Last page, and yes, more poems
	Lynette Shaw McKone  Index of poetry on this site  Links to some of my other stuff  Here be Poetry!  More poems!  And more poems  Even more poems  Yet more poems  Poetry, again!  Not more poetry?  Oh,no!  Last page!		NOT THE MOTHER I USED TO KNOW You are not the mother I used to know The mother who screwed rags into my hair to make me beautiful The mother who shouted and scolded and kissed and hugged The mother who sat for hours, showing me books And giving me ‘the look’ when I said something childish and innocent but wrong The mother who threatened to send my meals to Africa if I didn’t eat and throw away my toys because I was untidy The mother who taught me the green cross code Held my hand across the road Looked down her nose At my first boyfriend Held my child Held my hand Helped me choose my wedding band Rescued me when things went wrong How did you ever get to be so strong Give me some Some of that strength I need it now like never before To wear the mantle that you always wore Am I the mother now I don’t want to be I want to sit on your knee I want you to hold me The way it used to be Before you became Not the mother I used to know BEWILDERED There I sat All alone in a home for the terminally bewildered And as I sat I pondered And I wondered How I got there I remember now, I resigned from adulthood It’s been so long since anything good happened So I don’t want to play with you anymore I’m picking myself up off the floor I’m going to run and play in the street And pat every cat and dog I meet And I’m going to learn to skip again I’m taking my shoes off when it rains I’ll play tunes on the railing with a stick And eat Easter eggs until I’m sick And I’ll totter round in my mums shoes and in that silly wedding hat too I’m going to play hide and seek And hop-scotch across the street And buy ice cream from a noisy van Driven by a scruffy man I’m not going to worry about hygiene I’m gonna put that blue stuff in my loo that makes your pee turn green So while I’m sitting here terminally bemused will you tie the laces on my shoes? Enter your text I DON’T REALLY CARE ABOUT KEN LIVINGSTONE I don’t really care about Ken Livingstone Perhaps that’s not very P C It makes no difference to me whether he’s elected or not I do care about pollution And starvation And exploitation And ethnic cleansing And land mines And war But I don’t really care about Ken Livingstone I do care about illness And disease And science And art And education But I don’t really care about Ken Livingstone I do care about fairness And chances And doing the right thing And I do care when We are manipulated And told what to think And denied a voice And I do care when the old school tie seems about to strangle freedom of choice So, perhaps I do care about Ken Livingstone WAR DANCE I do not walk now I move, But how is a mystery I only know that I pass scenes Of horrifying grandeur I see fine gowns, twirling across the floor So fast that the figures within are a blur The spectators are not spectating But facing the blank, endless walls Which stretch away out of sight But which, nevertheless, confine this space Enclosing it so that none can escape While the gowns dance with increasing intensity Drawing in the non-spectators one at a time Like a vortex, there is no escape and fine wine is glowing in the glass The wine is red and glutinous and I realise With intense horror that it is blood But still, I take the crystal glass and empty it Down my throat It soothes and heals me I imagine I am addicted I grab the glasses Pouring the liquid down, strength flowing into my body I know it is wrong I am addicted I cannot stop I need the blood to keep me alive I need the warmth of it in my body I cannot survive without it And I must survive at all costs I feel the eddies of the dance Twinkling about me I need the blood I am addicted But, I fight the dance What need have I to dance When I can revel in the blood All that is important Is in this glass The dance pulls me I feel my gown, pulled and pulled I see that all the glasses are empty now Now I dance I whirl and I twirl I pirouette, I leap and I spin My feet are no longer Connected to the floor I am free I dance and dance I stumble, the floor is moving I look down and see The floor is made of glass And beneath the glass are bodies, writhing It seems, in time to the music They are screaming But I cannot hear them I hear no sound but the music Castanets and drums Gunfire and heartbeats I dance on and on Stumbling I don’t care I incorporate the stumbles into the dance I leap and I bound Around the floor I am drawn to the epicentre of the vortex I scream with delight Look at me Look at me I am the centre of the universe I have everything Everything But the blood The blood is gone I scream again I look at the dancers And their white, blank faces look back at me They have no blood I have no blood to give them With statticco steps I stamp on the floor I see the cracks appear I hear the screams now But All that matters Is the dance I will dance on and on and on Until there is no more music And when the music is gone There will be no more Dancers