I am not sure whether it was The burnt banana bread Or the under-spiced Over-baked biscuits That did it But I am thoroughly Sick-as-a-dog Fed up to the back teeth And beyond With the schoolyard B*llsh*t bakesale Not just the politics The cut and thrust Of who gets to bake And who gets to buy At the thrice termly Repeating misery That is the fundraiser Conspicuous, competitive, Consumption For a school committee With more money Than common sense Soliciting donations: Baked goods; sweets; Good-as-new toys; Dictating requirements: Own clothes; costumes; Odd shoes; socks; Random coloured shirts; Hair ribbons; headgear; We all pay for a day Out of uniform Or suffer culinary torture Face it, ladies I can actually cook But my kitchen will never be One hundred percent Gluten or nut-free I don’t want to poison Anyone (by accident) And I resent the waste Of good ingredients This charade entails Let’s just forget it The whole in-crowd Phenomenon What are we, twelve? Phooey to the PTA! Us working mums have Bigger problems Than dusting off a dirndl To play at housewife On a weekday afternoon Though what you choose To do with your own time Is none of my business. And that was my Considered, rational, Personal perspective Before we ate the Glitter-encrusted Muffin of doom That somehow gave The entire family Galloping gut rot (Even the cat) Don’t ask me how I no longer care We have run out of Buckets, bog roll, And fresh underwear Seriously, Screw the whole thing! I am switching to Online donations At least they don’t Require that I provide Correct change Nor that I invest my Hard earned paycheck In industrial quantities Of bathroom bleach And antacids Only to be sneered at By the clique of Suzie home-maker And sycophants Holding court At the school gate Judging me and mine For our contribution To the latest cause
Charity
Street Scene
Stroll down any dusty thoroughfare
From Maida Vale to scruffy Shepherd’s Bush
They’ll ambush you on pavement then and there
Relieve you of your digits, prod and push.
Foot soldiers, armed with clipboards and ambition
Will tug at strings that tie the heart to purse
Their target: the conversion to commission
Of less-than-living wages as you curse.
The haves that make up half the knotty problem
Are touched for cash by those who live below
Embarrassed by their wealth, some may endure them
While others just ignore them as they go.
With one foot on the ladder of ascension
The other in the bucket of distress
They’ll tell you of the horrors one won’t mention
To try to hold attention and impress.
The passers-by whose means are independent
Whose social conscience privilege must prick
Are rarely found donating rent or pension
Confronted daily, skin must be quite thick.
While those who swallow pride and do the needful
Are debited directly for their pains
Their duty to society a creed. Full
Of charitable empathy and claims.
‘Soul Vomit’ Anthology now available
Three of my poems have been published in an anthology entitled Soul Vomit – profits to go to a domestic violence charity.
The anthology can be ordered online via https://www.createspace.com/4084570 or via Amazon (in case anyone is feeling a poetry-shaped hole in their stocking).
Tea and sympathy
I noticed the smell
Before seeing the man
As he first tried it on
With the girl by the sign
I kept gazing at trains
Sipping watery sludge
Barely conscious of movement
Of space, sound, or time
With my chilly feet aching
And feeling the burn
Having finished a shift
With the B.M.D. gang
And put up with the tourists
Mind set to ‘return’
In the crush and the waiting
Victoria Station
I wanted my pj’s
And something to scran
A reprieve from the knowledge
Tomorrow is Monday
A moment’s escape
From the hellish élan
That rises responding
To transport on Sunday
I sighed at his gait
As he soft-shoed along
Cursing hard-hearted kids
Under-dressed for the winter
His t-shirt encrusted
With layers of pong
That would shame to a beak
Even Marble Arch scroungers
He lurched to a halt
Far too close to my skin
And launched into his spiel
To upset and impress me
I felt little more
Than the usual pain
At the series of tricks
He employed just to press me
And tiring of lies
Moaned in flattening vowels
As he tried to appear
To be pitied before me
His simple demands
I did meet with a smile
Giving coin for some peace
That he hence might ignore me
But trotting away
The reprieve was a short one
I swayed on my feet
Craning necks to evade
In the hope they’d announce
Platform numbers for Sutton
No more on my journey
Might I be waylaid
The very same man
Rose, a vision before me
To launch the same dialogue
Over again
I tried to divert him
He strove to ignore me
“Just gave you a pound
For a tea!” I exclaimed
The man seemed offended
And told me more stories
His life had been hard
He was hardly to blame
A single commuter
Of kind disposition
Would hardly stand out
In the crowds of the day
His ‘few pints’ that evening
A hint at the blinder
Awaiting what money
I’d chosen to pay
As much as I might like
To give to the guy
Little hoping for comforts
Unknown and less useful
He steadfast, refusing
To catch at my eye
Made his bitterest mouthfuls
Taste much less than truthful
I listened again
To the tale he was spinning
Not worthy of one
Born to charity’s curse
But all I could offer
Returning the favour
More sympathy, tea
And a haven in verse
Katherine Shirley 