Why Is It?
It makes me angry when I read
how murders, rapists and drug dealers
can be treated like kings;
even the scroungers of our society
are elevated in stature.
Yet our armed forces,
those brave men and women
who go out to battlefields
are frowned upon
and treated with deprivation
by those who send them to war.
They are the last ones to get help,
substandard help at that.
Yet child murders have praise heaped on them,
given new identities
all because they passed a couple of exams.
If you go and fight for your country,
you are treated with scorn
for doing a duty a lot would not do.
Maybe if they refused to go
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poem by David Harris
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Born To Be Lucky
Some people are born to be lucky,
having riches and wealth by the score.
There are others born to be lucky,
and have a wealth of friends evermore.
The question now arises,
which person would you want to be?
If you choose money,
what kind of life would you see?
You would never want for anything,
and friends you might have to buy,
to be at your beck and call,
but they might all disappear if you suddenly fall.
Now just suppose,
you chose the other life
what would you see?
A league of smiling faces,
with arms outstretched to save you,
in case you were ever to fall.
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poem by David Harris
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Regret
Regret is the way we feel
when life starts getting us down.
We think of things we should have done
or things we should have said.
We regret not to have taken the time
to live our lives to the full
and realise our full potential.
We are always in such a rush
we rarely hear an infant cry.
To counter act these things
that all of us sometimes do
we fill ourselves with remorse and regret.
It is worse when time rushes by
and everything has gone,
it is then we examine our lives
to see what went wrong.
Therefore, as you read this through,
stop and take a minute or two.
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poem by David Harris
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Cleaners
This poem is dedicated to all those who do cleaning
of one sort or another.
Some people look down at others
for the jobs they do
and if your one of them
here is warning just for you.
You may think you’re intelligent,
but I don’t think you are.
You may think you are smart,
well, think again my friend.
There are a lot of smarter people
in jobs you may look down on.
Remember the old saying
never judge a book by its cover,
that also applies to jobs people do.
Some may only be there
to keep the money coming in
until the right job comes along.
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poem by David Harris
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Early Works - Day In The Life Of A Working Man
Every morning I’m up at seven
eat the breakfast I’ve been makin’,
it might smell like dried wood,
but it tastes mighty good.
By then the postman comes to call
another bill through the letterbox does fall.
It is no good tearing it in two;
they’ll only send a reminder through.
Everyday at eight I clock in,
that’s when my daily work begins.
Lifting boxes up and down
and shifting things round an round.
Ten o’clock and tea break arrives,
time for a smoke and look alive.
Ten fifteen the whistle goes again
to let us know its time to begin.
Twelve thirty to the café across the road
to sit down and unburden your load,
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poem by David Harris
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Some Daft Plot
As I sit at my desk pipe in hand,
and look out the back window
at the chalk pit and hill behind.
I remember what it was like
before the houses moved in
and decimated the view.
They called it progress
removing the bushes and trees
where the wildlife flourished.
They never gave a thought
to the natural habitat they destroyed.
They built their houses never thinking
that the new occupants
would use their neighbour’s gardens
as a short cut because
they were too lazy to walk.
The short-sighted planners
never once gave a thought to that,
all they saw with their greed
was money dancing before their eyes.
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poem by David Harris
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
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poem by David Harris
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Unopened Doors
Many doors of opportunity
remain shut through passing time.
You stand at them,
but they never open to let you pass through.
You try and try, but with no avail.
The door remains shut to you,
but you see other pass through it
and your frustration grows.
You bang and shout
and never anyone answers you.
The years slip silently by
from your youth until your old.
Each time you try the door
it refuses to let you through.
Even with more wisdom
it refuses to let you in,
but you don’t give up
you just try and try again.
More time passes
and you’ve lost the will
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poem by David Harris
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Foghorn
There was an eerie silence
as the fog cloaked around us.
The foghorn bellowed
like some prehistoric monster’s roar.
In the distance, another foghorn wailed
as if echoing the first monster’s call.
On deck eyes peered into the white cloak
looking for some dark looming shape.
The foghorns blew almost simultaneously.
The thick blanket prevented anyone
from seeing anything.
The throb of the engines like a mighty heartbeats
echoed in everyone’s ears.
Again, a foghorn bellowed
like some distant monster’s roar.
Then as a dark shape loomed from the mist
and its mighty heartbeats rang out in everyone’s ears.
As it approached, there was panic in their eyes.
A collision at sea would cost many lives.
It was bad enough in fine weather,
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poem by David Harris
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Don’t Weep For Me
Here I lay in bed
the throes of death
dance round my head.
Don’t weep for me
when I am dead,
because all you will see
is just the husk of me.
I will be gone to somewhere else,
although they have not told me yet.
It could be somewhere hot
so I can burn my toes.
It could be somewhere cold
so it will freeze my nose.
Then again it could be somewhere in between
where the air is clean.
They say that is quite nice,
a sort of paradise.
So when I am dead,
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poem by David Harris
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