Lidt for lange gange at begå
lidt for lidt søvn til at stå

-

Udmattelse er en del af at leve
Vil nogle dele?
jeg har vist fået det hele
Clindballe Apr 2015
Jeg kunne sige så meget men siger intet
Jeg sidder blot i stilhed og lader tårerne hviske ordene i et sprog som alle forstår
Jeg fylder mit værelse med planter så dødens tunge gassky fortæres
Men i mine lunger spreder den kvælende fornemmelse sig til mit hjerte
hvor den ligger omklamrende i blodbanens lune rander
Skrevet: 2. april - 2015

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