She was just a washerwoman but 'er kids was always fed,
An' she didn't have no 'usband 'cause the bugger 'e was dead,
So she shrugged off all the misery an' got stuck into work,
Earnin' pennies for 'er efforts tho' 'er duty's never shirked,
In due time 'er kids was older 'cause she was a mother true,
An' she never took no put downs from the likes of me and you,
Though she grafted like a good 'un there was always grub at home,
An' she'd kiss 'er kids goodnight before she went to bed alone,
All 'er neighbours saw 'er efforts an' they'd 'elp as best they could,
'Cause good people stick together just like all good people should,
Even though it was a struggle 'er kids made it into school,
'Cause she'd taught 'em all beforehand so's they wouldn't look a fool,
In the end she couldn't work no more 'cause old age held 'er back,
But them kids they all was good 'uns and they cut her lots of slack,
An' they cried for mother Nellie an' they repaid all 'er love,
Now she washes up in heaven lookin' down from up above,
Now the Good Lord loves a clean 'ouse an' 'e blessed those kids of 'ers,
An' in time they all was married to some very 'andsome sirs,
But old Nellie was remembered with 'er picture on the wall,
That Washerwoman Nellie was the greatest mum of all,
I heard this tale of long ago,
About a Cat from Idaho,
So miserable was this pet,
And in its way so firmly set,
So nothing that its owner tried,
Could cheer this baleful old feline,
And so one day in sunny June,
It's owner stirred it with a broom,
Hoping that some cheery mew,
Or playful purr just might ensue,
Alas this melancholic puss,
Ignored its owners jovial fuss,
And with an angry cursing spit,
It threw a vicious hissy-fit,
It's owner gasped at such affront,
And said "You're such a sullen cunt!"
But pardon me that's what he said,
Then locked his moggie in his shed,
And promptly called his parish priest,
To exorcise his vicious beast,
The priest was most concerned about,
His parish lest the news got out,
That someone's cat was so possessed,
He quickly donned his holy vest,
And drove as quickly as he could,
To sort our haunted cat out good,
The cat however couldn't care,
'Twas fast asleep just lying there,
It woke up quickly with a hiss,
To be roused from its dreamy bliss,
And feeling sorely put upon,
Did launch itself at Father John,
With all the venom it could muster,
It seized the Padre by his cloister,
Our dearest Father howled in pain,
As sullen cat did scratch again,
The padre took off down the street,
The cat gave chase and gnawed his feet,
And so it surely came to pass,
That Father John while at his Mass,
Did look so ashen and in pain,
The cat was never seen again.
She cries herself to sleep at night,
Her cardboard box tucked out of sight,
A house of sorts it keeps her dry,
And out of sight from passers by,
By day the chill wind blows again,
Yet still she asks the question 'When?'
But every night she falls asleep,
With tears rolling down her cheek,
And far away upon a hill,
Her infant daughter sleeps so still,
Born asleep and never cried,
So from the world her mother hides,
Again the faces turn away,
Another cardboard house today,
Another vagrant to avoid,
Another heart that's been destroyed,
A cup of soup, a slice of bread,
Then off she goes to make her bed,
She sleeps this night under the skies,
As best she can, despite her cries,
And far away upon a hill,
Her daughter lies so cold and still,
Born asleep, yet still so loved,
And fostered by the Lord above,
How can a needle that wanted to be found,
Stick me so bad I just had to hang around,
Wounded sure but still not laid to rest,
Just keep rhyming with the best of the rest,
Maybe I always learned my lessons hard,
But always did like to play that last card,
So don't mind me if I cheer you from afar,
Or sit and dream upon that passing star,
Cryptic clues won't pay my dues so all I say,
Is that I don't often fall to sleep in bales of hay,
But I did once and it was just so profound,
I realised I was a needle wanting to be found.
My worst nightmare is violence. No question.
Violence begins as a conversation normally, what then follows is an argument, after that comes shouting, after shouting comes yelling, after yelling comes verbal abuse, after verbal abuse comes violence.
Slapping and pushing at first, it quickly escalates into clenched fists and punching, then blood appears, and tempers flare, and reason goes out of the window, and then weapons appear.
Before long someone is injured.
Violence, oh did I grow up with it all and boy, do I recognise violence in its infancy.
Even now, as an ex infantryman am I wise enough to detest violence in all its forms.
I know how it starts and I know how it ends, and it proves zilch. Nothing.
Violence is my worst nightmare.
I grew up surrounded by it.
It is my worst nightmare.
This is for one of my favourite writers here on Prose. Everybody, I say EVERYBODY, listen up.
It is none other than Clburdett.
She writes the most intelligent poetry I have ever come across, witty, clever, learned and well informed. Her command of the English Language is absolutely top and her writings and posts deserve far more recognition than she currently gets.
She is far more talented than I ever will be so I tell you this, read and like her posts and help push her to Wordsmith where she belongs.
I can no longer follow her for other reasons that you will never understand, but she is talented above and beyond the norm.
Please. Give her the support she deserves.
Thank you. Honestly.
We like to think of ourselves as an advanced society do we not? We are tech savvy and up to the minute in our tablets and hotspots. We are connected and linked and able to voice opinions and post up to the minute video commentary on any current event.
But despite this we still look to horoscopes, people still flock to clairvoyants for mystic fortune telling and tarot cards sell by the truck load. We still lean to our palm readers and come away feeling in some esoteric way connected to an 'other worldly' force that glows above us and guides our days.
Bunkum. Total, complete and utter tosh. All of it. Of course, everything happens for a reason and you don't need some soothsayer to glam it up. If I put my hand into a fire it will be burnt, but not because some cosmic deity deems it, but because that's what fire does.
Listen, if you are the type of person drawn to visit fortune tellers or attend psychic readings - don't. Don't give these people your money, save it and realise that absolutely everything happens for a reason, it is called the nature of things, and I defy anyone to stand up and tell me what is going to happen to me next week.
I'll meet a tall, dark man carrying an umbrella. Yes. Right. Keep taking the tablets.
May as well ask the bloody dog for all the sense you'll get.
Where once a strong youth walked now shuffles an ageing man. The cuts and bruises of life have bowed his stance, and his fumbling step is now carefully tread.
The mind is slightly less sharp and his reactions are haphazard and faltering, but he goes on his way with fallheartbeat and shuffling step. So have the years played their cruel jest and furrowed his brow.
Only now can he see the paths that lead to nowhere but cannot tread much further upon his own. See his trembling hand as he raises his cup to drink, and wipe his lips for he is not aware, though not for caring.
Will you sit for his company but for a moment and share perhaps a good days tale? Ah but well he knows the haste of others business and the pressing moments of time.
He gazes out through dimmed eyes that have seen decades pass, shed a tear for his isolation for you too will share it soon. Too soon. Worry not for his future as he has lived it, worry instead for your own years to come and set your stitches close knit. The cold wind finds a way through old clothes, as he would tell you if you asked.
Question him why he sits in the same seat each day and he will only smile perhaps.
He knows not the hour nor even the day, and does it really matter?
Take a moment to watch as he feeds the birds. Will they too not flock about you should you follow suit? What better company could there be that question not motive nor intent, but to share a sandwich given so willingly. What thanks are needed when none are sought?
Look to see he is there when next you pass by for one day he will be elsewhere, who knows? Would you then take his seat and share a crumb?
Go then, with your errands and your endless lists of needs, but take care as you go, you need but miss a detail or loose your footing and you'll be gone forever.
**Miss a detail or loose your footing and you'll be gone forever.
From The Elder Scrolls, Oblivion.