My lambs wool jumper.

My merciless mind goes traipsing through my time bank of bad memories.
Other people's bad management, misuses from my past .
Coming from nowhere. Coming from everywhere.
The memories just keep on coming .
My brothers . My mother . My father . And my sister.
Not a nice memory . Not a nice word form me.
Egregious individuals. And a devastating pack .

Three letters came one school morning.
I was six and my brothers a little older
The postman posted three  brown envelopes
All a little weighty .
With a little bit of money .
We all three got a sixpence.
We all three got a letter.
So unexpected. A complete surprise!
The excitement of a letter.
The two older boys got theirs from God .
They were good boys .
Mine came from the devil .
I was a bad boy .
I was a humphy backit wee nyaff .
In writing . From the devil .

But thought I  was a lovely boy .
Big brown eyes brown hair and dimples .
I never felt bad .
I never sought danger or conflict.
But I was .
In the middle of a battlefield.
Theirs .

You are a bad boy . I am a good boy .
You are being a sook . I am being a good boy .
You always want attention. I am an ill boy.
You always show us up . I am a funny boy .
You are stupid and lazy . You are trying to break this boy .

There I was as their swords flew and I battled their rages.
In my armour.
Made from my grandmothers soft wool jumper .

So soft and gentle and protective .
She let me choose the soft lambs wool.
It wasn't jaggy .
It didn't irritate.
It  wasn’t abrasive.
And she made up the cost .
With every stitch .
She stitched with love .
With love for me .
Her boy!

The battle rages on inside .
The shell shocked boy now a man .
Still wrapped in the warmth of his gran.
And her protective lambs wool jumper.

I will not plug in, you fools -
you may dazzle, tempt and cajole
with high tech-cessories,
interactive goggles, voice activated,
touchscreen detachment-inducers

But I will smugly refuse.

Because the information you impart,
while instantly comprehensive,
is flawed.
I will hear-see-smell my way
through this beautiful life,
truly connected
and weaving through the cloud-heads
with impunity.

Until -

composing a poem
to explain my superiority
I stumble
and break my ankle
on a jaggy branch
which moments before
a rabbit
unfettered by language
noted
and bounced effortlessly over
before merging
with the quick green undergrowth.

Perhaps 't was a  fah-tah mawr-gah-nah]
from nord; why your barret leaned out
of the dome's open window; moi mani
Tapping the Sir maine above whiskers.

Years ago I said to a bright boy: I'm
totally broken...and he laughed at
my phrasings; whilst his brother
skateddressed up in brits posh
uniform up hill, with frozen
knees, jaggy at downhill
Awaiting toasts, tea and
A headful of read of delightful SF

Sadly, I was born free to poverty
yet enslaved to many things.
I was raised right in the wrong place
So I planned my escape from poverty.

Gladly I liberated myself and my future,
empowered by the sheer will to survive.
I refused to accept the story of my birth,
So I sojourned into the unknown.

I reached beyond the very limits
that poverty placed before me.
I spoke power to self and jumped,
Not knowing if the parachute would work.

Oh, how sweet the fruits of freedom,
How free the paths I scouted for me.
Though jaggy but I know every pothole,
every stump in case I have to crawl back.

IvanBrookspoetry©️
4.25.2019

This poem will say nothing.
"Clouds snowed in the yard,"
and I record it here,
for reasons unknown even to myself.
The clouds have wine-dark pelts,
but that’s nothing new: skies are hard
to find new lines about. Poets fear
the cliché, try to enjamb around it – won’t help.
What is the jaggy cumulus mouthing
in the upper distance? Coagulating lard,
the snow meets salt, goes gray. Look up, peer
into that distance: skullish hills melt,
discolor into the hue of bruise or welt,
as if even the earth self-flagellates, regards
this day with self-loathing. I’ll change gears:
turned skyward like a telescope,
this poem said nothing.