I wrote this poem to remind me that I walked away from someone I could have given a helping hand.

London is busy and unforgiving, there are many youngsters like the boy in the poem and since then I have supported a charity for such despairing youngsters.

However, I am still ashamed that, at that moment, I just walked by.

Boy in the Underground

Just me plus countless other 'achievers'
Decamping from a tube train
A cruddy, mobile tin can
No human contact during the journey
Only the desire to keep some personal space
And not to look any fellow passenger
Directly in the face.
 
Then came the rush for the exit
Down narrow walkways
No place for the lame
Making some money was the only game
Business meetings and appointments to keep
So that each individual could reap
Some reward from this anonymous day.

But in the way
Huddled in a corner, not begging
Just squatting with hands shielding his face
Was a desolate member of the human race
A boy, probably unloved and rootless
Collateral damage from a broken home
No one cared as he bared his soul.
 
I thought about stopping, giving a kind word
Plus a 'tenner' for food...but I didn't
I too had become a drone
Just like all the other travelling clones
Cities are cruel and I was a selfish fool
Because that day I overruled... 
My humanity. 

Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016.

All rights reserved.

 
                                                         This poem is from my new collection entitled

                                                                    A message to Father Time

If you would like to get more information on how to download a copy to your kindle/laptop/tablet or own the paperback, click here.
 
 
                                               

                                  

 
 

 

 For me nostalgia kicked in around my mid thirties, it mainly centred around those last care free days before work and a career slowly and imperceptibly took over my life. This poem reflects some treasured moments spent with good friends while we were all still living at home with our parents. Slowly but surely and one by one we moved on, a close friend moved to the USA, I moved to London and thus the chain was broken. I didn't realise until later what great moments they were. So I am very thankful that the human brain has a memory function. 

  Cider Pub in Brighton

 

No beer pumps in this pub
Just plastic barrels on the bar
Serving 'scrumpy'
Strong enough to fuel a car,
But its main purpose
Was to exterminate brain cells
No matter how many billions
We possessed
It was only a matter of time
Before this potent, cloudy slime
Would conquer all before it
And leave us topers
Dumb but sublime.
We stopped going
When our pay went up
Drank pasteurised gunk
From aluminium tubs
And other chemical muck
In theme pubs
Trying to pull ‘birds’
But there was always the longing
To go back
Have a real drink
Get brainless
Put sixpence in the jukebox
Sing along to ‘Jumping Jack Flash’
But those days are gone
So are my mates
And so is the pub.    

Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016.

All rights reserved.

                    

                                

                                          

 

                                      This poem is from my new collection entitled

                                                A message to Father Time

If you would like to get more information on how to download a copy to your kindle/laptop/tablet or own the paperback, click here.