Colin F. Jones
KALEIDOSCOPIC BALLOON ~ PART 3
We don’t hear the cries of children from disease ridden streets;
We don’t see them beg for fodder where the low-life likes to meet.
We don’t see a lot of things, the true realities of life;
We just concentrate on living well free from all such strife.
But our ignorance won’t be forever for when our children need,
We will understand the reason why tis shameful how we greed.
I have a stack of old shoes you know that I never wear,
And blankets we never use are piled up everywhere.
When I think of those poor children sleeping in the street,
I wonder what they are wearing on their unwashed little feet;
And of the hessian sacking that they use to keep themselves warm,
In the shadows of the corners trying to live out the bitter storm.
And those people who prey on them, the vile and the foul,
Who hide behind the smile their horrid evil livid scowl.
I recall living in then working in a kitchen for the poor,
For the old and the decrepit who queued every night at the door.
They used to call them soup kitchens but all they served was swill,
That I wouldn’t feed a dog on, ‘cause it would simply make him ill.
There were dormitories dark and gloomy containing many beds,
With mattresses filled with straw but no pillows for their heads.
You placed your clothing underneath the mattress on which you slept,
Curled up one end to form a pillow it did not pay to be inept.
What you left out would not be there in the morning when you awoke,
“First up best dressed” was oft the phrase, the stated common quote.
Men died here in the darkness all alone with no known kin,
They were soldiers from the second world war and others just as grim.
No one seemed to know these folk who lived in the parks and streets,
But who came into the dormitories to avoid the winter sleets.
I helped wash them down and shaved a few but some of them died,
And I who did not know a soul could do nothing else but cry.
We picked them up from the streets, from alleyways’ in plain view,
Mostly drunk and destitute, sometimes bruised and battered too.
They were often robbed and bashed and kicked of all they did own,
Cigarette butts picked up from the gutter around their battered bodies thrown.
In “The House of Bricks” they mustered on every winter’s freezing night,
To eat the swill and go to bed their demons there to fight.
For me, a boy of sixteen-years-old living on this great expanse of Earth,
I learnt about real life far from the village of my birth.
I learnt all the tricks of the trade how they snuck in all their grog,
How the addicts hid their dangerous drugs that would elude a sniffing dog.
This was a world most did not know existed in their town;
Such was the ignorance of the folk who sang praises to the crown.
There were sly grog shops and illegal betting behind many a private door,
And sleazy night clubs where the rich preyed on the vulnerable poor.
It was where prostitution beckoned men from the so called “upper class,”
Where murders went unnoticed and diamonds were made of simple glass.
They tried to give them religion those who languished on the street,
Though with genuine love it was given, it only met with ill defeat
For God had been vanquished from their minds many years before,
And most of them still remembered the recent Korean War.
It was not religion that they needed it was understanding and a friend,
For without the will to climb back up they would never try to mend.
That’s all you could do, offer trust, and try to understand,
It didn’t take me long to know that most would not accept a hand.
It was hard to know why they despaired and drank until appalled,
But the day would come when I would know how easy it is to fall.
How do we manage the population without famine and cruel war,
How do we all fit on the planet if we make healthy all the poor.
How do we feed the growing millions all good folk wish to save,
Who has the choicest answer who wants to step up and be brave?
Will the Pope find more excuses why they are breaking sacred law,
Why they are pulling out changes, from beneath the bottom draw?
Will loud cocky sods like Brownie the Prime Minister of the Brits,
Who has all the answers for Obama saying his country is the pits?
Oh, so long they have longed to say it; the Stars and Stripes are down,
What a silly little maggot; Obama must view him as a clown.
Oh so many wish for failure but know with this ship they flounder too,
So there are all these ‘showy’ meetings to free the Lions from the zoo.
Obama may not be a Messiah, and could never be a king,
But behind his eyes there is a fire with a very controlled and potent sting.
It is foolish to devalue America, it is foolish to run Americans down,
For they will jump right up and bight you; turn your smile into a frown.
You can speak ill of their President but speak not to him of doubt
That his country cannot recover from this historical little clout.
This is a man whose folk new slavery who rose from it so proud,
Who knows all about depression it rings in his ears quite loud.
He’s not a man with vision splendid who has forgotten all his past,
He is a man who has the energy that is needed for him to last;
Perhaps a socialist reformer ; perhaps a man with just a dream,
But he’s unique and is the future, a nations choice to lead the team.
We still say God Bless America in this land where I still live,
For no matter who it is who leads them that splendid country has much to give.
So let’s look beyond the bullshit, the scaremongering and the lies,
And build a nation for our children lest this generation they despise.
We need more positive thinking for taking sides devalues thought,
We can all complain of failings that leaves us worried and distraught
But what are your thoughts on fixes, or is your argument so bad,
That you can’t back it with positives; now that would be quite sad.
Do we recognize the challenge what it is we have to do?
Do we have a basic structure that we can all work together to accrue?
There is no purpose in supposing, nor in assuming things to be,
What in those brilliant minds of yours can you conjure up to see?
Comparisons do not matter they prove but hollow points,
Its truth and facts where’re looking for despite who the world appoints.
Left and right, extreme and trite it matters little in the mix,
It does not matter who it is who is backing up the six,
So long as all the speakers, seek out a common goal to reach,
That is not swallowed up in the rhetoric that the politicians preach.
What are we prepared to give up; what are prepared to lose,
Would it not be a simple fact, 'twould be opposites we’d choose.
There would always be a left and right and thus a long debate,
For then it would be numbers flowing from interstate to state.
It would have to be an agreement the combination of the two,
Which given all the history would be impossible to do.
There simply is no answer this is how the world evolved,
War is a fact of life and we humans will not get it solved,
For war is part of the whole structure without it there’s no peace,
Though peace cannot happen unless war itself doth cease.
Nature finds a thousand ways to kill us; war is one of the events,
The more we try to stop it the more we lose our common sense.
The only answer is for space ships to attack from out of space,
Which might combine us in a union for the survival of the race.
I wonder does it matter if the whole world is destroyed,
It would rid us of all famine and no troops would be deployed.
We would not be injured and diseased nor suffer pain,
And there would be no one left, to criticize and complain.
We’d all be gone; kaput! All our woes and fears devoured,
Just a cold and empty space where the Earth had once flowered;
Just another light extinguished in the vastness of space,
Everything consumed by darkness, all the dreadful human race.
There will always be a hunter tracking down his prey,
Always be a dreamer who kneels upon the ground to pray.
There will ever be destruction pain and love and peace,
Forever until the world at end causes everything to cease.
You may wish you could change it but no you never can,
For like me you’re just a creature who like me was named a man.
©Copyright April 5, 2009 by Colin F. Jones