Snow Is On The Rise Boys
Snow is on the rise boys,
Falling down again,
Dark’s the blood of politics,
Sprayed around the Bren.
Snow is on the rise boys,
Backward to the sky,
Young lives steel, but mettle bends,
As buddies start to die.
Snow is on the rise boys,
Trench foot plods his time,
Blown to smithereens dear,
On the Siegfried line.
Snow is on the rise boys,
Bellowing some thrill,
Never dreamt of Tumbledown,
Hopping up a hill.
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poem by Jerry Pike
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Are You Happy With It?
Are you happy with it?
I asked the smiling man,
his head nodding, so fast,
I could not catch his
Maddening eyes.
Are you happy with it?
I asked the sitting lady,
as she rocked squeakily,
paper-bagged bottle,
splashing down her drunken legs,
but I could not sharpen her blur.
Are you happy with it?
I asked the limping child,
its lop-sided neck,
angling the world to 45,
yet even there,
she only grinned
by degrees.
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poem by Jerry Pike
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Pretend
Looking down, it thought.
Past the body it was responsible for,
one leg raised, kicked out,
moving sharply, by slavish reaction.
And all the while the dream continued….
With robotic scanning,
feet waltzed, legs lumbered.
One eye for sense, another losing emotions,
down through an new old system,
shaken into stirring.
Armour plate gauntlets rattled,
bullet for bullet money spinners,
and the sky got lower.
Outside, hell or heaven churned,
depending on vista, or screen name,
water fell in streaming sheets
bucket by bucket.
Again the eyes took hold,
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poem by Jerry Pike
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These Aren't A Few Of My Favourite Things
Read to the tune of.......these are a few of my favourite things
Fat blokes with Volvos and beer bottle glasses,
people with promises spoke from their asses,
wild beasts that wander my garden in spring,
these aren’t a few of my favourite things.
Drivers with white sticks that won’t let your car in,
buggers with purses that don’t get a jar in,
baby on board signs and big heads that sing,
these aren’t a few of my favourite things.
Jobsworths with badges and slow council zombies,
bouncers with golf clubs hid under their Crombies.
Switchboards that juggle you round hyperspace,
press number four now or you’ll loose your place.
Bridge
When the sods write,
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poem by Jerry Pike
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A Life In The Day
A Life In The Day
Up before the pride sets in, darkness crawls and twists,
devils of the mind erupt, bind you by the wrists.
Feed them in the dead of night, watch the road, for life,
hum a song you’ve never heard, yet craft it with a knife.
Speak them human, bow their space, treat as crown and King,
multiply each passing fear, then let the mountains sing.
Try to keep what’s sane pretence, locked within your head,
argue sanity’s not real, fight for living’s thread.
Count those numbers, four, three, two, once upon a time,
Cinderella to the ball, staking out her crime,
all this place for fairy tales, whipped behind, back then,
wonder what inspires you now, cats and wine, not men.
Victim for a daytime scam, smile and wait and smile,
not quite sure the tanner’s dropped, on a crooked stile.
Normality is packed away, boxed inside the trap,
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poem by Jerry Pike
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