Un-mapped course – a poem about keeping going in life

And I stood and looked and stared,
At the texture, lines, grooves and furrows.
The smooth parts as they embraced the rough.
Was this the canvas, the page, the instrument for a quartet?

Ok, so it’s meant to be poignant and meaningful and real.
I am supposed to see meaning, direction, cartography?
But it’s just weather and a beaten track.
That’s all that stands out,.fatigue.

But you see fatigue is grand and splenduous and authentic.
It tells you that I’ve sat behind the wheel,
Or changed the tyres and oil,
So others can finish the race.

And yet I still just see lines and waste and questions.
Time, life, explanations and rationale,
The excuse to whom, of why the baton was dropped.
You see all of my batons are dropped at the second or third leg.

Next season, next season on the first meet,
There will be my name called again.
More leathered, smashed and crushed.
Prediction…to drop at second or third.

But this one year, maybe this or next.
You will sit, surprised, smacked and dashed.
As the line will.be crossed as will my t’s.

My reflection with you, like my connection with you will be complete.

2019 COPYRIGHT PEDRO BATPOET

What if – a poem about hope

What if the tides came in all at once,
The ebb just stayed and the flow didn’t go.

What if the wind then swept your path clear,
Corralled the mistrust, the cobwebs and rust.

What if the sun shone that day, its brightest of all days,
And lit you up to guide you and not in vain to hide you.

What if it rained into your core, that fine rain,
That eroded all your furrows and diluted the concentrate of sorrows.

What if the songs and posters you normally ignored,
Burst to life in relevance to connect, and save apparent neglect.

What if that horn sounded just for you,
As you walked oblivious, consumed by what is tedious.

What if you got home and made that salad,
And all in the draw was fresh, as you savoured the earth’s sweet crisp flesh.

What if you’d always been noticed,
Within a chance from a million places, in a sea of a thousand faces.

And what if you saw them and opened your mouth,
And all that they heard, were perfectly timed words.

So what if you took back your sanity from those,who claimed it as their own, now you had bloomed and finally grown.

What if you saw them spin in a ballet of chaos,
A vanishing haze of contorted souls, who were always lost amongst the shoals.

What if once, just once you realised,
That the universe for you was aligned in sweet perfection, and despite false perspective you deserved some pure affection.

COPYRIGHT 2019 PEDRO BATPOET

PEDROBATPOET.COM

When it seems like all is lost – a poem about the frustration most of us feel about this planet and society, at times and advising the youth to keep questioning…EVERYTHING!

Where do I begin with this

To express myself in a series of words,
thrown into a mixer and delivered in something to be heard.
A beat that emanates from somewhere deep,
representing my angst from head to worn out feet.
But I feel mute, and deafened and suffocated and sick,
At the lack of compassion and the cut to the quick.

What happened to us all,
the day the world turned efficient and less elastic,
with our endless recycling our carefully sourced plastic.
Have they got us so distracted by the degrading plight,
of oceans and seas and far off lands with no bin in sight,
Whilst our homeless by day are never in our sight,

We know they are tortured and losing their fight!

Expeliamous to old scenery to fit the bastards plenary,
as we sit glued to glass and bright lights,
Switch off rainbows and bury their plights.
The increase in distractions at every we turn,
Where the pure of our youth compete and then burn.

Our history is littered with nostalgic wonders,
Yet we focus on errors of plagiarized blunders.
Sweet perception is warped by a tangy distraction,
I sit pencil in hand and know but just a fraction,
Yet I do see our concentrated plant pot of energy,
being diluted and replaced with acrid bile lethargy.

Mental dumbing, cranial numbing,
our continual consciousness lazily thumbing,
through pages of someone else’s life on social media,
and then we replicate parts that feeds us all that greedier.
A lost belief that we can’t be great and unique,
and special and normal, fat, thin, small and tall.
Can we not think of happiness, beyond the small wifi box at the end of the hall.

I lie there at night just before I sleep,
a quick 15 minutes of a digital creep,
not searching for people or a long lost friend,
but an inspiration quote and image to send.

Send to someone out there who’s a lot like me,
striving for quiet hearts and safety for the bees!
Yes… the bees…ahhh the bees, now we truly love bees,
With all that is linked to life and of honey,
But those backbencher wasps just see swarms of pure gold money.

And they’ve been with us all for a millennia or two,
So it’s not a surprise that they do what they do,
But these lessons not new, just distract us from war,
As our nectarless voices fall mute on the floor.

Are there people out there who can’t see the link,
Of all the connections that rattle and chink,
From bees to the trees to plastic in seas,
As the oil in these ships brings bees to their knees?

The people with no schools happy in their huts,
respect spaces more than us, and they don’t ask for a cut.
No hang-ups or afflictions that bite them in the night,
or trauma based addictions that loses every fight.

And the base of our problems, in this modern of all worlds,
where equality is still void in today’s boys and girls,
As they navigate their emotions not through parental calm and empathy,
But parented by social media, entitlement, debauchery.

What chance do we have when we want to say, “it’s right to be confused,
and it’s ok to look at yourself, be overwhelmed and well… bemused.
And this functioning adult before you, with skills, attributes and flaws,
has a path that lay behind me strewed with fails and battered doors”,

Was confused like you too, but I just kept swimming,
and never accepted breathing as a single sign of winning.
When perplexed and wronged and hit off course by adult misdirection,
No consumption of apps and sites that would hide my imperfections.

And who wrote this new book where labels categorised the drama,
You can see them stitching stars these days on stripy grey pyjamas!
And if you don’t think for one minute that we are almost at those gates,
with a rail line, steam and fog and the birthplace of all hate,

Can we please wake up from our coma,

safe from alacrity, more stench than aroma.
Horrors and our nerves desensitised,
the intravenous distant apathy, sterilised.

i’m standing here with nerves like snakes in my belly,
tired with most that vomits from my telly,
I’m wanting just to shout ‘what of them over there,
What have you done with their walk, their hope and their cares?

I can see them, and their shell it burns my eyes,
as it forms everlasting patterns which I cannot disguise,
How shocked I am that I walk past them every single day,
and do nothing to lift a finger and simply say,

“How can I help, what’s your story and where did it go so wrong.
there’s some positive stuff on Facebook that thin but makes you feel so strong!?”
I mean is that all it takes to drink a quote and make a change,
like it was always just so simple to find life in rhyme and prose,

these evangelical vultures pedal phrases for two goals,
Their cult wrestles with your money and strips gilt from all our souls.

it’s all fluffed up in a package so neat, with frills, no depth no mess,
with quotes, tunes and pictures of a windswept lady in a dress.

This wonderful world of opinions and a million subjective clauses,
Where I am keen to cause offence now, as my neighbour just withdraws his.
As he can’t think for himself, dress, walk talk or be himself,
this passed down point of poisoned worship, it disinfects with a solitary hit.

Who will take to the streets and be free like gypsies,
Take us all back to the militant and free-er sixties.
As we listen to Dylan, consuming words and chords and rhyme,
So film yourself, your militant thoughts, go viral with your vines.

A bacterial snippet of what we all think,
We are buried beneath the bodies left by media greed and stink.
And it’s you my gorgeous daughter and it’s you my lovely son,
my gift to you is fireworks, and don’t accept they’ve won.

Because as happy as I seem, in my suit and ageing dreams,
when not with you my happiness is coffee with sides of cream.
when away from all your quirks, your crafted wit and charm,
I’m alone but filled with hope that your strength will cause good harm.

It consumes me, the unfiltered, that presses on your brain.
But assured that all I placed there dilutes the acid in the rain,
Which leaves you with the truth and all that really matters,
As i focus on your pallet as your colour makes them scatter.

Protect all that is authentic,
be labeled as eccentric.
And the disease that they all fear,
Is your infectious hope when near.

it will make you see solutions, with problems on the fire,
you will fight them on the beaches,
They will say that you’re a liar.
but simplify their greed and question roots of wealth,
Stay strong my young Horatio your power it lies in stealth.

Your numbers they will multiply , a million score and more,
Go use their tools against them, with insta tweets and more.
So fight against their loans and their mortgage laden debt,
As every penny that you give them sinks you deeper in their net,

the more they convince you, to get yourself just deeper,
You will know that all they pedal is linked to all that’s cheaper
It has no worth in life, as you search and as you strive,
Of how to run in treacle to simply stay alive.

I don’t fear much these days, as I look across the ocean,
and see what humans we have become, and what is now in motion.
Yet this stance we take with courage, and belief in all that passes,
And it matters not a jot, if you come from different classes.

If none of this resonates, and feels a little awkward,
I ask you watch these monsters close, their hate is quite straightforward.
Don’t divide or judge or hide, just join with us in unity,
Let’s stand in line, and once we’ve won they’ll demand immunity.

COPYRIGHT 2019 PEDRO BATPOET
http://www.pedrobatpoet.com

My ‘IT’! – a poem about my occasional battle with a stammer

I don’t remember when it came,

No introduction, spasms, convulsions,

Black outs and then me, coming to

With it!

But it definitely arrived, stayed,

Put its feet up, slippers on

Pipe lit, staring into the quiet fire

Yet coiled and waiting to spring up

With aggression into my face

When I least needed it to.

The abuse that I have received

From IT…over the years

It’s left me in rage, blood boiling

But mostly in tears…instant tears

As I walked away from talks,

And meetings, and greetings, and speeches,

And phone calls, and shops.

And IT…always came with me.

It couldn’t just stay put, where it happened

Walked away from me, having had its fun.

And the brighter I got, qualifications mounting,

It still didn’t go, not put off it had a new challenge

To ruin my work, to ruin other peoples’ lives

Who depended on me, in Court.

Who wants a lawyer who can’t say words, they’re just words, what’s your problem?

That start with a P or an L or an S or an M or an R or A or an E or an I or O or a U or a C or K or a W or a H or an N.

In fact shall I just use a small bag of letters,

And try and form simple words.

Simple words for complex problems.

Swearing…that helps..it helps to fill the gaps.

But how many times am I to be threatened with contempt of Court!

Gaps that i now fill with a thesaurus,

You know I still read the thesaurus.

Whenever a new word just won’t come out,

My brain now quick enough to know that

IT is about to strike and so it diverts

My mouth to another track, gives it another word to use,

that means the same. Loading words into a magazine like bullets.

Which is apt for my quick fire speech, mumbling and too fast.

Not often do I sit there trying to

Push out that 1 fucking word

That won’t come out…as people

Look at me. The first few seconds they look it is a small grin, which very quickly goes, as they see

The struggle with what I am fighting with…to just say the word I want to say. 

But the offer I get is silence and stares as they are blinded in what to do. 

Do I say something, try to help him out, or wait patiently until he either gives up or goes for a different word.

It’s only happened once, when one of my team seemed to pick it up so quickly and as I dropped the baton in speech,

she quickly leant down and finished the race with precision.

With my oh so uncomfortable a pause which stretched to over 10 seconds she looked at me “that’s totally right pete..” looking at the other attendees “..we spoke about this yesterday and the important thing to remember is….”

And then the focus shifted to her.  Apart from one person who looked at me, as I looked up feeling sick and n nauseous with my stomach in knots. 

She gave a small polite smile and then focused on my teammate. 

So I run this department, and provide top drawer advice and guidance, but I can’t string a sentence when I need to.

This oral fail, battered by hail, mouth full of nails all manifests into my personal failure, irrational I know,

But when IT strikes, the self-esteem drains like a broken dam.  

IT lives on, never drowned or stifled or suffocated, IT is never lost for words,

As it fills my mind with a thousand reasons as to why it came, and never left,

and IT gets me now and again,

A tenant in my body and head for 3 decades plus 9,

but it sleeps more and more these days.

I joined a poetry group reciting live to an audience, and IT never turned up

Didn’t see a single performance of mine.  Why not!! Where were the fuck were you, when I was armed with words and scripts and thoughts…I would have annihilated you.

I would have disposed of you live, real time with dialogue and speed. 

A wordsmith Zorro with the cameras rolling.

With a perfect Z scratched into your arse!

But hey…why were you there last week when Sky phoned, out of the blue,

To check to see if I am happy.  You chose that moment to suck the wind

From my lungs and the words form my mouth, leaving me arid, parched,

Feeling sick, stressed and stupid.  What was so special about that call?

Did it catch you unaware, and it pissed you off – you fucking rat!

And where were you in London when I held and captured a room of over 100 people as I spoke with passion about the wonders of making a positive impact by helping students get to the UK to get an education and importance of being a part of someone else’s journey? 

As I stood there and you there, I felt you in my chest, dying to get some of the limelight, and you tried to screw up my flow by holding back the word ‘potential’ and you didn’t see me expertly divert to the word  ‘future’.  The safety of the F word, for me…too often relied upon

Perplexing parasite preconditioned to piss on my parade

Marauding Mongol masochistically messing with my mind.

And as I read this out loud, I wonder…did you raise your head up with the P’s and the M’s?

Peak around the corner to remove the wind from my sails…well…DID YOU!

COPYRIGHT PEDRBATPOET 2021

PEDROBATPOET.COM

Integrity

I thought they all cared?
We were told they did, and all we did, mattered.

Missing needles from compasses of morality, smelted into a processor.
The pandemic – speed of their viral negative, into your positive.
Why do I continue to launch the boat, simultaneously driving nails into the keel?

The lights they glare with the noise I create,
Resonating across the horizon, no-one looks up.
Any that do, it’s a cursory glance, with fleeting care, evaporating upon creation.
Those needles, millions now missing, fashioned to react to a tap and a swipe,

The guilt I feel, immeasurable, my blood, dna, privacy exposed.
Toxicity permeates, radiating hate with expert seamanship.
Teens, navigate these Nazare waves.

With Horatio’s precision and a sloth’s nonchalance,
Naïve of the horrors, dreamt up in the ivory towers of every city.
Places where we safely consumed the pearls of the revered, with unquestionable guidance.
Our future at base camp, panning for truth, searching for the sparkle.

The task akin to searching for the cardamom seed with a cracked chopstick, in a ton of rice, blindfolded!
In reality the world has always been lost, from Passchendaele to Pichu
Our lives, they ease, with peace, with goals, with hope and community.
The challenges are there within a thousand mediums.

Set to convince us that we are dissatisfied and lives

Set to convince us that it is not as good as it should be.
And our potential is hindered, a stones throw from depression and yet the biggest depression links to fading hope.
I no longer sleep like a hibernating bear, a recurring theme in every dream, as our thoughts betray the reality.

Why won’t they listen,
I thought they all cared?
We were told they did, and all we did, mattered

Copyright PedroBatpoet 2021

HMS Empath – ‘a poem about an empath that takes the form of both ship and captain and the dangers of not managing the ‘baggage’ of others’

When the word broke that he had been sighted alongside, the comments were snide, “not just at port but in dry dock!”, the whispers cyclone’d around the clock and embedded themselves into wooden beams of ageing buildings.

It was a given, to be forgiven, that his hull would last his lifetime, how sublime and probably sobering to see him back, in pieces with holes, so big the fish swam through in shoals, as they pushed from within to get, just him, home.

With lessons learnt from a hundred wrecks, that littered the seabed, despite shipbuilding expertise and thousand cross-checks. They still seem to sink, when the pressure was exerted, and the crew they deserted then looked on from the shore as their future inverted, funnel – detached and sea became the victor.

The sea, the Federer of winning, the Hamilton of getting the upper hand, without pomp or making a stand, she will consume the unsuspected and ill prepared as she searches souls, now bared, not smooth and collected but course and impaired

What the dockworkers forgot, is it was two score years and two, since the steel plates were welded, by women and men until the thickness numbered ten. The same tenure of years that he could endure against the ice at times and maybe some concrete, as the bow smashed down walls honed into a heartbeat

A heartbeat of ones that called to be saved, and so a path he paved and course was set, in the ships log recorded never to forget, as he wants to measure his success of souls saved and treasured, when finally he is at one amongst the corals, content with his life of goodness and morals

In truth he lasted twice longer than expected, before the bridge became affected and compass – infected by the wet and the mould as he grew tired and felt old, but lighter than when first built, but sat lower in the water, lower than he oughta, which is why he came back in, when the water filled apartments and cargo left his compartments

When he woke up, dry, and sitting on chocks, engine now off, clear skies – the sea beyond the reef not rough, he could hear the workers all around, prodding at his shell and tapping, like hell, the steel which echoed a sound of a melan-choly bell to call people to one place, with a view to embrace, to reflect to learn why they don’t see his smoke stack drifting up into the sky

The truth is, what no-one saw through the calm seas and squalls, was at each port that he went to, as he answered the many calls for cargo to be taken, the burdens that would break him and the odd SOS, which teared of the plates and left a little more mess.  What no-one saw was with morse code answered, people and goods – transferred into the safety of his hold and onto his bridge, the people they tied a rolling – hitch around his arms which stopped him steering.

Feeling ropes get tighter, and his hull became misshapen, with every monkey taken, as the pay off, which was neither felt nor seen was extra weight – absorbed – and the research, not new, and written into a hundred – accords  – by experts of body and mind – was that you will lose some of your strength, and water-tight integrity, your flexible frame and fun-filled dexterity.

if you don’t dock into refit, you will too be unfit to not only – sit but also propel the bow into the swell.  You must grind down rusty nails, bolt down an engine, replace the sails then weld, then smooth, then paint so the rust stays away and never to taint.

That added steel armour, plate-by-plate, they just fell away, quietly into the sea, and was this foreseen?  Well not by those who jumped on with glee and was happy to see him taking their load and to share their burden, and with their uncertainty, his fate – was certain.

 A hard task, for an empath to walk on another’s path, behind them, in the imprints of their feet, so close that he can smell the aroma – so sweet of another soul to help, which will be that person’s story, their fable of this rescuer that enabled – the journey to be finished, what remained out of sight is the empath’s energy, vapoured – diminished.

One day the Admiralty, having coffee and rum, stared out of leaded Tudor glass and saw no gleaming dockyard, sun bouncing off brass, but a ship’s graveyard slum, with vessels in pieces, abandoned, holes and cracked and rusted. Motionless Captain’s collapsed on decks, judged and mistrusted by those in gold thread misreading silence and life, to failure of the dead, who peered from on high, as those who steer vessels are not trained to break, withdraw and cry.  The few crew, still in their nests, scan their feet not new land, and never did they imagine their concrete Captain break apart like dark wet sand.

The word it then reached the ports and towns in the far off lands of trade, with silk and spice now building up, demand slipping below what’s made – they called for a global amnesty of kind, where the speed and demands were stripped right back so balance could caress the mind, of those who had spent many a year propping up all others, and some ships I have to note are steered by sisters, but mostly by our oh so quiet brothers. 

These seafaring sisters of these vessels what they do so very differently is meet, and talk, to all of the crew, and keep quite close to their heart’s and head’s a chosen special few, who take these monkeys off to cages down below, managing other – cargo – so she’s left with charts, and compass, directing where next to go.

If you’re a captain or such a ship please note, and I shoot from the hip, be sure to keep an eye on your hull, which doesn’t need to be shiny and new, post refit it will dull, but be sure as you take – on cargo and people, their ways, their stories and all of their issues, be strong, listen and get help with their baggage, be there  for them with hugs and some tissues, and not pour out your energy into a tankard with a lid and ice, for them to consume when you’re not around, as the cost you will pay will be too high a price.

Compartmentalise the heavy, and discard the key, where wind is concerned know the side which is lee, as passengers can be so typically judgemental, so sails could be needed if your engine’s temperamental. But some cargo will be helpful and will enhance your journey, others, with abandoned owners you’re your prosecuting attorneys.

Be aware and be kind as most ships on the seas are christened ‘Empath’, by Captains that listen and take into their hold from memories to gold, and trust the intentions of these many interventions, some who seek free space sadly will have nefarious motivations.

PedroBatPoet 2022

Copyright ©

www.pedrobatpoet.com

The first and last – for Laura

The first time that we met,
Will be the last thing I remember.
Caught in the rain laughing, wet,
On a driche and grey September.

The last time that we touched,
Will be the first thing I remember.
When death, with malice it interrupts,
And hearts they shift off-centre.

The first time that we kissed,
Will be the last thing I remember.
Our lips quivered, we thought they’d missed,
A touch too light and tender.

The first time you made me cry,
Will be the last thing I remember.
We held our kids, my eyes don’t dry,
Dismantled walls, surrendered.

The first time I breathed your neck,
Will be the last thing i remember.
Sweet skin on flesh, my ship a wreck,
Your touch so soft, so tender.

The last words that you spoke,
Will be the first thing I remember.
They’ll caress my soul, and fix what broke,
And keep us safe from danger.

The last thing that I’ll see is you,
Will be the first thing I remember.
When my next adventure starts anew,
Our memories to treasure.

Our love was famous, pure and kind,
Simple, non-conflicted.
I just wish we’d had, far more time,
Completely unrestricted.

PedroBatPoet 2022 Copyright ©️
Www.pedrobatpoet.com

The Unsupreme Court

The Un-Supreme Court
Hi, I’m here again, I’ve put down my pen and lifted keyboard
As my brain move too quick for my hand these days, with the pain and anger that courses through my veins
Only a year on from my poem, dedicated to women, their power, their rights, their voice
My heart bleeds, literally bleeds, as I have to write this to down, to drown out the noise
The noise of wails and crying of my sisters dying and in pain across the pond
Of the suicides which will increase, and will never cease, with their muted voices, some will see no other choices
Of the unwanted children, that will placed into sin bins, as they were born, into homes who could not afford them – as we ignore the importance of parental guidance
From brunettes to blondes these men in shared thoughts and uniform are now filling the train carriages with women…bodies upon bodies crushed together, and we will all look on
They will be ostrasized or worse will die, as they hold on to each other for comfort as their life and rights drain away through the floorboards of those carriages
As did of the millions who were karalled in the same way some 80 years ago,
It is uncomfortable to see these trains filled with my sisters, but you cannot sit there and be shocked that there is no difference,
We have sat in apathy and let this rhetoric grow, as we allow ourselves to be polarised by the power
This is mass genocide, akin to the Holocaust, and I will not exhaust my language or tame my tongue, I’m 50 now and will protect the young – I will spit vile syntax directly at those who build the trains and tracks and sent my beautiful sisters to Auschwitz 2.0
And I am no hero, or a soapbox warrior, I have taken up arms and defended my beliefs, my nation, its future and all of its peeps. And if I thought any good could ever come, from grabbing my gun to hunt down these killers, these polite executioners, I would do so, guilt free.
But their decision to hurt and kill my sisters is based on hate, and anger, and my placing a bullet in between their eyes, will no abate the wave of support this remains ever-present and effervescent
At some stage the world, if it is really needed by some to be seen codified in a book, will create a movement based on the combined messages and guidance of the survival manuals of old – which will change as they grow.
Not the bastardised beliefs of barbaric books of fiction that play no part in any society, and cause death and global friction. This friction leads to fires which are kept alive by rights deniers
If you defend this, let’s talk, debate to end hate. I will pick apart your stance, and ignorance and if you don’t understand the simplicity of speech – with absolutely disrespect I will be that leach who extracts your toxins and gives you more options.
Whilst tearing down your warhorse of worship, my words will be acid for your thoughts and beliefs, no future scholars learn hate as revision, so we cleanse this planet of mass divisions.
I have gratitude, gratitude for my attitude that I am safe, my daughter is safe, her friends are safe and all of the women I know, are safe
But my heart is stretched west, ripping from my chest, from my town to the coast of barbarism,
The sinews and cells of my left atrium snapping, severing, crying, shouting – IS THIS HAPPENING?!
Civilisation, what frustration with this bureaucracy built on faecal hypocrisy
We are no better than the nations and tribes whom we belittle for the damage they do with customs and practice and their belief – orchestrated always by a man who’s the Chief
They do not have the benefit of medical knowledge or intervention, of fairness and life and the human rights convention.
If this decision to condemn my sisters to death and a life of guilt and mental stress is based on Christian values, explain to me exactly what they are
As I stand here confused, totally bemused and I refuse to think that any women would follow, this hollow foul stenching breathe, that only leads them to pain or worse, death
So is this another club for the men, in their filth and acrid den of shit as they pit themselves against the moral best, is this a test for who can commit the worst atrocities to humankind and our minds
Well, just stop in your tracks, as you have a history of death that spans a millennium and more, the ones you have crushed could populate a planet or score,
The blood of those lost would fill up new seas, all of this loss – a difference on beliefs
Despite being the people I enjoy being with the most – I am glad I am not a woman for some reasons , but two ring out the most
Nos 1 – I know that this poem, prose, rant on a page to expel my rage as tears collect between cheek and rim of my glasses, would be diluted due to my gender, being seen as slender and of course an obvious defender of the cause – they would not reflect or take time to pause
Nos 2 – that my life would feel in danger, as liberalism is a concept reserved for nice dinner parties and drinks, the links we make with those who think like us, love like us, sleep, dream and believe like us. There is no real care for the mares, just Pygmalion obsessed now with sweating and sinewed Stallions
His eyes have lost focus on Aphrodite, as she awoke with a voice, a brain, free thought, strength, opinions, never permitted for these minions…and her superiority in her fair face in this awful virus we call the human race is that she carried the one thing he could not do and never achieve, to choose when it is safe to carry life into this world, and to choose when to not. We have to preserve this – you must believe!
‘When it is safe to’ I choose these words wisely as we need to see that this is determined by men, who decide where and when. Men in power, this shit-shower of progress, and I confess that I am tired…tired of scribing poem upon fucking poem highlighting these demonic souls, whose hearts have holes, are cracked and black – does anyone listen – or are you tired or just missing?!
So our sculptor, now obsesses with death and destruction, with eruptions of toxic sperm and testosterone to pollute the wombs and tombs of this world, unchecked, unopposed, unashamed.
But us writers and creators, we must carry the flame and spread love through words, and pressure wash these turds from our path to serenity, to call out the penalties that oppress the pure of heart and mind, to just be kind.
The challenge we have is that kind doesn’t fill their pockets with fear based profits, it connects the masses and eradicates the classes – so we all are seen as one, this writhing throng of a beautiful planet with a billion stories, all to inspire with talks of glories – so that is our place, as we stand face to face, so use our plays, films, songs, poems and prose, to re-connect the hose and turn on the tap.
Our ice cold water of words, will be either a slap in the face or a tap on the back to say – just stop, look around you and think,
if you granddaughter, daughter, sister or wife were to die in childbirth, would you happily, no tears, let her slip from this earth, as the words of fiction that you see as so clear, would mean more to you than those you hold so dear?
If your answer is yes, then I won’t digress, or try to connect by filling your head with imagery or metaphors, as your claws will be too deep into your own flesh as you try to feel anything, something of note. And I cannot stand here to judge or gloat at how lost you are – a castle and moat with no bridge to draw down, no love around, spades in earth, the only sound!! Would you honestly see your loved ones die, knowing you had the power to help them survive?
I have to ask are you of this earth, are you part of humankind, permanently deaf and blissfully blind? I hope the world rises up and makes a wider stance, and takes all other countries into account – who condemn my sisters to death, or strip rights – and I will be there at the front in this fight.

PedroBatPoet.com
Copyright 2022 ©

Ships of friends – a wee poem recognising the importance of those quiet close friends that we cherish3-

You appear always as a warm sensation,Comforting, enlightening, embracing, fun.Setting up camp in our hearts,With acceptance and touch.You sit in protected permanence,You our cherished resident.So very few do,Our pillar, our pillow.Teared cheeks through laughter,Life separates us.But our bond re-builds us,You still appear as a warm sensation.(Copyright) Pedro Bat Poet 2018

Remarkable You! – a poem about walking your own path in life, and the importance of not over analysing and bouncing back

Life is hard and then its soft,


Sometimes good and sometimes not.
And if you could pat your youthful back,
To let them read your almanac.
Would it prep you for the doors and walls,
Divert you from the pits and the falls.
What if I left that book, not hidden?
Would you plan your life as a ride well ridden?
Or play it safe and never fail,
Hide from the storms, no rain or hail.
No errors made no need for reflection,
Aimlessly drifting, devoid of deflection.
A foreseen life though could fill and then drain,
The dates of our deaths, stagnating with pain.
With each day lived, being too slow to savour,
As life without risk, is like food with no flavour.
If I managed to meet the younger of me,
I’d drop to his height, go down on one knee.
Stare into his eyes, he’d looked down at his shoes,
I’d say, “Don’t change, one day you’ll like being you.
These folk who cause you to crease, stumble, ripple,
You’ll one-day work out, that they aren’t your people.
Live every day, soul heated by the flames,
It will fuel your core, a life to reclaim.
Ignore the lost adults, keep them all at distance,
Express yourself the way you feel, don’t live for their acceptance.
The world it turns, as it always has, be true to inner you,
As older folk will roll their eyes convinced it’s nothing new.
But age has just filled their mind with mistiness and clouds,
As their memories of youthful risks get covered up with shrouds.”
The sad thing is I remember me from years ago, far too close to danger,
And doubt I’d listen to older me, this wrinkled, balding stranger.
So with a lack of hindsight, we must love our heart’s, be kind,
As years of sailing fiery storms will test your once clear mind.
Like big Frank with his regrets, we all have had a few,
With age we change, we fall then rise, stay true…remarkable you!

Pedro Batpoet
Copyright 2022 ©