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Peter R. Wicks

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Langford, England, UK

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Never

by

Peter R. Wicks

Never heard the bullet that smashed my brain.
Never saw my blood scarred grave.
Never saw that river of blood,I gave this country that I loved.
Never saw that promise come true,of truth and justice for me and you.
Never saw my widows face,when told about my fate,or my kids grow up to reap the harvest from a welfare state.
Never saw my widows pay,so she'll not work to make ends meet,or skimp and scrap for shoes on my kids feet.
Did I give my life for nothing?,was it all in vain?,
Tell me when you see me things are not the same!.


Throw the dice

by

Peter R. Wicks

"Yes your honour,I broke the law ,by gambling with dice in a
shop front door".

"But you see your honour,I can not read and these dice are a
Bible to me, the dice I hold in my hand don't make me an evil man".

"A square of wood or marble block, marked on sides with small black dots,I beg you sir, hear my plea of how my dice are a Bible to me".

"If I roll the dice and I get the one,thats God the father of every one,roll again,up comes two,I think of Jesus,who
sacrificed for me and you".

"Wisest Kings in history,you bet your life I rolled the three,throw the dice it lands on four,Matthew,Mark,Luke,and John,are four disciples with these dots on".

"Throw again,it lands on five,I praise the Lord that I'm alive,one more roll,it lands on six,I remember that cross of sticks".

"Jail me, fine me, if you will,but let me keep my prayer blocks still".


Hands

by

Peter R. Wicks

Look my hands so clean so bright,not a stain or scar in sight,hands so young,no work you,ve done,but wait my fingers
your days will come.

See them soon when you start to work,pulling handles in a
factories dirt,or manual work on a building site,that splits your hands till blood red bright.

Hands so cold ,so chapped and sore,heaving coal for a fire-
side roar,for in the "Pits" you might be working in deep misery,pick and shovel,on your back,hands and body midnight
black.

Two strong hands might kill and plunder,if your country calls for military thunder,gun in hands,you pull the trigger
to kill or maim a human figure.

See them later in the years to come,puffed up veins through
all the strain,blackend nail,full of grit,hands and fingers bruised and split,see them now,your work days done,twisted
joints,wrinkled skin,sinues withered bent with age,now your in your twilight stage.

Served me well my hands once strong,earn't my living in work days long,butlook my hands at what you,ve done,through out the life of us human ones,you built this world,for some
it's heaven,then you press one button then"Armageddon"

This world you made will blow to bits,you see,some hands
have evil tricks.


The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

by

Peter R. Wicks

Ride you horses,ride you high,thunering across the inferno
sky,cloaked dark figures on your backs,on four great horses
that leave no tracks.

Great white horse of burning hate,leaving the exit of"Hades"
gate,conquering rider,his bow in hand,enslaves all humans
where his arrows land.

Breathing fire from the"Devils"pit great red horse thunders
from it,the big red horse of the living dead,it's boney rider swathed in red,golden sword in his hand,sparks off hatred in the souls of man.

Black cloaked "Devil" who rides his steed,to the hands of man of selfish greed,if seen this horse of midnight black,
beware all men,you can't turn back.

Pale grey horse with blood red eyes.the worst of four from
the "Devils" own door,plague and famine your rider brings'
riding swiftly on all four winds.

Beware all men,heed this call,close your eyes,cover your ears when the four horsemen of the "Apocalpse" draw near,
see them, hear them,it's your fate,condemded forever to the
"Devils" own gate.


Bed-sit Prison

by

Peter R. Wicks

Four square walls,damp in spots,dirty curtains,brown age,
sash cord broken with missing pain letting in the cold wet
rain.

Wallpaper peeling at the edge,patterns faded to greeny-red,
flaking ceiling way up high,cobweb covered like a snow flaked sky.

Chipped enamel,rusted door,on two-ringed oven caked in grease,for beans on toast,the night times feast.

Iron bed with squeaking springs,gives sleepless nights and
nightmare dreams,alone at night by the gas fire glow,the ticking clock you well know,soft at first with it's rhythmic
beat,deafning later when you try to sleep.

A hole in wall where the floor boards meet, live the mice
we hermits keep,they roam the room late at night,as sitting
tenants their alright.

Bed-sit prison,I know you well,with your battered furniture
and musty smells,single room or double share,we live our
life in this brick walled cell.


The other half

by

Peter R. Wicks

Give this thought each night you eat,
your roast beef or a turkey treat,
that half the the world is starving NOW,
not living off the fatted cow.

These starving millions of half the world,
care not the luxuries of diamonds or pearls,
a bowl of rice is all they want,
from this great big worlds cooking pot.

New born babies from the mothers womb,
add to the millions in the hunger queue,
no milk to feed them from the mothers breast,
for she herself is a skeleton,no less,
a ripe old age is not for them,
when starvation kills nine out of ten.

We stack our food in mountainous stocks,
sometimes left to stink and rot,
can't mankind forget his greed,
and GIVE this food to those in need.


Devil Yellow

by

Peter R. Wicks

This yellow metal thats called gold,this scurge of man since
times of old,the misery that it creates,when man succumbs
to this yellow hate.

Man will kill his fellow man for just one handful of this
yellow sand,devil yellow with it's evil glow,the curse of man wherever he goes.

This God called gold that rules your life,will cause a war,
famine or civil strife,will cloud mens minds at it's sight,
then kill each other for this yellow blight.

Hypocrites of the religious faiths,preach the gospel to a poor mans face,"Give your coins so your forgiven",in the
name of God they do their bidding,did Jesus Christ ask for
gold when forgiving man for deeds untold?,worthless metal
sealed his fate and this was the begining of the yellow hate

"Donate your gold for a front row seat to be near the God
you wish to meet"!,but what a shock awaits you or me when the day of judgment comes to be,you will find no golden
throne of priceless jewels and ermine robes.

You will find a humble seat on which seats a God you cannot
"CHEAT"


Corrugated Street

by

Peter R. Wicks

Look in your city,your town or your street,look for the
cardboard that rises at night,to shelter the homeless on
cold winters night.

From all walks of life these box dwellers come,the sick in the mind,the frail and the weak,cardboard and paper are
homes they all keep.

Cornflake or Porridge,as long as it fits,there body at night
in the parks or the streets,they line them paper,as much
as they find and pray to God the weather is kind.

The drip of the rain,the roar of the wind,the sound of
their heart-beat when huddled within,sleep is not easy on
a cold winters night,when frost and the snow threaten
frost-bite.

Night air is bitter when craving for sleep,especially raining and the box starts to leak, the box is all soggy
and falling apart,time to move on and find a new home
of cardboard and paper and a cold pavement stone.


Mother of Mine

by

Peter R. Wicks

As a child I do remember,the mother of mine as an infant tender.

This wonderful lady so frail and so weak, who gave up her
life for her childrens keep.

This beautiful lady we new as"Mum",who was loved so dearly
by everyone,this wonderful woman who's sadly missed,who made us better with a tender kiss.

This wonderful lady in the shabby old clothes who brought
us up through our troubles and woes,she did without,so we
could eat,and put the shoes upon our feet.

This wonderful lady with the heart of gold,who never complained to her treasured fold,who never cared for silks or laces,she found her pleasure in her childrens faces.

This wonderful lady with eyes so blue,who worried and fretted over me and you,who stayed up nights when we weren't well and nursed us through our sickly spelles.

For this wonderful lady,so old and so grey,I'd lay down my
life for one chance to say"Thank you dear mother for all that you'v done,you're still loved by us all,each and everyone". (To Mums Everywhere)


A Cry in the night

by

Peter R. Wicks

Heed that child who screams in the night,see that child who
cringes in fright,see their bodies all battered and bruised
this poor little kid so badly abused.

Look at their faces,distorted with pain,through the anguish
and suffering that's there parents shame,look at the marks
both grisly and grim,on bodies of children so frail and so thin.

Look at the weapons these parents will use,to batter young
children so cruely abused,cigarette ends they stub in their
faces,kick in their ribs and break their limbs,yet no one
hears their terrible SCREAMS

Locked in cold rooms,or under the stairs,they cry out for
pity from parents they love,in spite of the damage these foul ones have done,give them no pity for the deeds that
they do,think of the children battered and bruised.

But whatever the cause of the child-beaters plight,for Gods
sake get help for the poor little mites,don't be an ostrich
and bury your head,it may be too late,that child could be
DEAD.


The Darkest Years(England1939/45)

by

Peter R. Wicks

Do you remember long ago,as a youth of twelve or so,"Spanish
wood"was all the rage,when sweets were rationed like"Utility
clothes".

Speckled apples,stale old cakes,for one old penny a feast
you'd make,tuppenny cornet,big round block,fantastic taste
I,ve not forgot.

"Herbal"tablets,"Nippets" too,were sweets not rationed to war kids true,ration books of "Es"and "Ds" bought any sweets
you'd like to please.

"Bag wash"shop on a Friday night,collect the washing in a two wheeled cart ,or a ball-bearing scooter made of wood,along the pavement they,d sound good.

Powdered eggs,dried up prunes,jars of malt you,d get one spoon,bread and dripping,a mug of tea,were make do dinners
for you and me.

War was raging at this time,"Buzz Bombs"flying overhead,if the engine stops a steet is dead,air raid warning banshee
sounds,like a rabbit you're under ground.

Search lights blazing overhead,"Ack Ack" gunners bombarding lead,on with masks in case of gas,when enemy bombers begin
to blast.

"Blackout curtains"a man would shout out,if a speck of light should shine out,air raids over,the steets alight,
land mines fallen in the night,devastation all around,all
thats left is scorched black ground.

The darkest years I knew so well,when birds of death rained
down hell,go down deep,deeper still,away from bombs and
shrapnel shells.

Some happy memories,but most are sad , for this is what happens when the world goes MAD.


The Miners Lament

by

Peter R. Wicks

Sweat and toil,lift and strain,"O my God,my bodies in pain".

Wife and kids sick in bed,got to work so they are fed,can't
give up for life's too dear,deaths the thing that all us fear.

Sweat and toil,lift and strain,"O my God,my bodies in pain".

A mineing man is what I be,working deep in misery,I take my
sleep when I can,lift my head and its work again.

Sweat and toil,lift and strain,"O my God,my bodies in pain".

This work we do is hard and grim,with the load we bear,we can't give in, its down the pits in the early morn,work the
shift till the break of dawn, this breed of men with backs all bent,who work the coal face to pay their rent.

Sweat and toil,lift and strain,"O my God my bodies in pain".

With body all broken,bruised and split and coal dust lung has got a grip,we pray to God to give us strength and make us fit,to face the perils down this pit.

Sweat and toil,lift and strain,"O my God my bodies in pain".


The men in Grey

by

Peter R. Wicks

These pompous men whom we choose to rule are nought but puppets,one and all.

It's not them who pull the strings that make their mouths
jerk and sing,they are told what to say,by faceless men
dressed in grey.

Civil servants,there are many,who take a cut of every penny,they are the rulers of your life,in times of plenty and in strife.

Ten or twenty,thats the number, who pull the strings while
goverments slumber,these faceless men we never see,who make the rules for you and me.

Its a fact,have no doubt,the've not a clue of what lifes about,should there be these faceless men,did you vote for one of them?.

For what ever party is in power, the strings are pulled by this facesless shower


Eternal Love

by

Peter R. Wicks

How long does love last?,without a beginning or a passed,this feeling in one's heart was always there
from the very start,for every man who walked this
Earth,there was a woman who gave him birth,thats
why love will never die,for man is part of woman true,
for out of woman he came too.

Man and Woman who fall in love ride a chariot to Venus,
the Goddess of Love,this wonderous Star thats never dimmed,
for ever fed by the soul within.

Look at love as the stars above,as centuries of lovers
who have parted this world and beam down their light in
a magical spell,to capture two hearts in a heavenly embrace
till death do they part this mortal race.

Wonderous love, you mysterious thing,the one good part of our very being,so ride your chariot to that Venus high,
till the centuries pass young lovers by,for long after
our bodies rest we share our love amongest the rest.

For its in the heavens that you gaze,you will find your
Love in this wonderous haze.


This Precious Gift

by

Peter R. Wicks

Little son,our little son,loved so dearly by me and mum,the
joy you bring each day you wake ,from mornings sunshine to
night times wake.

Little boy with your impish ways,brightens up the dullest
days,books and soldiers on the floor,you make us smile with
your imaginary wars.

Goodies left,badies right,getting ready for a terrific fight
end it all with one big roar,with books and soldiers in one
big heap for that final battle that will have to keep.

A crazy Indian you will be,chasing your little dog around a tree,little dog has had enough and runs indoors with huff
and puff.

Ask your mum I don't know,when home work starts by the fire side glow,the suns gone down,its getting late,your maths books will have to wait.

Brush your teeth and comb your hair,time for you to climb
the stairs,its in your bed,tucked up warm,mum and dad will
say this prayer.

You precious gift,our little son,loved so dearly by me and mum,time will fly and time will pass,but our love for you
will last and last,God Bless You son and keep you safe
till morning comes and you awake.


Where have all the gardens gone

by

Peter R. Wicks

This London Town we knew of old,its people brave and bold,its cockney kids,so smart and chirpy,sometimes rude
and and a little shirty,this youth we knew in days of past
had great respect for the elder class.

But take a look at what they've got now that Londons in the
the high rise block,take a look at things today,where on
earth can the young ones play,they get there kicks and youthful pranks by smashing windows in these high rise flats.

This concrete jungle with its stone grey streets which breeds contempt and a violent streak,the office blocks,forever empty,rise to the heavens to the Gods of
plenty.

They do their best to pay their rent,to crooked landlords
who collect and threat,for in this city of dirt and grime
the London youth will turn to crime,they know full well there is no choice,against the might of the bureaucrate,s
voice.

The money Gods and thier might could do lots more for the
young ones plight,instead of building these high rise blocks
of montrous offices and empty shops,invest thier wealth in
open spaces,low level houses,with gardens to grace them.


Not For Sale

by

Peter R. Wicks

This Earth of ours is not for sale,
your greedy ways will not provail,
we make you rich beyond your needs,
then pretend your deaf to our dire needs,
we the people of this Earth will not
surrender to your global wealth.

You cannot pollute the air we breath,
you cannot rape the Earth of trees,
you do not own the Sun that seeds,
or the sea that breeds the fish
we eat,or the very soil beneath our feet.

We are the people,we make the rules,
not you bloated corporate fools,
the day of judgement is on its way
when the peoples of Earth will have
there say.

They will strip you naked for all to see,
the fat bloated bellys of corporate greed.


Your Country Needs You

by

Peter R. Wicks

Wars are fought for the priviledged few,
who goad you on behind the queue.

These sick little men,with twisted minds,
who sing out the songs of bardwire and mines.

"Give your Life in blood and sweat,your life
today we will not forget".

Don't be fooled by this stupid song,
for those who sing it will not go along.

"Your Country needs You","Young or Old",
this fable sung by men of old,
heed these words,do not bother,
your nothing more than cannon fodder.

They promise the Earth when you've won the war,
but you end up crippled,disabled and poor,
THEY want the wealth of others lands,
gold or oil in desert sands.

So question that fable your fathers sung,
you don,t have to use the bayonet and gun,
put THEM in uniform and watch all the fun.


The Black Sheep(Me and my Brov)

by

Peter R. Wicks

As a child and one of eight,I know the meaning of parental
hate,the love I had for Mum and Dad was not returned,as
Black Sheep,it was spurned.

For as boy,I do remeber the heartbreak in my in my infant
tender,beating ,hidings I could take,instead of Love,my
parents hate.

Brothers and sisters,I had a few,I took the brunt for all of you,I cried at nights for things not done I took the beatings for everyone,I tried to Love,they would take,my
Love for them with scorn and hate.

Dressed in rags and hand-me-downs,they mocked me as the family clown,for as a child I knew it true,the Love they
had was not for you.

Years will pass on there way,you stop to think on days gone by the reasons why young kids cry,its a fact,have no doubt
there always is the ODD ONES OUT.

Poetry Competition

A Pox on you all

by

Peter R. Wicks

A pox on the drug barons.

Their greed and their wealth.

For their denial of medicnes.

For the third Worlds health.

A pox on the share-holders.

Who sanction this greed.

They turn a "blind" eye.

To the dying in need.

A pox on all goverments.

With hands in the till.

Death is their medcine.

For the third World's ills.

A pox on you all.

Your humanities in need.

You sanction this obscenity.

In the name of pure GREED

Untitled

by

Peter R. Wicks

Epitaph to Mrs "T" (version 2)

This poem is dedicated to Mrs T, when and if
the witch ever pops her clogs.

The day will come
When the witch is dead
As all good Tories
Must bow their heads

As they write the sermon
To praise this evil one
The Britain she created
No society or class
Just them, not us
Unwashed working class

Praise be to railways
That we once had
Long live the thieves
Who stole our gas

All the utilities
That made Britain great
She sold them off
One by one
Power and riches
To her Tory chums

Let's build a raft
Proper and fit
Props from the mines
The disused Pits
Wooden poles
Her body lashed to it

Tow it to Sea
Way out of sight
Just like the Belgrano
We will sink her at night

Pinned to the raft
As it sinks all alone
A note from the bitch
"Please forgive me"
"You were sailing home"

Peter Wicks(just day dreaming) 2007