The World Was Brown..#poem #70s #nostalgia

The World Was Brown


Remember when the world was brown?
People still had "nervous breakdowns"?
Polyester was on our backs.
We got 10p taking pop bottles back.


I remember playing with glass
Brown and green jewels broken at the edge of the grass.
On there we played at being pop stars
While creepy blokes cruised by in beige and blue cars.


There was always that "funny" bloke down the street.
We didn't know why but we weren't allowed to speak.
A whole world of weirdness they hid from our minds.
While that freaky blonde pervert on telly patted behinds.
Remember when the world was brown.
I do, and girls were kept right down.
Police women promoted must have been slags.
It had to be true I was told by my dad.
A woman with a clipboard on a building site too.
Telling men who knew better than her, what to do.
I won't say the words that he used for that trainee.
But that little-girl me never forgot and it shames me.

When the world was all brown and the trousers were wide
And a house key could be put under a mat just outside.
TV programmes made fun of the gay or not white,
Or the women, or the short, tall, fat, foreign, or the disabled, all alright!
But there's folk who still hanker for these sepia times.
Do they want all this back plus the brown fashion crimes?
Well I don't, I've been there I'm not going back.
And, I tell you,  no brown can never be, the new black.

I Remember ..a poem about loss of power, aging.

I Remember

The times you told me what to do

How and when to speak

Instructing etiquette down the Club

How as a girl, to be meek

I saw that power fade as I grew

A teen who formed new views.

But failed to see, the change in me

Was smaller than the change in you.

As years went on you lost your way

Conversations faltered.

Your comprehension of our words,

Your view of life had altered.

As in a bubble you now live

We try to call to you.

And act as gatekeepers to the world

To stop it hurting you.

#gove #may #borisjohnson #corbyn ...messy politics and we will pay for it.

What a mess

Well I don't want Gove, and I don't want May.
Seems like we're screwed by them either way.
We have a choice between the rebirth of Thatcher
And a bloke who looks rather like a child catcher.

As for Boris, it looks like he's out of the race
Like the coward he is with Brexit on his face.
As for Labour I feel no pride in they way they've behaved
The last hope for socialism soundly betrayed.

We're all doomed! Doomed, I say without any rudder
Untill we install the new duplicitous bugger
An the onward we go off the edge of the cliff
steered there 'cos some toffs keep having a tiff.

"Escape" by Joanne Oliver, a poem

Escape

Life is packed with where's and whens
The what to dos  they never end
The weeks fill up like never before
Technology regulates you more and more
The minds becomes so full it's vacant
Thought escaped thrown out by fresh assailant...

Cerebration..

You long for something outside the maelstrom
Somewhere things don't clog your mind's meditation
You've had it now with stress and politics
No one listening everyone talking
Shouting the odds while we're all sleepwalking
Into destruction but no worries, it's just all the humans
There'll be Earth's revolutions and new evolutions
We'll be gone due to our own final solution.

Absolution...

The world will still  turn if we cry or we don't cry
If you just let things go by and love life you'll be fine
That place to escape may not be out there but within you
Take time to forgive all the mistakes and continue
To hold on to those who lines in your lifesong
"There is only the now" said Tom Robinson in his song
I know that to be true past is gone, future is mythical

Unpredictable.

To Rhyme - a #poem about #rhyming ..yes another one, what of it?

Dunston Staiths ...just because. 

To Rhyme

I like to rhyme.
Is that a crime?
It's not like I do it all the time.
It's just a little habit of mine.

I sneak the rhymes in when I.write
I know that makes me "poetry lite"
Does it make you want to fight?
Because technically it isn't right?

I see you at the back there now
cringing at this useless cow
Rhyming cow with flipping now!
And wonder really why, and how?

But you know what? I just don't care
See lines are getting longer there?
Balls to structure words aren't square
I can stand the poet's glare!

So back to doing what I do
Or not because I don't want to
The joy of words is they are free
Amongst the rigid life of me!

Sally's Dream: a homeless story with hope.

Sally's Dream

With one pair of tired shoes
A blanket and a backpack
To be here she didn't choose
But she cant go back

Memories bravely blanked and filed
Weather getting thankfully mild
The winter really hit her core
But spiteful words they hurt her more.

Her face betrays her battered youth
From 16 months without a roof
Shopping centres move you on
You've done nothing but you just look wrong.

It's 8.15 and getting sunny
Not many people give her money
But one man maybe twice her age
Reaches into her paupers cage

She knew his face from years ago
He drops in a coin and says "hello?"
"Is it you Sally? My God how is this so?"
She stops herself from lying with "No"

This man had left her life when she was eight
Her uncle who her Dad had grown to hate
He didn't like his view on his life
On how he treated his daughter and his wife

Sally missed Uncle Dave so much
But forgot in time how he had been a crutch.
And here was he looking into her eyes
From where tears fell in relief and surprise.

"This stops right now we'll get you home,
You've an aunty now called Anne, who I'll phone
Lets get some lunch and a hot cup of tea.
And then talk about what you need from Anne and me."

"Tories" by Joanne Oliver

Tories


Poison liquor runs in their veins.
The toxic blend of coffee and spite in their brains.
The greed inbred through generations,  the heartless prostitution of other nations.
The hurt they've caused must never be forgot.
That rancid, grasping, Tory lot.

Sticky Vicky Retires. A poem in tribute to a living legend.

Sticky Vicky Retires

by Joanne Oliver

She didn't have a hat

So didn't conjour from that.

No magic box is here

From which stuff can appear (oh dear)

For several shows a night

She stood under burning lights

While many souls drank beer

And saw a show, most queer.

Her name suggests she's sticky.

But she seemed a dry bird, Vicky.

To pull out flags and scarves

Our Vicky didn't do things by halves.

The pubs will need new bottle openers 

And places their bulbs to light.

For Vicky has put nanna knickers on.

And bid Benidorm goodnight.