"shtum" poems
A Sunday and she will not eat
cabbage brew
or the plethora of stale mush
stuffed within
her trusty rusty biscuit tin
even tea stained
and netted dishcloths wane
like fossil flies
on toffee streamers that were baptized
with gravey drips
of the Irish stew from her whitewashed crypt
and papal’s sprogg
plays housies with the dog
we keep shtum .
When threadbare ears are in the room
cull the conversation cull
Go Moe less scale, leather hull
until our hallowed family makes
familiar curiosity and lemon cakes
she’s broke down so give her a push
Maybe ninety two.
It’s Monday and she will not eat.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
that's how callously compassionate and vainly godly
humanity has become under the Oligarchy.
nice men and women of all five colours,
sitting around comfortably in alcoholic stupidity,
with their thumbs up their bums,
trying so hard to keep shtum,
about the undeniable fact that
they cant drum up a drop of ***
between them.
Seriously babbling religiously godly nonsense,
wreathed in smelly Tobacco smoke mimicking incense,
abandoning pretense at conscience,
hating empowering commonsense,
lacking all but nonsense.
with the mien of morticians
and the mendacious psychobabble of politicians
and the inspired madness of medical technicians
making badly placed cerebral incisions
and worst of all supporting
oligarchy inspired decisions.
About the "end of days and nights"
being put up for offers on the "free market".
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
I passed Enid's father
on the stairs
of the flats
gave him an icy glare
he was ******
so didn't care
he went down
and I went up
he was whistling
some song
I knew he was a prat
but what was wrong?
later that day
I met Enid
in the greengrocer shop
in Meadow Row
getting potatoes
and greens
for my mother
not to forget carrots
which I almost did
she came in the shop
in her faded red dress
her hair in a mess
red marks on her arm
one eye closing
as if half dozing
what did you want
young girlie?
the greengrocer
asked her
she gave him a list
and he sorted it out
I carried my bag
to the door
I saw your old man earlier
I said
gave him an icy glare
she looked at me
then at the carrots
orange and raw
then at the door
didn’t say anything
did you?
she asked
no I kept shtum
would have done
if I didn't think
he'd take it out
on you
I said
is this 3 pounds
of spuds?
the greengrocer asked
can't make out
the figure writ
she gazed
at the piece of paper
and said
yes 3 I think
and off he went
shoulders stooping
head bent
what happened
this time?
I asked
what did he do?
he said I slept in
too late or spoke
out of turn
Enid replied
belted me
thumped me
then I cried
the greengrocer
filled the small bag
she held
in her small hands
and took her coins
and gave her change
deep inside
a child wept
near to me
but out of range.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
The morning was
a mountain
that had to be
climbed because
it was there.
She wasn't going to let
the mountain conquer her.
The whiskey helped.
She sat through endless
early morning TV.
She wondered if one could die
of endless early morning TV.
The gone cold fried eggs
with the subbed out cigarette
in its centre
like a flying saucer
invaded her
sense of self
"Is this what I've
come to...?"
she asked a mirror.
The mirror kept shtum .
The plate smashed to smithereens
on the cinnamon coloured wall
leaving a satisfying stain
resembling Argentina
trailing down like a Rorschach test
of how she was
feeling.
Another whiskey wouldn't
hurt...would it?
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
CHASING ANGELS...FLEEING DEMONS
The morning was
a mountain
that had to be
climbed because
it was there.
She wasn't going to let
the mountain conquer her.
The whiskey helped.
She sat through endless
early morning TV.
She wondered if one could die
of endless early morning TV.
The gone cold fried eggs
with the subbed out cigarette
in its centre
like a flying saucer
invaded her
sense of self
"Is this what I've
come to...?"
she asked a mirror.
The mirror kept shtum .
The plate smashed to smithereens
on the cinnamon coloured wall
leaving a satisfying stain
resembling Argentina
trailing down like a Rorschach test
of how she was
feeling.
Another whiskey wouldn't
hurt...would it?
***
“Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains.”
― Jeffrey Rasley, Bringing Progress to Paradise: What I Got from Giving to a Mountain Village in Nepal
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 7:22 PM UTC
Mishmak grak tak
fak shzak clack nak GRSHAK
rage **** Fak
shnk klnm fm ttmmmn
flnm shtum
jandmmm
frustration f'n
mrrrrow cow, SHOUT
now wow you dare, OW
how why please no
stop why now go
I
want
peace
please
Stop with ease, I don't want angry
you
I want calm
you
There the same though aren't they?
pain.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC