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(Abridged)of how she / on roller skates / went from Buckingham / to the East End, starting fires / because all the Nazi / bombs were duds. Donning her pearly button coat / what a sight she must / have been, torch / in hand / burning old London town. Germans might be better / in bed, but bombs / full of confetti / simply wont do / she thought. So off she went, / as they hid / behind blackout shades / in subway tunnels relaxing, / torch in hand / rollerskates whizzing. / NO tear will I shed, nor pint deposit one on. just another old lady, lowered into the cold wet ground of England. (Jerry E. Barta, poet-Gardener, poems titled "Gasp." (UNABRIDGED) So shes finally dead, she and her cauldron, gin on the outside, her rolling skates, hung upon the wall, all those trips, from the East End to Buckingham. Just another old lady, afterall, but I´m not morning her, but myself actually, and to tell you, of the two others, who stared at the looking glass in the pot, skin deep, OZ ooze. Mourning is for fools, morning is not, a miracle, tis when we awake, she cannot. No hot tea. Lust forgotten, or was it love? ( In America, I am not allowed love, its too risky. I might eventually evolve beyound being a parking meter rather than that as a beggar, wearing lust upon my sleeve. Put a coin in, to show time, for the rich vehicles, to park. Banked on my green cloth, their balls ricochet, sighs the Earth. The years go by, my face a tarpaulin, the Queen Mother had it better, buttered laddies, dancing lassies...) Ah those Wilde Horses at Dianes passing, bucking rein. Poor dear Mum, all she got was wet toast. The bombs fell, all duds, so the roller skates! Torch in hand, from East End to Buckingham. So we are left dastardly, dreadfully with Miz Prune. Who will sing, I am told, in torch singer sheath dress, sequins blazing, to the masses, "All You Need Is Love." In London. England. Apparently, we have the same problem. J.B. |
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