This is the first time you’ve ever talked to me after 17 years. So a resounding “fuck you” is probably in order.
2. You calling me buddy, calling me son, calling me in general pisses me off so much I don’t think you understand.
3. Yes you’re in prison, but why in the hell would I wanna see you there? I can’t punch you while you’re in prison.
4. You say you look like Jim Morrison, which really grinds my gears because I used to like Jim Morrison.
5. You giggled, saying that you needed to stay out of trouble, that’s ironic, I was raised to believe you were trouble. Like if I opened a dictionary, the definition would clearly read: “ Trouble: Your Dad”
6. I’ve written countless letters, dauntlessly imagined speaking to you, but it isn’t true until you are in front of me. I’m...Paralyzed as though the world has utterly managed to flip.
7. Hearing your voice already disgusts me
8. I don’t think you understand the amount of venom i’ve had spit into my veins, the amount of toxin, the evolution and evaporation I’ve undergone.
9. I’m not a mans man, maybe you can’t accept that.
10. I didn’t say much, but now I wish i had, and I think perhaps if I had tried, the message wouldn't be able to escape my mouth, like a woodpecker your existence poked at my brain, picked me apart, and...I love you dad...

My car
had been
drizzled
in honey
coloured
leaves
during the
night.

My son
and I
made a
spectacle
of how
the gold
fluttered
off into
the wind,
like a
hundred
monarch
butterflies
through
grey
streets.

I tilt
the rear
view mirror,
waiting for
lights to
change.

His soft,
buttery face
reflected
back at
me.

I wonder
how it's
possible
that such
a small
person
has the
power
to halt
the sand
through an
hourglass,
to awaken
sunflowers
by the
moon,
to derive
nectar
from a
stone.

What other
name
is there
for a
person
of such
power
than that
of a bird
which
arises
from its
own
ashes.

We were window fixers
my father and I
fitted windows
into spaces
in large buildings.

At this time
we fixed windows
into a small prison
for young offenders
outside London.  

My father had a plan
where the windows
had to go.

I helped him lift
and get the frames
in place
and I held them
while he drilled holes
and screwed them
in place.

Other workers
were there
labourers
chippies
and sparkies
and radios played
all day long
from some area
or other.

I had heard
Marion sing
with a big band
the night before
a blonde dame
with a voice
like silver.

I sang in my head
the songs she sang.

My father stopped
for a cigarette.

I swept up the dust
from the drilled holes
looking out the bars
at the world beyond.

Some young kids
would be locked up here
some day
not thinking
of who fixed
the windows
shut up tight
and always closed.

FATHER AND SON WINDOW FIXING 1965

“Son,
Bite your nails and make them rough like the burliness set beside you.
Don’t let tears fall like streaked sweat along the fabric of your skin
And speaking of your skin,
Let it dry;
Dry it with the blood of your heart so that men will nod and boys will bow to your feet,
The same way a curtain sways at the touch of strong wind
Let your strong limbs, your embedded masculinity rise within
And roar.
Take down all the boys and rise
Like a man.
Let your hands clash
Like a man.
Let your emotions die and your body live
Like a man.

Stop laying your hands on your hips while you speak.
Stop allowing your razor to cut strands off your legs.
A real man has hair,
Hair that flows like strings across the frame of your limbs
And your sides,
The space between your thighs
And speaking of which,
Let your emotions flow inside a woman for her to love you.
Love a woman like the woman she is,
And be a man like the man you are.
But certainly,
Most importantly,
Act. Like a man.

Show her what’s between your legs
And love what’s between hers.
She won’t refuse
And she won’t cut back.

She loves men.
She only loves men.
She is a girl,
And she’ll only love you if you act like a man.
You must act like a man.
You must dress like a man.
Strip off the layers of feminine odor
Take off that necklace,
Take out that mindset
Undress from that dress of indecisiveness
And appreciate what I gave you.
Clean up those cosmetics.
Clean up your act.
Quit quietly cooking that head of yours
Into the land of ridiculousness.
Change what those demons have created
And act. Like a man.”

But father,
What is a man.
Is a man someone who differs from those with different heads.
Is a man someone who keeps his hair short but his ego long.
Is a man someone who dwells in their own glory but refuses to acknowledge the worth of others.
Is a man tall?
Is a man short?
Is a man big?
Is a man small?
Is that a man who walks the streets in pursuit,
A cigarette dangling from his dead fingers.
Is that a man who feels the soft skin of a flower
Yet too ignorant and too lazy to care for it
So they pluck her while she’s still pretty
Then when bored, leave her to dry in the midst of a desert.
Is that a man who dares call a woman prude upon refusal
Yet easy when she accepts.
Is that a man who lingers on his own masculinity,
Entrapped in his bodily scent of hormones
Yet too ignorant to recognize the life he could have
If, just if,
He gave a look into the reflection of the water
Just to see himself for once.
Is that a man who makes false claims
Yet lives in complete hypocrisy.
Is that a man who has the nerve to defend lost causes when a woman speaks the truth?
Then I am not a man.
I am not a man.
I never was.

I never was confined in the stereotype you set aside for me,
Nor was a piece in the patriarchy
That was once built with honor
Now wrecked with the tomb of lies that all who were the norm,
Remain the norm,
And stay the norm,
Holding power over all for their own benefit.

I never was a man,
Never like a man,
And never will be a man.

If a man is all you told me to be,
If a man is what all you claim,
If a man is what you took from your father
And gave to your own,
Then I am not that man.

They weren’t demons.
They were me.

JΛΧδΡ⑧Z Apr 8

The heat is coming
  That summer flare
Behind the curtains  
Of a red, orange, extraordinaire  
Tinting hairs flaxen & tan
Ample bosoms
Bodies,
Apples & pear
Peaches juicing in the golden sun
Sweating on your lips from the sunbeams tongue
The heat has come
Melting streets like the desert sand
Sunrays drip into bikini's & glands
Human sponges
Dry and soak
Sucking salt and saline
Upon carbons nose
In the heat of the sun
We burn
To exist  
Like a slow lava
Arsonist
We yearn for the son
Our anesthesiologist
We are baptized in the sun
For the cold is done
Summertime!
Heat she comes!

Beau Scorgie Apr 8

i watch
as little things
become big things.

little things
others might discard.

tiny hands
place wooden eggs
inside empty play dough cups
all in a row.
mummy which ice cream you like?
I smile before answering,
the flower and vitamin c one please
okay good he says.
i place a beeswax crayon
inside tiny hands
in exchange for
my ice cream.

i watch
as he drops
tiny, special things
inside a tiny bag.
a very hungry caterpillar bag.

a wooden tool,
a waterlemon jigsaw piece,
tiny plastic spoon
and empty tic tac boxes.
so many tic tac boxes.

i regret that
i am an impatient woman
and some days forget the beauty
in these little things.

i watch
as he takes sweet breaths
with eyes closed,
through cupid bow lips.
i am reminded
these are not the little things,
but the big things.

if there was one thing,
one big thing,
i could bless him with,
it would be that
he may never
lose his eye
for life's little things
too long.

Terry Collett Apr 6

Having put George to bed
and after making sure
he was asleep
Polly goes to the adjoining room
where she has the bed
which was once
set aside for guests.

She closes the door
and looks around the room.

It is the best room
she has ever stayed in
better by far
than the room
in the attic
she once shared
with the other maid Susie.

There it was cold
and she had to share
the bed with Susie
who spent a good part
of the night hugging her.

Now she could
sleep in a bed
all by herself
and a bed
comfortable and warm.

She wishes she could share
George's bed as she used to
when he came home
on leave from the War
but now since his return
mentally broken
she can only watch
as he struggles
with his demons
and fears and sights seen.

But if he hadn't been
so attached to her
and imagined she
was his wife
she would still be
in the double bed
with Susie
up in the attic.

She undresses
and puts on
the nightgown
and climbs into bed alone.

She hugs the pillow
and wishes George was there
kissing her
and making love to her
as he used to do
in those stolen nights.

George asleep
in his own bed
sees frightful
and deadly
wartime sights.

A MAID AND HER EMPOYER'S SON IN 1917.
Beau Scorgie Apr 4

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint Parisian cafe.
I only have to think about carrying coffees
and baguettes
and they pay me for it.
It's the cheapest therapy I've had.

I've come to know some of the regulars.
Some days I wish
to tell them I love them
and I don't quite know why.
I suspect they remind me
in some part of myself,
or how I wish to be.

An almost elderly lady
always comes alone.
Her hair still retains some of her blonde youth.
She orders two very weak flat whites
and sits for hours,
writing letters to distant loves
and reads the paper.
I clear her cup
and she smiles
with both her lips and her eyes.
She makes you feel like your job
means something more than it probably does.
I bring her a second coffee,
a very weak flat white.

In the afternoons
a couple comes in for coffee.
She is quiet,
the artistic type,
and wears their son in a sling.
A sweet little thing with cherubic cheeks.
The father is a darling man
with a softness many men resist.
I watch the way his eyes sparkle
when he tells me of his sons milestones.
I make an effort to see them smile,
bring them water on hot days
or just talk.
But sometimes I leave them be,
watch them from a far,
and let myself be swept up in their love,
before they leave.

My Saturdays belong
to a quaint French cafe
with dark timber floors
and French antiques.
I haven't quite mastered the art of conversation
but I'm adept in the science of smiling
and that's enough to get me by
for now.

Sean Scribbles Mar 31

The power of the mind is not eternal
It is not fixed, but it is fickle and it will unwind in due time

But for the betterment of others
For the expression of the self
And for all things good, most honest, pure and kind

For these things my son develop the power of your mind
That way your body, heart and head may align

One day
MeanAileen Mar 26

Where are you going
my little one...
my precious son?
Why are you taking
my baby from me?

Close my eyes
and you're two...
Close my eyes
and you're four...
Close my eyes
and you're walking
right out of the door.

Where are you going
my little one...
my precious son?
You just keep growing
too quickly for me.

Close my eyes
and you're eight...
Close my eyes
and you're ten...
Close my eyes
and I just want
to hold you again.

Where are you going
my little one...
my precious son?
You've no way of knowing
how proud you make me.

Close my eyes
you're in school...
Close my eyes
and you're grown...
Close my eyes
and you're a father
precious son of your own.

This is more of a lullaby then poem. I used to sing it to my son when he was a lil guy. He'll be 21 next month!!! Where does the time go?!
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