The Broken

When you,
And strangers come together,
And live,
Even temporarily,
You begin to understand,
That there are many broken people:
Couples,
Where one has lost their way.
And can't settle.
A cosmopolitan family,
Who cannot locate their home.
A man who has discovered his childhood sweetheart,
No longer is,
After fifty years.
And the one who must find herself,
In the approval of  others.
Fills the gap with strangers she meets in cyberspace,
Trusting no one.

Generational Disappointment

It seems I belong to a family,
Who suffers a terrible inheritance.
For some of us it is genetic.
For others,
Environmental.
It is born of unmet expectations,
Insecurities,
Insincerity,
But mostly,
A clash of cultures.

The objective but confused culture of the Aspergian.
Diagnosed or not.
Versus those more emotionally volatile neurotypicals,
Who attempt to love us.
The result,
Is much like its cousin,
'Generational Poverty',
Which is similarly, a cultural construct.
'Generational Disappointment' is a deficit,
Affecting the soul,
Rather than the wallet.

Humanity on Parade

Stuck in Town.
Now I am a retail prisoner.
Before me the 'Food Court',
Saccharine smells,
Blend with coffee and grease.
I scan looking for the rest rooms.
A long narrow passage lit with blinking fluorescence.
Meanders into the Bessa-brick anals of the building.
Framed posters of consumerist decadence on peeling paint.
"Ah a bookstore",
Perhaps it has the new book,
I heard about on the radio,
In my, 'next bookstore four hundred kilometres', rural home.
But no,
False pretences,
Book clearance centre in guise of 'nice rustic book emporium'.
Chain stores and bargain, clearance, retail outlets.
And walking like zombies,
Overloaded with Christmas shopping,
Those for which this retail experience is normal.
Humanity on parade.
I make my escape,
With only a couple of completely superfluous purchases.
I feel almost dirty with the shame of it.
I am off to find a public park,
And a shady tree.

Circumstance

Circumstance,
Somehow the stars had not formed that fortuitous constellation.
Trust was put into those jaded by disapointment.
So it did not happen.

It was not down to anything lacking,
In personality,
Other physical attributes,
Or qualities of character.
It was not that they were somehow,
Not deserving,
Or not tried hard enough.

It was merely a matter of chance,
That they had not had the opportunity,
To open themselves completely to that one person,
And have it reciprocated.

Broken

When she found herself alone.
She had the belief,
That the cruel exclusions,
And the hateful barbs,
Could all be endured,
If he came and found her;
If he 'had her back'.

But she found herself fighting alone.
And then he sought her.
She, wounded by battle,
Had nothing;
Certainly nothing to give him,
Or anybody else.

We he found her alone and in despair,
He tried to soothe her,
With his excuses and explanations.
She covered her ears to the assault.
But he persisted,
Until she broke away;
And broke down.

Now she finds herself alone,
Shamed and broken.

The Blame Game

He told me me the gossip going round town.
She had whinged to him...

"We weren't even given a warning.
So and so had got a ticket as well.
It just wasn't fair."

To Him, her argument seemed compelling.
It engendered some sympathy.
Perhaps they should have received a warning rather than a fine.
She had left satisfied at his reaction.

But in the game of saving face,
She neglected to mention,
Her disregard for safety,
And the obvious signage.
Reminders in the newsletter.
Or the way a complainant had been mocked,
And felt compelled, before some one was hurt,
To act.

The blame game,
I think is a primitive reflex.
An action arising from the reptilian brain stem.
'When attacked fight back.'
There goes the few million years of evolution,
That developed our frontal lobes.

Being Moved.

I was not moved by the loss, the despair,
The real and perceived dangers.
Not by the anguish of the victims or their families.

I was not moved by the speeches,
Of the people of consequence.
I was not moved by the warmongering,
Of those seeking retribution and revenge.

No.

The courageous people,
Who stood strong and did not give into hatred,
Who refused to be defined,
By those, who because of their own suffering,
Chose to kill and maim their loved ones.

Those who refused to turn on their neighbours,
Who act out of love and compassion,
Despite their own unbearable suffering.

These are the people who move me to tears.

Vive.

Pissing in his pocket.

It was just so apt.
Looking in from the outside.
The way was clear,
To me at least.
All these people getting 'soooo' upset,
And over nothing.
Where they blind, stupid?
Apparently.
But it was simple really.
All I had to do to remedy the intractable situation.
And get the immovable, moving.
Was....
'Piss in the right pocket!'

Expression

I write poems.
Some draw pictures.
Or build marvellous sculptures.
My friend dances.
Another sings.
A man I know runs and runs.
A lady I know bakes the best sponge cakes.
But one friend cleans her house till her hands bleed.

Is this because we share an unescapable need to express ourselves?