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5 New poems by Andy Bate


Your star.


As I look up so high

Into the black cloak of night,

The stars sparkling like diamonds,

In The wonder of the tranquil sky.

In that great cloak of darkness

One star shines more than the rest

And my thoughts turn to you and what was,

And the regret that I never said goodbye.



Bus stop Nora.


Bus stop Nora,

The strangest woman you could meet,

Kind of round in shape,

Walks funny with her ten to two feet.

She talks to everyone she meets,

As she waits for the number twenty one,

Knows all their names,

Every single one.

Says she is a nurse,

She works in the hospital in town,

but really she works in a garage,

my friend saw her when her car broke down.

She lived with her elderly mother,

But alas she died a while ago,

Now Nora is lonely and alone,

So she puts on this show.

A fantasy world she lives in,

In her old fashioned clothes,

The agony aunt of the bus stop,

She is listens to all your woes.

Says her brother is a doctor,

Her sister called to the bar.

But he is really a litter picker,

And her sister valets cars.

she has never married,

says her boyfriend jilted her on the big day.

But really she never met him,

It’s just another thing to say.

Always offers you boiled sweets,

Or tissues from her tatty shoulder bag.

Says she has a really sweet tooth ,

Since she came off the fags.

Always smiling and jolly,

It really is such a shame,

Wonder what she is really called,

We at the bus stop just gave her that name.

Poor old Nora we always say,

Living a life of pretend.

But when you’re waiting for the twenty one,

She is everyone’s best friend.



Stuck in traffic.


Stuck in traffic,

Moving ever so slow,

Stuck in traffic,

Turned on the radio.

Every lane full,

The odd horn beeps,

Hope it clears soon,

Before I fall asleep.

Stuck in traffic,

I feel so alone,

I wonder what’s for tea,

When I finally make it home.

Stuck in traffic,

Now it’s starting to rain,

Can’t do this anymore,

Tomorrow I’ll get the train.



The downward spiral of an unguided youth.


Educated, alas only wasting time,

No prospects of any prospects,

Street corner gang, slipped into petty crime.

No hope, a downward spiral,

Another fine, a character stained,

His Parent’s in blind denial.

The art of Graffiti a routine task,

Cigarettes and cider,

Keeping up a rebel mask.

Sleep by day, awake after dark,

Hijacking the swings,

Broken glass and butts in the park.

Waiting for luck to turn good,

Wanting an easy life and money,

A chance to leave the boys with hoods.

So Forgotten by the elected,

Politico’s Heads buried in the sand,

Part of a generation neglected.

Signing on week by week,

No experience so no job,

Outlook, so despairingly bleak.

Another day, another fight, his everyday life,

Intensive care, the trauma,

The other boy used his knife.

Parents around the bed in tears,

Doctors say expect the worst,

The sum of his parents fears.

His life ebbed away so very, very slow,

Untapped potential, empty few years,

What could have been, we will never know.

An uphill struggle for this forgotten son,

Hope, action and guidance required,

Or what will the next generation become.



The highwayman is back.


The highwayman is back again,

He has just changed his name,

Now he is called a wheel clamper,

Has he no shame.

Preying on his victims,

You wonder where you can park,

Costs a pretty penny to get released,

He is as bad as a loan shark.

The signs that are up,

They are ever so small,

The tiniest of print,

It drives you up the wall.

The highwayman is back indeed,

When you park take care,

Stand and deliver in another form,

Damn wheel clampers are everywhere.



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