CoronaKid

I was thinking how hard it is for our kids at the moment, having to be locked away constantly, hiding from an invisible enemy. Their whole world has been turned upside down! My son has it especially tough as there are only the two of us in the house and i suffer with bipolar disorder and anxiety issues, and he has autism and challenging behaviour so it’s like a pressure cooker at times!

Here’s a poem I’ve written for spoken word, seeing life in Coronavirus times through his eyes.

MILD SWEARING

It’s a bit shit
Couped up
Coronakid
Walled up in a council tomb
Tempers flaring
Like a pressure cooker lid
Wishing there were dos
Which don’t
Which must
Which can’t
Which didn’t
Which did

Walls seem scary
When your life is really
Coronation Street
Without a plot
Hours which seem
Like days
Which seem
Like years
Which seems
Like concepts
That I’ve not yet fully got
Mum’s ready to blow
I’m really so, so worried
That the going’s
Got so hot
Feelings churned
Around like
Psycho soup
In a perpetual
Emotional boiling pot.

No school
No mates
No welcoming
Playground gates
But then I hated school
Mum tries her best
But she’s not
Getting rest
Her moods are
Tending to be
Hot not cool
I give her shit
Because I’d rather sit
And waste
My days away
Fuck this home ed shit
School’s bollocks
All I want to do
Is fucking play
But all my momma
Has to say is
Do your bloody work
Or there’s
No PlayStation
Today

I miss my family
And my friends
It’s like looking in
A claustrophobic mirror
Seeing our two faces
Day after day
Like a glitch in the matrix
Like a horrifying error
And I don’t know
What’s worse
In my life
The insane boredom
Or the
Abominable terror
Cos we’re in
An invisible war
And it feels like
We’re fighting on
Forever
and ever

©2020 Sarah Drury

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

It was nice, the Saturday Tea

It was nice
The Saturday tea.
Family sitting around the living room
Scraps of greasy newspaper balanced on our knee
Last week’s news saturated in chip fat
This week’s wellbeing, the cholesterol it’s enemy.
Scraps of batter, vinegar, swimming in a sea of mushy pea
A battered sausage promising dancing tastebuds
A haddock resplendent in its crispy, greasy coat
Chips golden like they’d been deep fried by the sun
Cuisine like nirvana, sliding deliciously down my nostalgic throat.

And it was nice
Nice, the Saturday tea
When the adults spoke in voices joyous and
Pretended they were ok with the world
And acted like the miseries of life didn’t start with me
That I wasn’t a pain, a burden, an inconvenience
That if it wasn’t for my being alive they would be free.
The day when people smiled and a glimpse of civility I could see.

As my fingers squelched through greasy pickings
A sensory challenge, but I could bear the feeling
Of the slimy, oily potato, hot and dripping with lard
I basked in the feeling of peace that the rustling newspapers
Might bring messages about my emotional healing.
For Sunday to Monday the grown-ups my sanity were stealing
My little sanguine heart and my quaking mind were reeling
With fear.

But it was nice,
The Saturday tea
When the air was pink with harmony
And the words were smooth with happy vibes
Pulsing through the atmosphere, the chips and fish the smooth over bribes
And the smiles were painted and the laughs were dubbed
And the falsity washed over the truth like the shifting tides.
And the walls were witness to the violence
That on the days when the chips didn’t bear witness to the cruel divides
Of a child distraught.

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
When the fish didn’t swim in the Atlantic Ocean
But sacrificed their lives to decorate our plate
When the sausage paid homage to the pig it once was
When the food on our platter was bloody first rate
When the child and the adult spoke in civilized phrases
When the child wasn’t bullied by an adult irate.
And the child pretended happy because she couldn’t create
Her safe place

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
The smiles, the laughs, the faux safety
The grease, the Tizer, the chips on your knee
The magic of illusion, the wish to be free
Yes it was nice.
It was a haven
The Saturday tea.

© Sarah Drury 2019