Shush brain,
let the regular, looped refrains drop,
seek a safe, blank space,
a place for quietude
and maize based snacks:
for the love of Pete
relax

Friday night fleeing from the scrum
like the last thing on our minds
are other people’s kids:
the outrageous, hysterical bashing we take
hour by hour as
we
just
try
while each successive boss quickly forgets front lines
and asks for ‘evidence’
of piling into the meat grinder

Then something tiny reminds
why we’re even here:
a flood of tears perhaps as dogs have died
or that kid who says “I’m a microwave
bzzzzzzzzz”
and despite our glowering frowns
we smile so hard we cry

When we met I was sure that a soul like yours wouldn't Hurt so much,
Train of hopes ruined,
Heart of Gold looking for kindness,
Now where that kindness?
May it be in a safe place,
May you be loved like you needed.

Heart of silence, when we met...
When we met I was sure...
You weren't one of those...
Now I hope I never see or hear of you again.

Not every superhero wears a mask
Some can only wear a smile
Showing that they understand another's problems
As they work to guide people out of the dark

Not every superhero has gadgets
Some of them wear bright vests
announcing to the world that help is on the way
as smoke and debris fills the air

Not every superhero wears a cape
Some of them wear surgical masks and gloves
Struggling every day to make a difference
against overwhelming odds

Not every superhero has superpowers
Most of them are ordinary people
that when the world was ending, stopped
and asked "How can I help?"

Edged laughter of teachers,
bone-tired from the joy-slog weeks passed,
speaks of an adult relief,
R and R for bruised hearts and knocked heads

Coming off the front line,
hard fought thought-inches precariously gained,
we sit in living room street cafes,
flowing vin du table,
inhaling rest like Gauloise

The distant classroom thud and rumble never fully fades,
echoed in sandbags of intelligence to be pored over
deciphered, summarised in triplicate,
for later summits

But it will wait

For now, we’ll catch a show, an eye,
maybe even a lie of peace,
for one duvet-warm morning

Soon, we’ll be back to inspecting boots,
buttons, buckles, sharpened pens ready,
waiting for the whistle

Their wisdom is old
and rooted in the earth
They teach the power of
silence
While we're too busy
talking
to listen to the lessons.

During my lifetime, teachers have been kings.
Mr. Ellison, with his football obsession, dared
declare the Father worse than der Führer.
Across the hall, Mr. Summerhayes gave us life
lessons, like adults have first names too.

Paul was next in line. A stoker of fiery debate –
he painted landscapes on political wings,
propaganda and the bluebirds of South Wales.
He tried his best but Pete pulled me aside
when depression began to blacken my mind.

Bigger steps made things more complex.
But he welcomed me back to his class,
always asked how my mother was doing,
embraced my erratic emails and career plans,
until we lost contact after his retirement party.

Now I write this poem from a pit of shame –
a decade on and my destiny remains lost.
Sometimes I meet royalty again in the shops.
My head is hung and my words are cut short.
I’ll never stop trying to be what you thought.