Wednesday The police arrested the 15-year old youth hours after he had raided and ransacked Logan's grocery store in the city centre. During the raid, the youth cleared the till and assaulted staff with an iron bar. They are now in a critical condition at hospital.
Tuesday According to the head of the local second level school, expulsion numbers are at an all-time high. Unruly student behaviour, truancy, and lack of home support are among the main causes. Although the school has requested funding for additional resource staff, so far, it has been unable to provide specialised care for troubled students due to financial restraints.
Monday A teenager was found dead at her family's city centre apartment this morning. She had been stabbed repeatedly. The police have appealed to anyone with information in relation to this brutal death to come forward.
Sunday The local food bank is seeking donations to enable it to continue to meet the growing demand for staple food items. Donations can be dropped off between 9 am and 6 pm seven days a week at the headquarters in Mill Street.
Saturday Shortly after midnight on Saturday night, the police had to disperse a large gathering of youths after neighbours had complained of drunken and disorderly behaviour. Eyewitnesses said that it was unclear whether the teenagers had been drinking alcohol or consuming drugs.
Friday The Minister for Finance announced cuts to spending on social projects, including community care, youth development, and educational support schemes. His statement dashed the hopes of locals campaigning for the erection of a youth and community centre.
Thursday Today in court, a woman lost her appeal to have her children returned to her. After gaining employment at a warehouse on the edge of the city, the woman had hoped social services would allow her children to come home. Her 15-year old son and 11-year old daughter remain in foster care despite their pleas to the judge.
Castoffs is an inequality poem, a reflection on inadequate wages and the financial imbalances that exist everywhere.
Castoffs – Inequality Poem
Christmas 2015, his Mom is wearing a brand-new posh frock, her gleaming smile masks the stench of castoffs, the stink that appals the follicles in your nose when you step into a charity shop stuffed with castoffs established for castoffs who / he's learned / ought to be ever so thankful that there even is such as thing as a charity shop where finding a posh frock is as good as winning the lottery.
Mom treasured them as much as he detested them like a child in anticipation of a very special treat she'd always pounce on that find above anything you'd purchase in a designer store. To give her her dues she always did come home with labels, hence always looking like a million dollars.
Christmas 2015, flicking through last week's paper he spots a pic of Mom's boss's wife parading Mom's frock at a charity do to be cast off days later and donated to castoffs working their fingers to the bone at her husband's factory for peanuts.
The grass beyond the wall, yes, it's greener on the far side of the fence. So what if I'd like to run my naked toes across a thick lawn, not have them grazed by gravel and broken glass? Am I to fell my pine for greener pastures? And what of the wall, a fence taller than the Empire State building? The machinegun- armed guards won't mow me down, won't cut the stalk between me and my daisies of pastures greener than a Granny Smith. The thorn-wire fence garnishing the wall won't stop me from hopping the wall like a grasshopper, faster than a bullet, sharper than a nail. 'Cause grasshoppers know how to jump fences higher than the Eiffel Tower to reach pastures greener than lizards. Frogs do too and kangaroos. If they do, so can I. So, don't tell me to blot out the green, green grass beyond the wall.
This is a PTSD poem and a tribute to Mary, a wonderful old lady I was privileged to meet many years ago. Mary was elegant, stunning, delicate, and fierce.
Mary – PTSD Poem
They say a bomb hit the hospital where nurse Mary was working during the Second World War. Her frail body is still trembling, her mind blown to pastures afar, her hunch back and scrawny legs dancing on the streets of Dublin, sock in hand stuffed to the brim with coins gifted by passersby doing their good deed for the day until the stocking gets snatched by a herd of unruly youths with nothing better to do.
In the evenings, Mary gets her dinner at the shelter where she resides and sings old hymns, unscrews the lid of the coffee jar, dips in a spoon and proceeds to sprinkle the granules across the floor tracing delicate steps whispering "set them free, set them free." Sometimes, she sows mashed potatoes or baked beans, yesterday, she unchained demerara sugar, delighted.
Only locked doors at night or a hot bath she doesn't want to have stoke and lay bare Mary's raw muscle, sharp nails, and sirens, extinguish her grace, her soft glow and glint. Once soaking among bubbles, the shower hose helps Mary set free a flood of drops. After the bath, she's still and sips lemon tea, converses until it's time to be gone again.
Robin Hood, Where Are You? is an equality poem highlighting the global inequality crisis affecting billions of people. The wealth gap continues to grow.
Robin Hood, Where Are You?
I know you’re dead a few hundred years, some say, you didn’t even exist, are but a fantasy figure made up for pure entertainment, but anyhow, I know better.
I feel compelled to write to you and urge you to come here at once. You see, we need your help right now. Where? I hear you ask.
Let me put your mind at rest first. No, the Sheriff of Nottingham hasn’t returned to throw his weight around once more. But the trouble is, he’s got many successors who’ve taken on his ways. They live off the poor, are cruel and greedy, just like he was when you took matters into your own hands. Why can’t we do the same? I hear you ask.
Well, we’re not as brave and clever as you. Some have tried, more have failed. And now, most people live off crumbs and a handful of folks live the life of Reilly. If only you could get yourself down here on your best horse and do what you did all those years ago.
ROB FROM THE RICH AND GIVE TO THE POOR
So, please hurry, this is an emergency! I can assure you, you’d be a hero once more.
PS: Feel free to bring Lady Marian for support PPS: We need you in Australia, Africa, Europe, New Zeeland, Asia. the Americas, and Antartica, so you’ll be busy for a while!
Dear Sales Manager is a consumerism poem, a reflection on how producers and salespeople get the masses to purchase large quantities of consumer goods.
Dear Sales Manager
Dear Mr Salesman
This morning, I cracked your code while eating a bowl of cereal and flicking through a magazine packed with adverts. I should have copped on to your tricks ages ago but was too consumed by my insecurities, many of which, incidentally, you created to cover your tracks.
I picture you sitting in a boardroom with your fellow suits hatching a plan to increase sales.
How to get the masses to consume more of our goods? Easy! Make them feel shit about themselves and convince them that our product will sort them out.
How? By plastering picture perfect shiny happy people using our product all over everywhere. Let’s not forget to diss flaws, ridicule failure, and snigger at poverty.
By the end of the week, the idiot masses will feel so bad about themselves that they’ll run out and buy tonnes of our stuff!
And that’s how you operate and make more, and more, and more money / manufacturing and riding our insecurities and fears.
I’m wanted to drop you this note to tell you that I’m out and won’t fall for it anymore. I don’t need your stuff to feel ok about myself. Thanks, but no thanks!
No longer yours truly!
Consumerism Poem – Dear Sales Manager
The World Bank Explained
The poem was inspired by the following short John Perkins video, explaining the way the world bank operates.
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