Father’s who run off and leave their
responsibilities far behind
leaving a mother to carry on
clearly they have ,underlined
their inappropriate behaviour
and must realize and understand
really there was little left
as the eggtimer’s run out of sand
absence is no quality
and time alone won’t justify
the void perhaps the distance
all of that is undermined
as years pass infants become older
schooling and the whole domain
where mothers work the oracle
despite the rampant strain
child support the agency
may then assess the price as to
whatever the father’s means may be
or what the father aims to do
his damnedest for his child or not
the birth certificate mean’t a lot
and does it clearly we shall see
the child part of a parody
of single parenthood for they
and dependent on much more each day
the mother has to try to be
mother and father consciously
this can be hard but many do
manage it and look back to view
the child who has become the man
when essentially it all began
with just an act
with just an egg
a sort of non existent peg
perhaps a feeling
perhaps a pain
of what had happened
was all in vain
the months rolled on
a lonely wait
manifested to relate
to this beginning
and to this end
truthfully we
now could defend
the right to be
the right show
the right to see
the right to know
the toll was heavy
it was bound to be
through out the babies infancy
each birthday
yuletide celebration
every solstice
a magnification
of reason
and of guilt holds true
for the mother who new what to do
the absent father
the piece of shit
the arse wipe who sort
of let rip
swanned around
believing he
was godsend to infinity
the yoga guru
clad in gold
the buddhist
had his story told
of how the infinite
and why he was
if asked of course it was because
his mind and body
was honed on sin
his child, the mother
knew the spin
took the knocks
and suffered so
as arse wipe joined the
constant flow
clocked up the miles
an avid stare
Australia, India
France, aware
he taught the yoga
unchained and free
no thought of his son
and how he be
no support through Winter’s bite
birthdays come
the constant fight
to keep their heads above the water
this is really what it taught her
remaining resolute ,all the time
the mountain on its upward climb
the torrid state
of their affairs
how time in fact
clearly impair’s
the fool who would
a roving go
and who used the internet to grow
art modelling
and yoga man
in every monastery
there’s a fan
a women ready possibly
to bear his grief
and feign to be
a harbourer for his taoist core
it was his implement of gore
another child
another son
unknowing truly
of what he’s done
his followers they only saw
the purity now at his core
the buddhist parlance
the sepia strand
the light he held
in either hand
the perception he was good and pure
the fury that would be the cure
his son would grow
his partner too
in spirit
she would
know what to do
so much would be
the truer soul
strengthened in her honest role
to love and care
and be loved each day
by the poet whose tender words would say
that take her to a new
resolve
a sharing base
in which to, evolve
around her she became the one
the maiden of the moon and sun
a warrior that plied her way
across the world
and everyday
the search was on
for yoga joe
the inflated pratt
with the old banjo
his lies
his infamy
his lack of guilt
would never shield him
and he would wilt
through out his later life and be
overcome by tragedy
Karma stood the test of time
within the pit
he could not climb
some saw him as an avid soul
the yoga man so in control
but memory and true esteem
would trounce him
and destroy his dream
his partner who he had destroyed
attacked and sacked
seemed ever joyed
to hear
one day alas he died
a broken man
who had defied
all logic really
and who was found
in the buddhist
pool where he had
drowned
suicide well who can say
at last a blast took him away
on his grave what do we see
a flaky headstone there he be
no more journeys to beyond
squandering the ancient bond
in the ground he rots away
a toxic arse
who now does pay
the goddess feels him
his shadow leaves
once upon her
it retrieves
on winter days perhaps she shook
to be awoken by the rook
but now she feels that inner glow
Ostara’s hand
and Beltain’s blow
at Samhein she
gains symphony
her sons and her
both are now free
as arsewipe rots
the maggots chew
they splutter on
the acrid dew
and choke and leave his fetid hue
the hatred and the vilest brew
but she the goddess
she’s now free
sable haired
because she dared
the poet he
has gone to sleep
occasionally she’s heard
to weep
she had loved him
he was true
and he had really loved her too
the tears ran slowly down
her face
onto her leggings
and black lace
behold her son
was tall and he
visited her now constantly
the lines were deeper
her spirit strong
she was his mother all along
a firery spirit
a warm refrain
a life worth while
the bitter chain
arse wpie 1 forgotten he
for the poet in Summerland he be
writing his sonnest and waiting to see
his goddess in all infnity
* Written in Birmingham took exactly 1 hour*
Rex Tyler is a Poet, Campaigner, former owner of an organic shop of 30 years, and Public Speaker living in Berkhamsted, UK.