#lifepaths
“I used to be disgusted,
Now I just have to refuse
The allure of money and status.
Before, I could be happy just being me,
Saying “No” to anything that I didn’t need.
But now, she’s told me I’ve got to choose,
Between her and the life I want,
Must either be a corporate shill
A shallow, capitalist dilettante,
Or be myself, and lose her good will.
I am so close to saying “’goodbye’”
And testing her just to see,
If she really means what she says,
Or if she has fooled herself
As I did for so long.
Trying to be like big brother,
Upright, moral and honored (by some),
But something in him was lacking
“And as I saw through it,
I knew I did not have the nature
To pretend I was that grand
Or could sink that low
in hidden plots to undo those he envied.
I watched her in the dim light
Of a place where the punished toil
And I was consumed with hatred,
And a wish to set her free.
How can I save her from this charade,
This bourgeois masquerade?
When she notices my clumsy efforts,
she asks me what it is I want and I reply,
‘All I ask is to practice in my own style,
Colorful but honest, riding the edge”;
Her response is inscrutable but
She likes it when I con the corporate ******
And joins in with a new name and a sly smile,
We drink tequila and don’t pay,
Leave some loudmouth with the bill and
hedge our bets as we kiss in the evening breeze.
“Apparently, a kiss was more powerful
than me acting as an imitation drudge!
And a night in bed together satisfying enough
to draw her into my world.
I would show her little ways of breaking rules,
the cheat with no one noticing,
building up our own little universe,
rebelling against the system in subtle ways.
Oh! Those were golden days and I was happy.
Yet now, years later, she has gone far away,
perhaps for good, though I don’t see why.
When I call and ask, she will never say
what I can do to bring her back.
Granted, my life has turned around,
perhaps to something she dislikes,
but she leaves it for me to guess
whether it’s too flamboyant or just a mess.
Yet I refuse not to try so hard, hanging on the sound
of her cherished voice on the phone,
its flat, restrained notes telling me:
“You are alone”.
And still I love and hope.
Sharon Talbot
February 28, 2025
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 4:53 PM UTC
Where the Guns First Called
***
Orders lead me on.
A boy where shop lights flicker,
dreams stitched into dawn.
Fourteen, slight of frame,
boots too big in borrowed thought,
yet steady his aim.
Past butcher and bank,
familiar voices fade low—
the world tilts, half-known.
A door, plain and still.
“Army Careers” in quiet print,
yet loud with his will.
The sergeant looks through—
not at years, but something set,
a resolve half-new.
“Harrogate,” he says,
“Selection—see where you fit,
find the path you’ll take.”
A place yet unseen,
cold platforms and waiting trains,
northbound into change.
Measured step by step,
eyes judged, questions weighed in turn,
a boy tested clean.
Guns speak without voice,
distance, patience, iron breath—
the choice finds the boy.
Royal Artillery—
not glory, but weight and fire,
a calling of ground.
No turning of head,
no glance back to childhood’s street,
just forward instead.
Orders lead me on.
Roads I never thought to walk—
a life taking form.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:40 AM UTC