My Poem

A MR CAUL GRANT

I wonder about you in that lonely cell,
I would've screamed and shout like hell,
The thought of you in that hell, imagining,
the walls crashing in on you and there's no where to
escape between those walls you dwell trapped, like
a bird, in a cage without your Dell
How I wish like the magician, I would work
wonders for you
Unbolted the doors and out comes you
One late midnight, when all their dreams are flowing freely
You in that goal cell, freely I'll set.


Special dedication to Brother Caul Grant, JC 8360
H.M.P.The Verne,Portland,Dorset DT5
(c) Meranda M  Tuesday 2/11/04

COPING

How am I doing? Well, I'm surviving the fight,
I feel compelled and propelled into the wirlwind of life,
Faced with where my next dollars comes,
Trying to keep my head above water isn't fun,
Working to maintain my sanity is a necessity,
Constantly striving to build my mental capacity,
To no immediate avail that I can see,
Nevertheless, I continue the struggle,
For it's a innate part of my personality.

I've spent many years interlocked in this hell,
Searching for a way out of this spell,
I am confronted with a wall that let me know,
this is not the time for me to be free,
I often wonder how god can sit and look,
Watching me squandering from part one to part two,
Of my journey through this life,
My head seems mechinical to me.

I seemed to turn my head authomatically,
Looking east, looking west
Consulting the gods for an answer as to where is best,
I still have hopes in spite of the calamity,
That life has in store for me,
I just roll back the curtain of hope,
And prosperity that I may see,
I dream of living life with less stress,
and more prosperity,
To keep my soul intact is a crucial test.

Although at times it seems as if god is telling me,
Yours is to remain bystander of the finer time of society,
To deserve life with the stillness of a tree,
Alive but not actually living,
Its the only thing expected of me,
To participate would be a fatal mistake,
Leaving bumps and bruises which,
only time can erase
In hope that the scars are not permanent,but, would heal,
I cried out, oh God, give me the strength to deal,
With this anger, this agony, this hostility I am feeling.


By Anthony Lawrence, (c)1999

In front of the house, they’re birds sitting in the trees
Complaining, protesting, cussing and shouting
No matter to who or how loud
They came each year, shitting and cooing
In the trees, in front of the house
As they please

 The Council Authorities, don’t really care
They’re not living anywhere here
Having to live with the birds in the trees
Sick and tired with them birds, shitting
Bonking and cooing in front of the house
In the trees

Each day in the summer breeze
The birds are sitting in the trees
Swinging and swaying, as fit as a flea
Cooing and shitting for all eyes to see
They get on my nerves, them birds in
The trees

Little beady eyes, so brightly they shine
Like tiny drops of diamonds, glinting at me
Bonking, cooing, shitting and swaying
By the gate in the summer breeze
As they please.

One wet, windy, dull and cold Monday afternoon, December 1^st, 2003 whilst sitting in the waiting hall at the Kelton House Office on Mare Street, amongst all the other irate Enquiries, waiting for a very long time, for awhile, my heart began to pant faster caused, through vexation, having to wait and wait only to be told later by the un-caring staff they were sorry that the computers had broken down.  While my angry heart was panting with fury having to wait for so long, all of a sudden, an inspiration of this poem came to mind entitled, “BIRDS IN THE TREE