February 2016
Gareth Culshaw
jaspers1980@aol.co.uk
jaspers1980@aol.co.uk
I am 35 years of age. I live in Wales, UK. I write poetry as a means of expressing myself and trying to understand the world I live in. I have been published in Magma, Lampeter Review, The Reader, London Grip and others. I hope one day to write something special. I have a dog, Jasper, who is a much better poet than me....he's pawesome... I have a web site Gculshaw.co.uk
Author's Note: This poem is about a lake in Ellesmere, not far from where I live. People feed the geese with bread and because of that the geese don't eat their natural food — which has terrible effects on their bodies, like making them deformed, having a limp, a lean, feathers fall off. It is really sad. But even with signs up people still do it.
Angel Wing
It was her birthday and we went for a drive
ended up with a jaunt around the Mere.
Time was flat just like the lake, also as slow.
There were park benches lined up like mattresses.
Cigarette stubs thrown down and
litter discarded like forgotten nightmares.
A walker staggered over, his body leant a
bit to one side. I looked on wearily, ready to
protect. He looked at me, his eyes said
'Pass me some! Pass me some!'
I was a dealer to him, a doctor, a medicine man.
As was every human that came to this lake.
He was a goose who had lost his way in life.
Now drugged to the eyeballs on flour and water;
He stared at me, waited in hope.
A goose beater, a goose bully, a goose thief;
His life a misery, addicted to white powder.
A pathetic shadow of his natural self.
I looked at him and shook my head. I am a part
of the society that has made him deformed.
And I feel guilty all the way to the car.
Streelights
I once walked in toe cap boots
trudging my way along cracked pavements,
closed curtains and nicotine wafts
pub door open, people chatting by;
But I had the streetlights to guide me home.
Corners were turned and signs ignored
rolling litter tumbling past,
barking dogs went through the night,
gates left open swung in wind;
But I had the streetlights to guide me home.
Once I walked in snow and sun
feeling the weight of a heavy bough,
that groaned a tree and rocked my heart
zebra crossings teased on roads not known;
But I had streetlights to guide me home.
But now I tread with faster feet
my place of birth left behind,
pubs closed and forgotten names:
Though I am a man without much choice
I still have the streetlights to guide me home.
Angel Wing
It was her birthday and we went for a drive
ended up with a jaunt around the Mere.
Time was flat just like the lake, also as slow.
There were park benches lined up like mattresses.
Cigarette stubs thrown down and
litter discarded like forgotten nightmares.
A walker staggered over, his body leant a
bit to one side. I looked on wearily, ready to
protect. He looked at me, his eyes said
'Pass me some! Pass me some!'
I was a dealer to him, a doctor, a medicine man.
As was every human that came to this lake.
He was a goose who had lost his way in life.
Now drugged to the eyeballs on flour and water;
He stared at me, waited in hope.
A goose beater, a goose bully, a goose thief;
His life a misery, addicted to white powder.
A pathetic shadow of his natural self.
I looked at him and shook my head. I am a part
of the society that has made him deformed.
And I feel guilty all the way to the car.
Streelights
I once walked in toe cap boots
trudging my way along cracked pavements,
closed curtains and nicotine wafts
pub door open, people chatting by;
But I had the streetlights to guide me home.
Corners were turned and signs ignored
rolling litter tumbling past,
barking dogs went through the night,
gates left open swung in wind;
But I had the streetlights to guide me home.
Once I walked in snow and sun
feeling the weight of a heavy bough,
that groaned a tree and rocked my heart
zebra crossings teased on roads not known;
But I had streetlights to guide me home.
But now I tread with faster feet
my place of birth left behind,
pubs closed and forgotten names:
Though I am a man without much choice
I still have the streetlights to guide me home.
©2016 Gareth Culshaw