Social Poem 3


“Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?”

No one out there to remember,
no one to reply.
Innocence is past, with
no one to imagine what is was…
Legions of faded poppies
marching quietly over ashes
of once resurrected hopes;

When I was younger
I remember dreaming about being older;
now that I’m older
I don’t dare dreaming anymore.
Only at noons, early afternoons,
maybe evenings I dream,
long, nearly frozen
worm holes leading into another Oz,
where guitar strings are still used over
stretched swan necks in an absolutely
harmlessly musical manner,
and over microscopic black holes
too small to swallow any sound…

If I’d have to choose between
Jesus and Buddha,
I’ll have my granny,
because she always added to her
not even written down love
sweet plum dumplings with cinnamon,
and bought me a guitar out of her pension
against my dad’s will who said he’ll
smash it to my head,
and ice cream and custard cream
and suffered me drain half her coffee with
a dozen sugar cubes…

She died before finishing to fry
my life’s pile of pancakes,
so here I am, maple syrup
golden syrup, cinnamon,
brown sugar and all…
Still waiting,
immature grown-up with nowhere to go,
just realising Oz is not even a place,

just another granny’s absence where

Dorothy is barefoot,
frying lion steaks
in tin pans
over straw fires…

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