Little Poem #9

Mother

Strangled you, lay beaten blue

The fellow you claim, who would do you good,

did.

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Little Poem #1

Home

I had given Suffering, weary and drunk,

a place where it could rest its dead beat head.

 x

“Once inside you may find a bed…

It is the one with sheets washed and pressed,

and pyjamas, neatly folded, resting

as peaceful as the dead.”

 x

He smiled, not as clueless as he is toothless and said:

“Is it a dead man’s bed, where I shall rest by down-trodden head?”

 x

I turned to him and said:

“Would you rather care to share my bed?”

x