A New year Ode

Well, its New Year, a time when people all around the world are celebrating. A time when people get together, when families and friends unite. But there are many lonely, elderly people who don’t have that privilege and will be sitting at home, alone and lonely. My heart goes out to them. Here is my ‘designed for spoken word’ ode to these people…

She sits alone
Heating has been off since six
Skint again, afraid to heat her home
As the New Year fireworks roar extravagantly on TV
But still, she mustn’t moan
When there are people sleeping out on the freezing streets
Afraid and all alone

It wasn’t always this way
The nights when her terraced home
Was full of life and family
When she shone like an illuminated flash
Of brilliance, when her life of the party would smash
The pinnacles of joy
Acting like the hoi polloi
Not alone

New Year’s Eve
Gathered outside number thirty four
Counting down the moments
Do we will away the year or yearn for something more?
Neighbours gathered in the moonlit street
Family together like some hereditary meet and greet
Moments tick tocking, the sound echoing in the vaults of time
Excitement reaches a crescendo as Big Ben sounds his infamous chime
Auld Acquaintance possesses our being
As song consumes our passionate bones
And you can hear the ringing of the messages of cheer
The loved ones at the end of the telephone
And the ship horns sing out into the dead of the night
And the world is ok and the universe is alright.

But she sits alone
Taking in the happiness on the TV screen
Saying it’s ok, the family are just busy, they’re not being mean.
And she raises a glass to her husband, dead for many years
And time has healed her wounds, and love has salved her tears
And she waits for the phonecall to prove someone cares
But the phone never rings, and there goes another year
It could be much worse
But she mustn’t moan
After all, her family hadn’t fled
Her family had just flown.

©2019 Sarah Drury
photo credit: BBC

Sitting at the Doctor’s Surgery

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery

I’m sitting at the generic magnolia doctor’s surgery
Waiting to tell her my worries and thoughts
Because I am sick, surely soon I’ll face death
The Grim Reaper will be snogging away my last breath
And the demons and angels will be playing crosses and noughts
With the discount passport to a paradise Heaven I have bought
from a dodgy offer on Groupon

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Watching the receptionist with her graces and airs
The façade of the NHS
the administrative face that usually says ‘I don’t particularly care’
Watching the faces, the faces, the faces
The hues, the sizes, the myriad races
Who knows why they’re here, how they’re sick, who’s a dick
Who’s a racist, who acts like a nationalist prick
Yet you still see some English
Resentment seeping through their red and white bones
Wishing the migrants were fucked off back to their native homes.

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
when my number comes up on the screen
I feel like I’ve won the lottery
I float through the double doors like a teenager having a wet dream
And its double jackpot with my doctor of choice
With her medical degree and her authoritative voice
I don’t know why, but I have no faith in doctors of the male gender
Why do the ladies always seem more knowledgeable and tender?
And is there a ‘Me Too’ movement in the medical world?
Or is it not time yet?
Has the notion of medical sexual abuse not yet unfurled?

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Lying on the ‘I’m vulnerable’ examination table
The only hands that have roamed my flesh in eight long years
Are working their magic, seeing if my heart is stable
Hands of middle age that fought for their equality
Hands of clever knowledge that have equal power on the Adam and Eve tree
Hands that prove that women can, and women can, and women can
And women can without a man
Winning races, blasting through misogynist traces
An army of female, heroine faces
I salute.

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Collecting my prescription
I don’t pay as I’m diabetic and that’s my benediction
How many people go without
Their madness meds, their wellness meds
The bones of their existence meds
Through poverty and hardship
As this country is in its austerity grip?
And i ponder over how many mentally ill
Are roaming the cities, crazy for want of an antipsychotic pill
And how many are living on the edge of a depression knife
And how many will take their life?
How many?

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Wondering how long will this go on?
How long will the NHS be a free commodity?
How long will it be before Boris starts singing Donald Trump’s song?
Our national treasure sacrificed through money and greed
By those that don’t give a shit for the proles who have greatest need
Let us never see the day.
Let us pray
Let us pray

©2019 Sarah Drury

The Birds and the Bees

How do you have sex mum?
How are babies made?

Then I glance at my phone
And see my son has been asking our friend Google Home
And our Google friend is no holds barred
He says the penis goes inside the vagina
And I gaze at these robotic, grown up words
And wonder if it isn’t a little bit absurd
That when I was twelve I was getting my sex education
From wanton fumblings in the toilets
At the local park
Stinky fingers behind the bikesheds
And ‘you look at mine, I’ll look at yours’ beneath the blankets on my bed
From the slutty porno Playboy centre spread
from the hormonal, spotty schoolboys I’d mislead
from the x-rated porno prose that I’d misread
from the 18 rated movies which I’d be dead
if me mam found me putting such filth in my innocent young head

And Google Home hasn’t done a bad job
If you’re thirty with a mortgage
And missed your sex education classes at your grammar school
Although google seems to think that it’s only same sex relationships that are cool
And lesbians, gays, and every queer in the nation
Are taking a sexual copulation vacation
And who knows, one day there will be negative ramifications
if Google stays straight

I pride myself on being a progressive mum
I have been letting my son be himself since the very first days I wiped the poop from his bum.
And I’m eager to see him become a young man
There’s been no puritan technology ban
No degrading Wonder Woman in favour of a testosterone fueled Batman
No forcing him to be less Autistic yet no forcing him to be in the disabled clan
I’ve always taught to hold up his little Autistic head and scream ‘I can’.

So I ask him
Son, how are babies made?
“The penis goes into the vagina and the man ejects sperm”
And I have to smile at the ejects bit
As though the word ejaculation isn’t a big hit
And I wonder if the sperm would miss their target
If they would be all redundant in the baby making market
And maybe this way it could be a new contraceptive
Maybe the men could be a little bit deceptive
And maybe the women could remind them
About condoms and STD’s
Hey Google, maybe you could just
Add a little bit about popping a little condom cap
On artful todger’s tinkling tete
To prevent the global baby threat
And keep the nasty diseases
To be the property of the dirtbag whose teaser pleases.

My son got the nuts and bolts main bits right
And I praised him for his knowledgeable prowess
At twelve he would have wiped the sex ed floor with this progressive lioness
He can bandy around the word penis like a consultant gynaecologist
But still pisses all over the toilet floor
and I wonder if that’s a kid thing
or will I still be mopping up the pee when he’s twenty-six or more?

I know what comes next
And I hear him talking in whispers to his friends in the next room
Oh son, you’re only 12 but you’re growing up way too bloody soon
I don’t mind you asking Google as long as you always ask me
I will tell you the important little things that Google doesn’t choose to see
Like how girls might fancy girls and boys might fancy boys
And some might fancy both and some might just want relationships with sex toys
And the world is a spectrum and we don’t fit in relationship shaped boxes
And diversity is the wonderful thing that makes the sexual world spin on its unpredictable axis.

So, son
Come to me
I will tell you the story of the birds and the bees
I will tell you what you should know, what is real, not nonsense whispers polluting the summer breeze
I’m not embarrassed
Don’t you bleedin’ well be.

©2019 Sarah Drury

Happy Birthday Jesus

Happy birthday Jesus
Lying in your simple manger
Lowly, meek, humble,
commercialism a stranger
bet ya didn’t know that years to come
your beloved day of birth
would become a multitrillion franchise
that gifts of gold and myrrh and frankincense
by men proclaiming themselves wise
would morph into a creed of greed whilst children plead to be good indeed
for the wise men don’t bring gifts anymore
it’s a fat bloke in a red suit, black boots
white hair and beard, rosy cheeks belying his white privileged roots
and you’d better be good, didn’t you know he could
leave you a sack of broken dreams, fuck you coal
leave you a psychological smear on your childhood.

Happy birthday Jesus
Bet you didn’t know
That whilst your parents struggled in their desperation
Not aware of the glory and jubilation
Piss poor with not a roof to call their place
The masses would be gorging on a turkey feast
With food to feed a capitalist appetite
with trolleys loaded like culinary weapons fueling the consumerist beast
that the arm of the machine of Commercialism has been greased
that simplicity and modesty and want not are deceased
And why not have a bite out of the Christmas cake
And choke on the excesses in which our society partakes
A mouthful of craziness and a sentiment that’s fake.

Happy birthday Jesus
Bet your simple manger
Didn’t look like the Las Vegas strip
With the star of Bethlehem glowing modestly
With promises of greatness and goodness
And wisdom and benevolent leadership.
Whilst the glare of commercialism is blinding
With its 1000,000 watt show of excess and falsity
Showing how Jesus has become a commercial commodity
How the denial of humility has become a societal monstrosity
What’s wrong with a single star and a birth of mediocrity.
What’s wrong with our world?
What is this pretense that there is no inequality?
What is this illusion, this fucked up dishonesty.

So Happy Birthday Jesus
I know it wasn’t your dream
To see the world bedecked in its outrageous festive theme
I know if you came back today
Your mind would be devastated, your heart would scream
But Happy birthday
Happy birthday
Welcome to this world’s fucked up consumer dream.

©2019 Sarah Drury

I Remember a Time

I remember a time
Back when our innocence was Christmas
And love was Christmas
And peace was Christmas
And Joy was Christmas

Today I cancelled a haircut
I cancelled a haircut because I’m living on the bones of my arse
And I don’t want my child to wake up to no presents
I don’t want his pile of pleasure to be meagre and sparse
And the sense of pride I felt walking out of the toy shop
With 2 bags of toys and hair looking like crap
When I’m caught in the commercialism of our days
Caught in the have, have, have, not need, trap.
Like a vulture lurking over a dying breed
Like a human possessed by consumer greed.

Today I went to the cashpoint
And took out my last fifty pounds
Hoping my child tax credit will stop me making the cash convertors rounds
And being a mother, I always come last
And being a widow, I wear a happy mask
And where are the presents for me?
But I am so used to being the invisible recipient
I only get the gifts that come free
The ones you cannot see.
And that is ok
By me.

Today I put up the tree
A bargain from the pop up Christmas shop
Looks like shit but once the gaudy baubles hide
Its anorexic branches, once the lights are twinkling
Then the cheap as shit look will stop.
And it stands there proudly
As proud as any rich bitch tree
A symbol of years of austerity
But I don’t care
My tree says I have tried
I have really tried

Money is nice, it buys things
It buys things
But I remember when simplicity was Christmas
I remember when gratefulness was Christmas
I remember when asking for nothing was Christmas

And I wonder where did it all go horribly wrong
When did the world start singing this god awful consumerist song?

©2019 Sarah Drury

We Didn’t Care

Runny nose
Scabby knees
Skimming pebbles
Climbing trees
Dirty plasters
Nits in hair
Grimy hands
We didn’t care.

Cast off clothing
Socks as gloves
Bin bag sledges
Dens above
Staying out
Til sun had gone
Love me not
Am I the one?
Sindy dolls
With butchered hair
Times were hard
We didn’t care.

Slides stand tall
On hard concrete
Stand on swings
Jump off the seat
Health and safety
Load of rubbish
Heads cracked open
Children vanish
Want a sweetie
See my pups
Stay away
From weird grownups
Sunday school
Say a prayer
White or black
We didn’t care.

Cars no seatbelts
Smoke in pubs
Dicing death
Work men’s clubs
Cigarettes
Were everywhere
Juicy blackjacks
Penny a pair
Milk on doorsteps
Kiss or dare
Not a dime
We didn’t care.

No computers
No ipads
No iphones
Grumpy dads
Mums in aprons
Apple pie
Cute pet hamsters
Always die
Old gas fires
Huddle round
Kettle makes
A whistling sound
Nowt for breakfast
Cupboards bare
But we were happy
We didn’t care.

©2019 Sarah Drury

Boris

Political poem coming up. Sorry, Tories, I am a labour girl. No nasty comments please, freedom of speech!

Boris
There are people without homes
In sleeping bags, alone
Real people
not just pictures on social media
that you scroll through heartlessly on your phone
people the police herd away, with hearts of stone
whilst you have your Christmas fun
and like a madman you shout
“Let’s get Brexit done”.

Boris
The children are suffering
They are living in greater poverty
Than you greedy buggars could understand
Real children
Not just statistics
That you gloss over like an inconvenient number
Whilst the children are starving, and frozen they slumber
And Christmas is coming and santa won’t visit
While you stuff your faces yet the children will miss it

But you don’t give a shit with your heart of granite
and you shout
“get Brexit done, it’ll all be alright”.

Boris
The schools are suffering
The teachers are stressed
As you cut back their budgets
And their wages are much less
And the resources dwindle
And the children are victims
Of your austerity bullshit
You talk from your rectum

And if bollocks were you, you would weigh a ton
Yet still you shout
“Get Brexit done”.

Boris,
You seem to have only one agenda
To look after the fortunate
The rich, the big spender.
Now finally it’s time to take a stance
To look after the ones who don’t have a chance

And we should be shouting from the top of the rooftops
To the moon to the sun
“Get Boris done”

©2019 Sarah Drury