Before I start, please read the following note.This poem deals with domestic abuse and if you don't want to read about that, please move on. It is drawn from experiences some very dear friends have chosen to share with me. To them, and those like them, I dedicate this poem. You're no less of a person for choosing not to read it.
My poetic output has been rather minimal for more months than I care to count. So it's a relief to get one finished. It's a fairly long poem.
There were plenty
of warnings and hints,
thinly veiled threats
and somewhat less
than veiled insults,
all so much frigid air
as you had long ago
chosen not to listen.
You knew what you did was wrong,
or at the very least you were made
aware of the prison sentences typical
for behaviour such as yours.
All that time you believed she would
never tell and who would listen anyway?
So you turned your blind eye to all those
who shuddered at her bruises and to the
vicious stares of the nurses whenever
she pushed you a little too far.
A very difficult age is no more than
feeble reasoning for rage and, although
the vow stated forever, your home is
so terrifyingly quiet today.
Last night you tried shouting.
It brought you little satisfaction.
This morning it was screaming's turn,
but there was only volume
and no true passion there.
So you moved on to lashing out,
but while the furniture broke with
formerly satisfying cracks it was
not the same as the chairs neither
complained or even whimpered.
So here you sit head in hands,
with your fags, mags and lager,
doing your best to avoid seeing
how easily they escaped.
Yet you were told over and over
exactly why and how they would
come to their senses and depart.
But you'd chosen not to listen,
thus were the only one who
didn't long see it coming.
Now all you have left
is a generously feathered
bed of lies and
a belated awareness that
you will never
Thank you for taking the time to read my poem,
Love and best wishes,