"latchkey" poems
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.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
The nuclear family died.
We are a generation raised by our mothers
Absent fathers
Broken families with weak men
Lost souls and hungry ghosts
Violently propelled into the shadows
of our parent’s failures.
Paralyzed with an inability
to escape our latchkey childhood.
Broken at the core
Attempting to collect the pieces
Maintaining relationships
Unsure of what happiness should look like.
We are obsessed with our own careers
Feeling a need to conquer life
Never knowing what is enough
or what it will take to satiate our desires.
A generation of excess
Self-goals
Singular experiences
Half-hearted triumphs
and unwavering self-defenses.
I refuse this new paradigm
Refuse to believe love is a burnt out city
Dilapidated and abandoned
Desperate and alone.
I will not become the archetype of my generation
Devoid of hope
Broken
Listless and stagnant.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 11:17 AM UTC
The ghosts of our past haunt us
They dwell deep within
They are called regret, guilt, failure, and secrets
Our childhood was traumatic
We were preyed upon
when we really could have used some prayers
We were both victims and monsters
We were latchkey kids with major attitude
My eldest sister was left in charge but
she was just a kid herself
Kids with nothing else to do but find trouble
or is it that trouble will always
find kids with nothing else to do
Things happened that should
have never happened but they did
and my sister blames herself for this
She actually thinks she is being punished
with cancer for all of her mistakes.
I keep telling her she is wrong that bad things
happen to good people all the time.
That the past is just that it is in the past
We were just kids who made some mistakes
Everyone makes mistakes but we have to learn
To forgive ourselves
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 11:54 PM UTC
We are the product of a failed generation,
Residue of our parents latchkey degradation.
They wonder why the youth are quick to die,
But can't look the truth directly in the eye.
They deny the fact, saying we turned out alright.
Downing another Xanax to avoid the urge to fight.
Complaining that drug use is destroying the kids.
Ignoring the irony with the bliss under their lids.
We're out of control, they're out of excuses.
Not willing to conform to what the propaganda produces.
An image we've produced, of danger and fear.
Not knowing what impending generation draws near.
But not lost on us, is the ability to care.
Believing everyone should have to play fair.
Finding common ground is what our age does best.
And that trait shall remain when our past dies with the rest.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
Meshiach
When Meshiach comes, what will she see?
When Meshiach comes, who will he be?
Will she see us waiting, wanting, writhing?
Aching, forsaking, wanton dying?
Will he be judging, nudging, vengeful, mad?
Hateful, cold, disappointed, sad?
Will she see us forgetful and himself forgiveful?
Will we recognize her face, and him our grace?
Will she see children trying their hardest?
Will we see a father home late from his job?
He she see hands reinforcing shoulders,
quivering with each woeful sob
siblings caring for each other
Latchkey kids with snacks did steal
To stave off hunger as they await
Parent’s arrival and evening meal
The ancient books tell us, for peace and holiness to strive
For it is only then that Meshiach will arrive.
We are left to ask, “if we can soothe our sore,
Then please tell us what, we need Meshiach for?”
Perhaps it is when we cease to fight
And all the conditions are perfect and rite
And the need for Meshiach has ceased to be
That it shall be discovered that Meshiach is WE.
5.17.16
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
I can't seem to catch a break
My luck is marred by misfortune
I pass the dance squads grooving to tunes coming out of their ghetto blaster
Shaved ice and snow cones
Party foul!
Lamps busted get an adhesive
They went sightseeing
Dabbling in the art of hiking
More or less wandering
It may sound off putting to some
He is a delightful chap
He's good with wingnuts and transistors
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls
Cut up the buckwheat
For an incomparable meal
Empty out the ashtrays and spittoons
The epilogues of habits
Solve improper fractions
You got nothing else better to do
Recite the silicone soliloquy
Fritter away the votes for the popularity contest
Because you've spoken your mind
Here comes The Pony Express
Here I come looking disheveled
We're all onions, peel back the layers and look for yourself
Play it by ear
We can hear you panting
The lazy work horse
With a hostile mentality
And portentous attitude
Go alphabetize the tiles in the bathroom
"Crime is common, logic is rare"
But she has defied that statement
When she waltzed in, and looked for the emergency exits
And found a sense of humor amongst her latchkey misery and love life tragedies
As the clueless boys on blue try to fill their quota
And the ones in deep thought assess situations
While putting lipstick on pigs in a blanket
During the inspection of a chalk line ****** scene
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
You had the children
So you are responsible.
Make your weak excuses;
Character is discernible.
We can look at behavior
Of even a grown adult
To see bad parenting
And what is the result.
A child must have approval
And some loving discipline
To prepare them for the quirks
Of this tricky life they’re in.
They must believe they can
Grow up wise and succeed.
Along with love and discipline
Approval is also a need.
We can’t let television
And hired baby sitters be
The be-all of their rearing.
They all have to learn to see
Their parents really love them
And they have parental respect.
This message cannot arrive
If they are raised by neglect.
If they learn nothing of heritage
And their own family pride
What message can they convey
When they are alone outside?
Will they learn only to care
For themselves and what the get?
After all, there won’t be much of
Family life for them to forget.
And for those of you who fear
Your child won’t think you a buddy
That is not what the kid needs.
He can get that from anybody.
And he or she will because
They never will have learned
That life offers far too many
Bridges selfishness can burn.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
A hiss as pressurized fuel escapes as a gas,
Fumes escaping into the atmosphere.
The crackling of steel scraping on flint,
The cacophony of sparks following,
A fountain of brilliant orange light.
The ignition point is a dark blue,
As one of the sparks finally ignite the billowing fumes,
Spreading almost instantly,
Eating up the latchkey mixture of oxygen and fuel,
Produced in such a violent reaction was...
a singular light
Its flickering warmth
Dancing across the winds as they pass nearby.
The heat deflects off cold steel,
And soon a change was being made.
The Frontman took forth the Elixir,
The gift of the very helpful spider,
Providing him a way to save that which had been lost?
The Frontman looked at the Elixir,
Multicolored & unintelligible patterns flashing through the post mortem aqua vitae.
The Frontman drove the cure into his body,
Hoping to fill the long bleeding wound in his heart,
Hoping he could just speak to them again.
Too late to realize that the Elixir was gilded,
That the game had been rigged from the start,
The flashing covering up the milky white venom,
And the cure?
A nail in the coffin.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
So it stays unsupervised,
while the dealer is away
and haters stake to play the game.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
Templeton was privy to this poets inner sanctum , the soft voice
of reason in the black hallways of the minds 'Netherworld' .. The keeper
of the latchkey for a castle better left undisturbed , the feline equivalent
to Sandburg , Freud and Nietzsche .. The ear for many a spoken word awarded the benefit of paper and latter day reflection .. A noble 'Mouser of the Highest Order ... RIP Sir Templeton !
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
What goes up will come in for a landing
The belligerent crash
I'm done trying
For the cushion of wheels spun in a coast to grace
There's too much doing
Every push has me slithering
Through the spittle of lies
Spurting from vicariously indignant mouths
In their search for how hard to work to work less
To help just enough
My naive and belatedly terminated youth
I blame you
More than the latchkey existence
Left to me to **** the boredem with hope
In spite
The breakdown anti-hero prays
For a time everything is a fire in the positive
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
What you need is a bit of
tough Northern Grit and
an accent to match.
I am
the latchkey kid,the lad went bad, a
cad about town,but
even grit wears down,wears away and
Northern grit becomes a bit of dust
just as I did.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
She is the ember, glowing amber in the ebony.
The promise of warmth, of home.
The air of her lingers on the pillow.
I want to hold it somehow.
Memory won't be enough.
I need a to stop time’s ever cruel hands,
to find the marrow and hold fast.
These ghosts dwell in my mind,
promising every sorrow.
Merely faceless shadows of childhood fears.
Latchkey kids will forever wear their
shoestring chains of being alone.
She returns with the ruffle of the sheets,
banishes the banshees to some distant land.
It will be days before they can return.
I take in her scent and smile at the knowing of it,
for now I have my Queen to gaze upon
transfixed in eros.
The heart’s fire
keeps the demons away.
She is holy,
mystic without knowing what she is,
only closing her doves eyes again,
only trying to find her dream again.
What do queens dream of
as fools gaze in awestruck wonder?
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
Lucky charms with all the marshmallows picked out-
picture this:
rainbows and leprechauns
smiles full of gold teeth
angles on the ground with chipped nail polish
on call but for the discounted prayers
the poor neighborhoods
the not entirely righteous
demons of gasoline
guardians of the latchkey kids
I meet angels all the time
they put their wings on my lungs,
fly my breath away
There aren't any marshmallows left
guess I'll have to make my own luck.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
There's a warrior Robin, I do
not remember, I would, I do
remember lines
from movies,
from long ago, seems, I'm something of a latchkey kid,
first generation with television,
however, with TV allusions, legal as Donne.
and I got Bub, in My Three Sons, old, with all my wits,
and more, older and wiser, I say to my friends, yada,
you know, you know,
that's a burden in itself. All wrapped up for Christmas,
what a gift,
the pain, all worth the whole, total pain involved
in growing old and otherwise, in terms considered
magic,
as magic is an art, to tell a truth once, that
is easy,
twice, not cliché, you know, the cultural humor,
bher with us,
we exist,
voices, in the head, the fullness, si, the godhead,
embodied, did
that happen to you is a different question than
did that not happen to you, you comprehend, you
get
it, getting is, being is, and getting, being gotten, is.
Essential. Al re al ized. Simple enough, not, too,
Sublime,
seems asking too much, a million lines, you read,
this is flowing, funny, dialogos dialectic, neither
mean much dia, means through, piercing, passing
logos is just all we ever think or ask, before we think to.
Lectic, lecture. Elect to ask a friend, I dial my AI,
hey, I wanna be a gazzilionaire,
and your my phoney friend, AL
laughs, misspells itself in untter actual- ize on TV,
people believe, AI Got the answer, feed me
old Jeopardy questions, topped with Melvin Bragg,
and his guests
at BBC 4, In Our Time, the whole trip… with these folks,
and we never knew we knew such things,
gifts to all our children, learn to not have enemies,
really, let them have their hate. We won,
our bits past.
Fini. For now.
And that was live from the Jeopardy Memory Awards,
live from the Del Webb Sun City near you, digitally.
Oct 14, 2022
Oct 14, 2022 at 1:03 AM UTC