The beggar



Deprivation; frustration.
Sedimentation; constipation.
And rotting.

As he lay down,
His feet curled up from the ground;
The only thing that he found, as he drowned,
Was, sound.

No rescue unfolded.
And yes, loathèd!

Tried, cried,
Then sighed.

A clever lover would mother,
No detriment to pass from one to the other.
Now kissed and cuddled,
Hopeful but muddled.

If one is ill, we are ill!
When one is felled, ring the bells;
Lest they toll not for thee.

Disabled Exile 2017.

I heard a Councillor talking about the need to move beggars on from Leeds town centre as it wasn’t “aesthetically pleasing”. Vacuous



a poem



What is this magic, your melodies aisle?
I’m sure that it leads, if but for a smile.
A tearful eye, often dries at the altar,
Or held to a breath, it causes to falter.

Sometimes you chime and cast me aside.
Shewing a presence to chasten the pride.
Who wisps through my soul, an unseen stranger,
And ready to judge, disperses he danger.

Without trespass he mirrors, to offer reflection,
Turns the eye inward, and then at the tell,
I am but a piece and nothing is solid,
Now worries do vanish, all tolled in a spell.

Look! Make a wish, there’s a, “Love, love-me-not”,
Floating in hope from a fair maid forgot.
Longing to cotton in dreams and to tease,
Ushered in joy on a warm summer breeze.

Clap to apprise:
“There are more ways than one,
To battle against
And weather the storm!”

Ornament, instrument, tied with string?
Nay, your spirit enhances, it urges to sing.
And the blustering gusts have all blown their way,
Still, you remain now and blessèd the day!




by the disabled exile.