My Mentor is a Tree

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber 

Today’ poem is not strictly autobiographical, but the story it tells is one to which I could only too easily relate when told me by a friend many years ago; apart from having taken some poetic license, I tell it here much as it was told to me then. 

“Courage is fire, bullying is smoke.” Benjamin Disraeli 

There is no shame in asking for help. Nor is it ‘grassing’ to expose a bully, just common sense. You might even be doing them a favour; anyone shown the error of their ways stands a good chance of becoming a better person. 

It is not only children who get bullied, of course.  Here in the UK, a National Bullying Helpline offers help and advice regarding bullying in the workplace, bullying at school and online harassment; details online.

 

 MY MENTOR IS A TREE 

A local park, solitary tree
child looking up who should be
at school;
Tall, grown old, branches
reaching out by way of expressing
mixed feelings 

Small and sad, schoolboy
crying over a family photograph,
takes a penknife
to scratch a tell-tale heart
on rough bark, rain clouds closing in,
world growing dark 

Tree submits - no defence
against human nature when all’s
said and done;
Child climbs, terra out mind,
bully-fear soon starting to fall away
like autumn 

A hovering skylark lets out a cry
to chicks-in-the nest making ready
to fly...
Tears for Mum, Dad, and pal
teddy bear as well, but ready to leap
into freefall 

Earth Mother whispers in an ear,
“Look! Beyond a runny nose, a way
to live, FREE
of bully-fear. Tell someone,
then see the rats, how they do run,
their turn...  

So, I did just that, found a voice
to tell family and school, bullies outed
and humiliated,
all inhumanity but heading for a fall
once mind-body-spirit reasons ways to get
the better of it. 

It’s still there, the tree. Sometimes,
I revisit, whenever alien forces dragging
me down;
Sometimes, too, a skylark joins us,
with a peace song for all nature’s children
of whom I’m one  

Copyright R. N. Taber 1998; 2021

 

[Note: The origin of this poem is ‘Heaven Can Wait’ that I wrote in 1998 and which appears in my first collection, Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; it would be incorrect to call it a ‘revised’ version as I have made substantial changes, so have chosen not to use the same title.] RT

On Waking Up (or not) to Facts and Fictions

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I will be 76 later this year and was very saddened, only recently, to hear that the grandson of an old school friend had died of a drugs overdose; he was just 23 years-old and had been an addict since his mid-teens. His younger brother had also experimented with drugs, but not to the same extent and a period in rehab saved him from becoming permanently addicted; he even went on to achieve a university degree, and is now happily settled with his partner and a job he loves. 

I guess wanting to be free of any addiction is not enough, it has to be fuelled by a sense of purpose. 

Years ago, I asked a former drug addict what, for him, had been the attraction of drugs. I expected him to say for the thrill of it. Instead, he answered with one word, “Escapism.” I understood the principle only too well, having been an avid reader of fiction since early childhood by way of escaping from certain realities with which, for the life of me, I couldn’t get to grips, including aspects of myself that I didn’t have the experience to understand and made me feel uncomfortable; during my formative years, these included an undiagnosed hearing loss and untreated speech defect. Later, I would have to deal with being gay, a fact from which family and society attitudes in those days compelled me to run away for nearly twenty years. 

A brief stay in Australia in the late 1960’s was a form of escapism. I felt guilty and cowardly until I met an old aboriginal man with whom I shared confidences I had bottled up for years. “There is no shame in running away,” he told me, “Sometimes we need to run away to find out just what it is we’re running away from. Only then can we decide to tackle it head-on or keep running. Waste of a life, running away. It can only ever end in tears... or worse, much worse...” he added thoughtfully. 

Indeed, it can, and I owe that man my life because I was offered drugs only a few days later, by which time I was able to refuse, having made up my mind to clear up the mess I’d made of my life so far, and stop running. A week earlier, I may well have been desperate enough to choose one of the worst forms of escapism, not uncommon among those of us made to feel but ‘losers’ by such circumstances as likely as not to see us fail to rise above its growing pains. 

ON WAKING UP (OR NOT) TO FACTS AND FICTIONS 

Bright and sunny my days
in the park where once I loved to play
among peers of yesteryear,
relieved just to put any worries on hold,
leave reality behind awhile,
relaxed and happy in the company
of friends, left to explore
brave new worlds of such inspired imagination
as lent us a temporary freedom 

Dark clouds threatening rain
would send us running hell for leather
to find any shelter on hand,
still concerned with keeping reality at bay
a growing anxiety taking hold
of a mind-body-spirit, too easily tempted
by mixed growing pains
to explore the potential of other makeshift worlds
by way of latch-key passwords 

The passage of time grown dark
and scary, the only sure relief on hand
at the prick of a needle,
lending me all the thrills of such yesteryears
as would have had me access
a kinder world than ill-met by sunny days
offering a temporary freedom
from stormy weather, mind-body-spirit left to fight
that incorrigible demon, hindsight 

Alone in the park where once I so loved playing,
just another druggie, no happy ending 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

Winds of the Day OR A Take on (Collective) Responsibility

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There have been several suspected terrorist attacks in Europe within a week, the latest in Vienna which left three people dead. The jihadist group, Islamic State, is thought to be responsible.  Our thoughts and sympathies will invariably home in on the families and friends of the dead and anyone injured (physically and/ or mentally).

So, what provokes extremist views and/ or actions in any of us? It is not good enough to suggest, as some do, that provocation excuses responsibility in the sense that we are being manipulated by forces, emotions (or people) over which we have no control.

It happens, of course; from time to time circumstances may cause us to lose control, to some extent or another, but that doesn’t mean we are excused responsibility even in the most mitigating of circumstances.

The chances are, the worst punishment for anyone unable to control themselves at any point in time to the extent we say or do something regrettable, is a sense of guilt we will never quite be able to quite shrug off; however hard we try to justify certain actions to others, we know, at heart, we have to accept responsibility.

Jihadists may well believe they are justified in killing any person or institution that, as they see it, offends their religion, but all religions preach peace and love, whatever reservations they may have about other religions, so …?

As regular readers well know, I don’t subscribe to any mainstream religion; we must agree to differ, although I am neither atheist nor agnostic in so far as I consider myself something of a Pantheist at heart.

This poem is a kenning.

WINDS OF THE DAY or A TAKE ON (COLLECTIVE) RESPONSIBILITY

From birth to grave,
we infiltrate mind-body-spirit,
vulnerable to temptation,
strong on certain other life forces
anxious for unity,
calling for clarity where confusion,
reality over illusion;
logic, though certain to have its say,
losing out to winds of the day 

Life forces, colluding
to sustain the human condition
for better, for worse,
in its sickness and in health, for richer,
for poorer, no matter who
or where, regardless race, rank, politics
religion or sexuality
nor above engaging with such hypocrisy
as shames much of humanity 

Kin to genius, invention
and progress, but (as likely as not)
inclined to muddy
the waters of our motivation with pain
for paying attention
to certain critics jealous of any ambition
as may result in fame
and fortune, while determined to get a slice
whatever it takes, at any price

We are such thought processes as following
any instructions our host may be giving

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

 

 

 

 

L-I-F-E, Management Issues

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2014.

Isuspect Covid-19 s more of a struggle for people living  in big cities than in rural areas, especially for those of us who live alone?

Perhaps it is because I am growing old, but I take far less pleasure from living in London than I used to.  Even so, my life is here.  While I take much pleasure in its wealth of leisure facilities and history as and when I can, I remain acutely aware that I am passively complicit in this mad world of ours going about an everyday business that leaves much to be desired...

London, like so many cities and suburbs is overcrowded and the air quality leaves as much to be desired as the neighbourliness and sense of community that once existed, and now has become yet another endangered species wherever it remains, as it does, even in certain pockets of modern society. (West can learn much from East in this respect.

I suspect we all run a familiar gamut (to one degree or another) in cities and large towns across the world. In recent years, fake news and social media make a significant contribution to personal anxieties and a sense sometimes of being on a treadmill 

Whatever, all we can do is take each day as it comes, nurture a positive-thinking mindset, and make the best of what life offers rather than whinge about the worst ...

L-I-F-E, MANAGEMENT ISSUES

Manic streets, paved with eggshells

(Oh, so politically correct...)

Big Issue drumming up passing glances

(Equal Ops prime suspect.)

Beggar and dog at the supermarket

(On the outside, looking in…)

Tailbacks on the home run, a nightmare

(No respect for Car is King.)

Blind man making his own way home

(Small change for a pickpocket...)

Arthritic bag lady taking up a park bench

(Move along, security alert!)

Hey, I bet that one’s a terrorist, see?

(Looks foreign to me...)

Thin is sexy or so we’re asked to believe

(Gorging on glossy magazines...) 

School kid mugged for a smart phone

(Better not to get involved...)

Teenage lovers sharing well-used needles

(What about HIV-AIDS?)

Shoplifters killing off the High Street

(Business as usual...)

.

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of the poem appears in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007. For any overseas readers, who may not know, The Big Issue is a newspaper sold on the streets of the UK and other countries by homeless people; it gives them a regular income, and more importantly helps restore their self-confidence while preserving their self-respect: 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Big_Issue ]

The Anniversary

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2015.

As the UK - along with the rest of the world - continues to cope with the Covid-19 coronavirus and the subsequent stresses and strains it imposes on our everyday lives (as if there aren't enough of those in modern times anyway) crime continues to flourish, not least on our streets where tensions boil over and express themselves in a terrible violence. 

There are no excuses; reasons, yes, but no excuses for allowing the kind of pressure most if not all of us are under to get the better of common sense, not to mention common decency and respect for human life. Killers ultimately destroy their own lives as well as their victim's. As for pleading 'justice'; it is not for any of us to play judge and jury to the extent of taking the law into our own hands, much as we may well be tempted.

[Update: January, 2020]: Official figures released in April 2019 reveal that knife crime has surged to the highest levels since records began in England and Wales; worse, it continues to rise.] RNT

Memories are precious and love never dies. But let’s face it; it can never compensate for not having our loved ones with us and watching them get on with their lives.

Today’s poem is for families and friends left behind when a loved one dies. It is especially for parents who have lost sons and daughter; no parent should have to bury their child. Whatever the circumstances, death is always a tragedy for those left behind, but what can be worse than to be left with the image of a loved one meeting a violent end or never even knowing what really happened or having no body to bury…?

All knife and gun crime, but especially hate crime, and particularly among young people must stop.

While many parents, teachers, social and youth workers take every opportunity to lead intelligent, sensitive, debate so these killers realise they are not just killing a person but amputating the limb of a vital, living network of family and friends that will never be quite the same again.

There is nothing ‘cool’ about street crime. Young people who think it takes carrying a weapon to achieve street cred or even as a means of self-defence should bear in mind that someone could get so easily killed or suffer serious injury…and it could well be them.

Nor is time spent in prison anything to boast about. I once spoke with a young man who had spent time in prison but chose to turn his life around. I asked how it was in prison. He said unhesitatingly, ‘There wasn’t a day I didn’t wish I was dead.’ Thankfully, he is alive and getting on with his life in a very positive way. 

Every killer has a choice. Tragically, victims killed in the course of violent crime on our streets have no choices left. (I read somewhere that most killers regret their actions, but as my mother used to say, regrets are cold comfort in any language...) Meanwhile. family and friends are left struggling with what-might-have-been...

THE ANNIVERSARY 

No grave to tend, but a street corner

to leave flowers, recall

how here it was where last we'd 

laugh off our being so much in love

as if it were child's play

Leaves, scattered over paving stones

where once we children

loved to play, I-n-n-o-c-e-n-c-e

like the tail of a kite in a feisty breeze

all but free to go its own way

Come twilight, more haunting shadows

marking time before darkness

effects its cover-up for humanity,

half the world sleeping, the other dying

for a chance to have its say

No grave to tend, but a street corner

where anniversary flowers

can but hope to message passers-by 

how sick minds think it could well be fun 

to stick a knife in someone...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2018     

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title, 'The Kite' in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2002]

Street Crime, a Coward's Agenda OR Society, Sick at Heart?

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

The rise in knife crime and street crime generally in recent years - especially among young people - is a tragic (and scary) indictment of UK society in a still relatively young 21^st century. While there is no single cause, cuts in policing levels has meant there is little if any visible police presence on our streets while cuts in funding for youth services has almost certainly contributed to a growing drugs culture in many areas which, in turn, can be directly related to rising crime rates there.

It is all very well for politicians to point out that statistics (who trusts those?) point to the overall rate of violent crime having take a downward turn, but that is small comfort to the families and friends of people (all ages) losing their lives every day; for parents, especially, the loss of a child is a life sentence, but to know that a son or daughter died needlessly, in violent circumstances must cause unimaginable pain.

I have been beaten up in the distant past for being gay, but live to tell the tale at 73 years-old. A nervous breakdown at 30 led to a suicide attempt which, thankfully, failed or I would have missed the best years of my life; among its ups and downs, enough of the former to put the latter in the shade.

All violent crimes denying victims the basic human right to follow their chosen paths in life are tragedies for which no words can do justice; the younger the victim, though, so much worse the tragedy in the sense that these are being deprived of the opportunity to enjoy life, explore and make something of their natural potential, become the person they were meant to be by virtue of nature and nurture. It is a sick mind-body-spirit, indeed, that commits any violent crime, the cure (and cause) for which can often be found to lie at the heart of the very society that has fallen foul of it.

Given that the perpetrators as well as victims of the current wave of violent, especially knife crime here in the UK are young people, society is clearly failing them, and society is the perennial you-me-us; that’s parents, teachers, politicians, religious leaders, police, social workers and anyone with a social conscience. We need to identify and tackle its root causes, each in our own way, and share any findings if only to discover how to prevent a worsening crisis getting even worse.

“There will be no justice as long as man will stand with a knife or with a gun and destroy those who are weaker than he is.” - Isaac Bashevis Singer

“The knife is more dangerous than the hand and the knife can be in either hand.” 

Frank Herbert, Dune

STREET CRIME, A COWARD'S AGENDA or SOCIETY, SICK AT HEART?

Hanging out in the park

with friends, enjoying music

on a new iPad,

putting the world to rights,

planting seeds

of love and peace along the way,

and nurturing them

Aware of others in the park,

but only for their long shadows

in spring sunshine

like benign ghosts looking on,

needing to feel alive

if only for sharing someone else’s

precious moments

In a bubble of personal space;

past-present-future,

a glorious panorama embracing

all mind-body-spirit

seeks to inspire once its flowers

come into season, each to their own

as nature intended

Only a fool uses a knife to burst

a bubble just to see

sunshine being swallowed whole

by a predatory darkness,

mind-body-spirit engaging

with time and space to book its place

among the immortals

Looking on from a passing cloud

at the funeral below

of a young person cruelly cut down

in their prime, victim

of someone’s desire to make a point

if only to earn him (or her) a sick sense

of self-importance

At a graveside, no hot tears shed

can heal a broken heart

that may well mend (in part, at least)

since love never dies,

its presence in Gardens of Memory

the world over, inspiring us to keep faith

with it, now and always

As for any who play at being a god

by taking a life meant

to run its natural course, be sure

(regrets or none …)

their remains will grow but as weeds,

mind-body-spirit the poorer soil for want

of either nutrients or nurture

Copyright R N Taber 2019

Blood on the Bread OR No Street Cred, Only Shame

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update 1/1/2018): Here in London during New Years Eve and early on New Years Day, four young people have died in unrelated knife attacks! More wasted lives, more families left grieving...]

[Update 21/2/2018: Two more young men, victims of knife crime, died yesterday near where I live in Kentish Town, London NW5. So tragic, and senseless!] Two more families and their friends left to grieve.

The villanelle below was written on June 29th 2008. On the previous day, another young person had been fatally stabbed on London’s streets. Tragically, the poem is even more relevant now than it was then.

Official figures released by the Office of National Statistics (ONS)  in April 2017 showed a very significant increase in violent crime across the UK, much of it gang-related. Knife crime alone had increased by 14 per cent year on year by 2016 to levels not seen since 2011; a leap from 28,427 knife offences to 32,448.

The greater tragedy is that gang-related violent crime remains prevalent on the streets of many countries worldwide; such a waste of human lives where, more often than not, contemporary society fails to provide constructive alternatives offering potential solutions.

Whatever, these people commit violent acts by choice and the buck stops with them. If they have a conscience at all, they need to come to terms it, start steering a kinder course through life before they, too, become just another fatality statistic... and what kind of footprint is that to leave behind?

Society as a whole needs to be less complacent, more judgemental and remember hat actions speak louder than words; it is no time to be treading on eggshells for fear of offending the many high profile socio-cultural-religious bigots among us.

‘His [Jack's] mind was crowded with memories; memories of the knowledge that had come to them when they closed in on the struggling pig, knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink.’ - William Golding [Lord of the Flies, 1954]

  

BLOOD ON THE BREAD or NO STREET CRED, ONLY SHAME

Don’t carry a gun or knife,
a young friend said;
show more respect for life

I want a career and a wife
(and a four-poster bed)
don’t carry a gun or knife

Let years of pain and strife
stand peace on its head?
Show more respect for life

Though gang rats run rife,
and blood on the bread,
don’t carry a gun or knife

Let me look, dress how I like
if it makes me feel good;
show more respect for life

Streets of fear, tears of grief,
saw him shot him dead;
Don’t carry a gun or knife;
show more respect for life

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2017

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title 'Blood on the Bread'' in Poetic Expressions, Poetry Now, 2009 and subsequently in my own collection, 'On the Battlefields of Love' - Assembly Books, 2008.] 

New Kids on the Block

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

A slightly different version of today’s poem was published in various anthologies and poetry magazines (1997-2001) before appearing in my first major collection.

I have made numerous revisions to various poems over the years, some minor others major. While most revisions appear on the blogs, I hope (eventually) to publish revised editions of each collection in e-format.

Now, at first glance, nothing seems to have changed much in 20+ years, especially in the sense that a significant proportion of children and young people seem to be having as raw a deal as ever. (Oh, but haven't I said that before once, twice, maybe even a thousand times?) We must encourage our young people to believe in themselves and trust their own judgement a learning curve some young people miss out on altogether ... and whose fault is that ... partly their own, yes, but society needs must accept its fair share of the blame also, and society is you-me-us.

Could it be perhaps that if we all try harder to keep our own little piece of the world clean, safe, and a good place to be, all the other pieces may yet come together in a more bearable, worthwhile  whole…for everyone? 

So many people, rather than act on what their inner self is telling them, prefer to take their cue from the Scarlett O'Hara character in Margaret Mitchell's epic novel, Gone With the Wind. The heroine is always telling herself, 'I'll think about that tomorrow.' It is a common human tragedy that, for some of us tomorrow, never comes...

NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK 

Gone shopping,

kids left running wild,

trolley rage mums

all smiles (dad’s at the pub);

dog mess everywhere,

kids busy shooting pool

at late-night venues

when not hanging out

on street corners

On the pavement,

collide with some kid

on a bike (my fault

of course, forgot to look);

knives out

in the playground,

acid in the park,

kids chasing death

for a lark

Cops in their stride

(‘Come on, let’s get even.’);

kids on a joyride

to Heaven, street siren

screaming, ‘Amen’;

Mum’s off her trolley,

Dad’s on the booze,

angel on the sideboard,

yesterday’s news …

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Disaffected Youth, Wasted Lives

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

The majority of young people are decent, honest, and hardworking, but there is also high unemployment among young people and that leaves some disaffected with society so they join gangs or become targets for radicalization; violence and/ or drug abuse and / or criminal behaviour becomes a way of life until something (or someone) happens that helps them back into mainstream life and a more positive, fulfilling sense of personal identity.

While there is no excuse for violence, it is high time politicians, religious and community leaders among others (parents, too) looked more closely at its roots and took responsibility where society is failing so many of its young people. Some do, but rhetoric is not enough; actions really do speak louder than words. 

This poem is a villanelle, written in 2014 so its content is nothing new; what is new are successive cutbacks in spending (here in the UK at least, since the financial crisis of 2008)) on such related national and local Government budgets as make provision for policing, extra curricular activities in schools, youth centres, apprenticeships, grants for professional and vocational training places etc. I rest my case ...

DISAFFECTED YOUTH, WASTED LIVES

Got my hands on a knife, a gun,

spread the word,

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Shouting at just about everyone,

no one heard;

got my hands on a knife, a gun

Needed to prove I was someone,

earn street cred;

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

At first it gave me a buzz, was fun,

but all that disappeared;

got my hands on a knife, a gun

A gangster movie set let me down,

(mustn't show I'm scared)

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Macho mates weep to see my crown

dripping blood ...

Got my hands on a knife, a gun,

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem is a villanelle, written in 2010 so its content is nothing new; what is new are successive cutbacks in spending (here in the UK at least since the financial crisis of 2008) on such related national and local Government budgets as make provision for policing, extra curricular activities in schools, youth centres, apprenticeships, grants for professional and vocational training places etc.]

Ego in Denial

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A loud, talkative if successful businessman attached himself to me during an overnight stay at a hotel years ago, and offered me this advice over countless pints of lager: ‘In business, you have to aim high, be a real go-getter, stay focused on what you want and go for it, no matter what…or who. And shall I tell you what’s so great about life at the top, young man? It’s that you don’t need anyone, but everyone needs you, depends on you, for whatever reason. There's no feeling like it because you don't need anyone, you're top dog.'

Regarding the latter point, I could see he had all but convinced himself it was true. Even so, methinks he did protest just that little too much, and needless to say I was no more impressed with him or his 'advice' than than I would be now, some 30+ years on.

As for sexuality, it has been my experience that gay-friendly straight men are 100% confident in their own sexuality so have no problem with anyone else's while the average homophobe nowhere near shares that same self-confidence, resorting to discriminatory bluster to cover their own backs, so to speak....

Thank goodness for alter ego forever nudging us towards home truths, ego would prefer to ignore.

This poem is a villanelle.

EGO IN DENIAL

Don’t need anyone telling me

the best way to get by.

(Loneliness feeding on me.)

Voices cruelly, mockingly,

demanding, why…?

Don’t need anyone telling me

Choices, always goading me

to expose a white lie.

(Loneliness feeding on me.)

Who's to stop me running free,

though a sandman try?

Don’t need anyone telling me

Scathing home truths would see

I get real, brave up, deny

loneliness feeding on me…

Love, it’s a life-and-death poetry

milking rhyme and reason dry;

(Don’t need anyone telling me;

loneliness, feeding on me...)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'The Hungry Heart' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Picking Up The Tab

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I have often been called a dinosaur because I steer well clear of so-called 'designer' drugs. Well, for a start, you never know what you’re getting or how well (or badly) your body will cope.

Take ‘ecstasy’ for example. Few people have suffered much by way of harmful effects from taking it. Yet, I recall Leah Betts, a schoolgirl from Latchingdon in Essex (UK) whose death on November 19th 1995, shortly after her 18th birthday, resulted in extensive media coverage of and panic about those same so-called ‘designer’ drugs. (Sadly, neither of these lasted long and complacency - especially among young people -  very soon set in again.) 

Photo: A November 1995 photo of Leah Betts in a coma that was widely circulated in the press at the time; copied from Wikipedia.

On November 11th 1995, Leah took an MDMA (‘ecstasy’) tablet, and then drank approximately 7 litres of water in a 90 minute period. Four hours later, she collapsed into a coma, from which she did not recover.

I never knew or met Leah Betts, but perhaps you will think of her when you are tempted to try this drug or that on the grounds that ‘everyone else does’ therefore  ‘it can’t possibly do me any harm.’ (Oh, no? Who says…?)

Apart from the fact that there is a lot of rubbish being pushed on the streets these days (this dinosaur keeps his ear to the ground) there has not been time for sufficient research into the long term effects of even seemingly harmless drugs.

Now, everyone loves to party and (too often) drugs are part of the party scene. Now, if you want to play Russian roulette with drugs, go ahead. Just remember, though, that it could well be your family and friends picking up the tab for it for the rest of their lives. 

Have fun, YES, but play safe and say ‘NO’ to drugs. 

Oh, it’s been said before, of course, but countless funerals and ruined lives suggest a lot of people didn’t listen…and are still not listening. But me, I’m just a dinosaur. Why should I care? Well, for a start, one of those funerals and ruined lives was that of someone I loved.  

Love never dies, but lives on in us, a positive life force to be carried over from generation to generation in the form of a posthumous consciousness. But, let's face it, there can be no real compensation for the loss of a loved one unless it is helping to prevent the tragic waste of another human life and all its potential.

PICKING UP THE TAB

Bitter-sweet, a dark place

where I dream of you; 

harsher than a gull’s cry, 

its silence

Treading a swell 

of despair,

and it’s a rare angel 

who’ll care much 

(if at all) for the fool 

sleeping off 

the hangover of a lifetime

bargained for 

with ecstasy, paid for

oh, so dearly! 

Fine feathers, shot down 

in glorious flight,

a fall harsher on the ear

for its silence...

And who’s to blame?

Copyright R. N. Taber, 1999; 2012

[Note: A slightly different  version of this poem first appeared in an anthology Reach for the Truth, Poetry Today (Forward Press)1999 and subsequently in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, 2000.]

Macho, Losing the Plot

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I have written about street crime in a number of poems. Tragically, it persists. At the same time, I feel very encouraged by feedback from readers of all ages and socio-cultural-religious backgrounds. Hopefully, some (especially young people) may read this post and think on...

Overheard on a bus:

1^st YOUTH (boasts): Any fool can get hold of a gun or a knife if they really want. It’s easy.

2^nd YOUTH (grins): I carry a knife. Anyone crosses me, and I’ll do ’em. It’s just so easy, yeah? (Laughs)

GIRL: (unimpressed): Yeah, yeah, easy come, easy go. Here today, dead tomorrow, you mean. So what’s that all about then?

2^nd YOUTH: We’re talking self-defence here, girl. No one’s saying anybody needs to get killed, for crying out loud.

GIRL: (shrugs) No one ever does until it happens. A bit late then, don’t you think?

1^st YOUTH: (aggressively) You don’t understand.  Being a neet ain’t street cred enough any more. You have to show you mean business. You gotta get real or go down.

2^nd YOUTH: Give her a break, bro. She’s a girl. Girls haven’t a clue. They don’t understand what we guys are up against.

.

GIRL: Too right, I don’t understand...

At which point the bus arrived at my destination and I had to leave them to it.

Like many of us, I worry a lot about street crime, especially the naïve attitude of some young people towards it. Thankfully, most young people have the good sense to steer clear of guns and knives. Tragically, a significant minority (especially among a growing number of so-called NEETS) continue to see either or both as trendy as designer gear; a very sad, sick, and dangerous trend. Let's be clear, ... there is nothing macho about street crime, especially when it involves acts of acts of violence, even murder.

Every society needs to believe in all its young people - and reach out to them in every way it can  - or it cannot expect all those young people to believe in that society.

[Note: NEET is an acronym (a derogatory and inflammatory one in my opinion) bandied about by politicians here in the UK and in some other countries that refers to young people not in education, employment or training.]

This poem is a villanelle.

MACHO, LOSING THE PLOT

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun,

spread the word...

Never asked who'll carry my coffin

Shouting at just about everyone,
no one heard...

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun

Felt the need to prove I'm 'someone'
(must have been mad)

Never asked who'll carry my coffin

Life was a buzz, a big bundle of fun,

but all that disappeared...

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun

Peers were always putting me down,

suggesting I was scared,

never asked who'll carry my coffin

First mistake, second chance blown
(among worms interred);

swapped my knife for a loaded gun,

never asked who’ll carry my coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[

Alcoholic Anonymous

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Stress is never easy to deal with, and few of us can cope alone. We need help and should not be afraid or embarrassed to ask for it;ironically, when we most need help the human ego so  fears rejection that it will often go for self-destruct.

There are no quick fixes, and drug abuse of any kind is never the answer. 

Too many people are far too complacent about their daily alcohol intake. I am not unsympathetic. Even so, alcoholics, like all drug addicts ruin not only their own lives but effectively take family and friends more than part of the way with them.

Why do people become addicts.More often than not it is the old cause-and-effect syndrome. Discover why, and there is a chance the addict may yet be saved from the worst.

The modern world is fast and furious. Not everyone can keep up. We need to understand once and for all that there is no shame in asking for help. Some fool once commented to me that asking for help is a coward's way; on the contrary, it is heroic.

Oh, and never think for one minute that alcohol is not a drug.

Alcoholics Anonymous is an international organization that can help alcoholics help themselves. Here in the UK, call 0800 9177 650 (for free) or email: help@aamail.org NOW. If you think or know you have a serious drink problem, taking this small first step is a giant leap towards getting your life back.

ALCOHOLIC ANONYMOUS 

Like a fish out of water gasping for air,

clinging on for dear life to a cheap

can of beer, almost past caring any more,

glad to let myself fall though unwilling

to take you with me (you deserve better)

flailing, half-dead, but left to my own

meagre devices. May survive or may not,

each to our own choices, whether it be

win, lose, drift along woebegone, food

for fishes or some poor fisherman casting

a line from posterity’s shelf, shades

of myself before I went looking for more

(in a can of beer) bored with the sheer

predictability of family, job, hooks reeling

me into a limbo now serving me up

on a plate of a street where friends seem

to have forgotten who I am so I don’t

try to catch their eyes any more, doesn’t

come as any surprise any more, don’t

even want to think beyond the next drink ,

avoid local bars in case someone sees

(Just one more, bartender, PLEASE…)

Floating face down in a sea of algae,

not a smile to cling to, no hint of caring

in dead eyes staring straight ahead,

waves of indifference crashing on me,

putting me down, hauling me up, only

to toss me back with all the contempt

of a fisherman for minnows competing

for Angler of the Year, a title bringing

fame and beer (for years) at the local pub

where I used to drink my fill; too often

some would say - and how I find myself

here, as good as dead in the water

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; 2nd ed. in preparation.]

Extracts From A Prison Diary

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Listening to a group of youths chatting amongst themselves on a bus, I was appalled to hear how they all but revered one of their friends who had recently been jailed for a knife attack on someone. 

I bet they wouldn’t think prison was so good for street cred if they were there, locked up for much if not most of the time and deprived of their freedom all the time...

The majority of young people are decent, hard working, good people. The tragic irony is that the relatively few bad apples in the proverbial barrel have the same potential if only they would acknowledge the common sense in getting their priorities right, the courage to resist peer pressure from the wrong parties and make the most of that potential instead of whining about how the better opportunities never come their way.

Prevention is better than cure. True, luck can play a part in whether or not opportunity knocks at our door, but mostly we have to take a good look around, see what there is to be had that we want and is worth wanting, and ... 

GO FOR IT.

Did I say it was easy ...?

EXTRACTS FROM A PRISON DIARY

A neighbour slipped out to buy bread

and…was shot dead;

Hoodies cheered, one waving a gun;

(Who’s next? Could be anyone...)

I thought I knew that hood inside-out

till I heard a devil yell, “Shoot!”

A face in shadow, but I knew the voice;

what happened next, my choice

Mates say guns are a must (gang culture),

a necessary feel-good factor;

suddenly, blood on my designer shoes;

heads cops win, tails I lose

Emergency sirens blasting at my head,

(Like it was me shot someone dead?)

I knelt by the body and called out a name;

the only answer, howls of shame

I was told to wear a white shirt, black tie

for the funeral, but it was a lie;

what difference if I’m dressed up smart?

Better jeans, hood, a caring heart

Later (crying in cuffs) taken back to prison,

old mates, some hoodies, looking on;

Drugs, booze, skipping school, what matter?

It was my finger on the trigger

The idea of prison hadn’t bothered me

(I’d seen cool shows on TV);

the reality? I am as meat in a lion’s den

only…torn to pieces by men

Oh, to be a schoolkid again, a wiser one,

who would never carry a gun…

nor would I mistake everyday life for dull,

but get an education, enjoy to the full

Like bile on the tongue, every word written

for tears and fears I keep well hidden

or drown in each lonely day’s angry swell

crashing down on this, my life, my cell

[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]