A weathered gate
leads to the old estate.
People hate
what they do not understand.
Ideals built on sand.
Foundations crumble
as the bulldozer rumbles,
sweeping all before.
It is the law
of progress.
There must be redress.
Let justice be done
though the heavens fall.
The ancient wall
that has stood the test of time
goes without reason or rhyme.
The crime
was to be great.
It is getting late.
Dogs bark and the caravan moves on.
It is going, going, gone.
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K Morris - Poet 
Drew, that is a wonderful poem! 😀
Thank you. I am thrilled you liked it. Kevin
they destroyed my home away from home. i wasn’t much, the estate . but i loved it.
Simon’s house
I miss vivid pink, rich purple, deep fuchsia and pale rose sunrises slowly moving across turquoise walls to the sound of quiet morning guitar music.
And Simon describing them to me on the phone, when I was in America and couldn’t be there to see them
While he brushed his teeth
The grey skies and rooftops of London just the other side of the big window and the sun through the hanging prisms Dempsy gave us, making spinning , dancing rainbows all over.
A hint of incense (and magic) in the air, lavender, goldenrod, patchouli. Tiny, beautiful bottles of essential oils in the icebox. Almond, cinnamon, geranium
Good friends. Everywhere. All hours of the day and night . Always dropping by for us to cook them something, together. Or to make music. Or just for a cup of tea
The never ending sounds of constant relentless re-building and new construction, jack hammers and cranes and shouty builders and occasional scary crashes
before they tore it down.
The old tall boy, the one piece of REAL furniture in the whole place, where he kept anything and everything of any value or importance.
I wonder where he put it in the new flat?
And if anything of mine is still in it.
and if it isn’t, where has it all gone?
and why?
The scary hallway, ever ready to catch you by ankles and trip you up if you ventured out in the dark by yourself in the middle of the night to get to the toilet ( not the baaathroom)
Is the new bathtub as nice as the old one? That would be almost impossible. I loved that tub. Spaghetti in the bath, with a glass of merlot
He’s bound to miss that.
No matter how good the new one is.
I guess I will never know.
No more cheerfully waving hello at the kitchen people who watched we two in silence through the window from across the estate. And who patiently waited for me to come back.
And come home.
I wonder where they live now too. And if they miss me.
The furry zebra … couch? Or whatever that thing was supposed to be. Just cover it up with enough big pillows and it will kinda sorta pass for one.
Maybe.
The big clay ashtray perpetually on the floor, so it was nice and convenient for me to kick every time I stood up.
even though it always had a day off,
on Thursdays.
There was an awful lot of Thursdays at Simon’s house.
And about a thousand vinyl records lining the walls. and old tape cassettes. But not a single cd.
Stacks of music magazines everywhere. some going back thirty years.
Dial -up. for gods sake. DIAL-UP! I didn’t even know you could get still get that. Even if you wanted to! I guess he doesn’t have it, anymore. It was all he had ever known!
He must have been so surprised. I wish i could have seen his face! But time to upgrade.
You know what they say “out with the old…”
Simons old house, was kinda messy , sort of disorganized, frankly, a bit of a wreck, but basically , really, really nice. (We were a good match)
Because Simon has always had trouble getting rid of anything he likes. Or cares about. At least that’s what I used to think. Maybe I was wrong.
Daffy duck glaring psychotically at me off the wall out of the crazy kaleidoscope poster.
And Jimi , so cool, sucking down that cigarette.
Concert posters and pictures of family and friends and gig ticket stubs and postcards and Chinese fortune cookie fortunes and glossy adverts and cartoons cut from magazines and the newspaper haphazardly stuck all around the walls. Some of them so old they were practically falling to pieces. They must have disintegrated into dust during the move.
He didn’t leave any of that behind.
Just me.
I guess I never really got the hang of using the kitchen tap without the entire thing coming off in my hand.
It took me eight years to work out how to switch on the boiler, work the outlets, figure out which light switch did what? How to wiggle the telly antenna, use the remotes. I had just got the hang of it.
I bet everything works just fine. Now. Everything finally perfect.
Without me.
In the new flat. I’m sure its much better.
I miss the magpies imitating the car alarms. and the distant church bells. and the doves. And even the sound of the telephone constantly ringing.
I don’t even know what his phone number is now. Hell, I don’t even know where the phone IS anymore.
And looking for the red foxes in the park from over the balcony at night and checking every time we came home, just in case.
Without fail Saturday mornings, right at 7, the Spanish radio station would start playing full blast from a few flats below. But it was okay because we were never ready for bed yet. Accompanied of course, by a full volume sing along while they ran the Hoover. For hours! What the hell did those people put all over their floor? Every single week? Your guess is as good as mine.
I’m not sure I really wanna know! SCARY!
Almost as scary as that little kid who used to scream every day in the park below and her mother shouting right back down at her from the 5th floor. I bet he doesn’t miss them!
I really miss the cheerful leprechaun living on the floor above, who was apparently studying tap dancing, occasionally, with a few friends. Only stopping to drive a few nails or dribble a basketball once and a while. I quite liked lying in bed and listening to his tiny, tiny little toenails on the linoleum.
but mostly, I miss Simon. every single day
I even miss the sound of the rattley bedroom door held shut by cardboard, that seemed to breath in and out with the slightest breeze. I guess he doesn’t have to stuff an old pair of jeans under the door at bedtime anymore.
But I don’t AT ALL miss that horrible little yappy dog that never shut up that lived four doors down
I kinda hope he moved in right next door, at Simons new flat. Wherever that is.
sorry . Your Poem moved me. so i posted mine. but i couldnt put it on my blog. Simon might see it LOL
Thank you for your poem. Simon and his former house obviously meant a great deal to you. Where I live, near Crystal Palace overlooks a big garden and a large park. We often get foxes there (as you and Simon did). We also have an owl visit from time to time. All the best. Kevin
Reblogged this on Shinyhappysherry.wordpress.com and commented:
This really moved me. thank you