"joneses" poems - Hello Poetry

A seventies child Born in Wales, one of the four Countries of The UK. I remember brown as the colour of the day. Fabric embossed wallpaper all the neighbours names, who married who, who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives, Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known) Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items. Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam (Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea. Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass. Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic but scratch the surface and a darker colour than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better. School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh School, taught and learnt the language denied to my Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there. Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what the neighbours say. Well, you all had the option. Dr Forbes FRCS Delivered babies buried men and women Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets. I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter) and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later. Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it. '74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say! More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung. The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles toast made with a toasting fork over the fire. No mines, no steel, no jobs. Picket lines, dole queues, women in work latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times. Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings Tory rule But, the fire in the dragon never went out and Tom Jones still sings his heart out. Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch nawr, dyma'ch tro.

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May 15, 2014

May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC

Camellia-japonica

70's Childhood in Wales.

A seventies child Born in Wales, one of the four Countries of The UK. I remember brown as the colour of the day. Fabric embossed wallpaper all the neighbours names, who married who, who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives, Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known) Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items. Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam (Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea. Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass. Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic but scratch the surface and a darker colour than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better. School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh School, taught and learnt the language denied to my Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there. Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what the neighbours say. Well, you all had the option. Dr Forbes FRCS Delivered babies buried men and women Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets. I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter) and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later. Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it. '74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say! More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung. The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles toast made with a toasting fork over the fire. No mines, no steel, no jobs. Picket lines, dole queues, women in work latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times. Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings Tory rule But, the fire in the dragon never went out and Tom Jones still sings his heart out. Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch nawr, dyma'ch tro.