his limbs break like sticks
and these protectors
these vermin hurt him
he has no more dreams
only the lonely nights
locked in the room
where pain will come
with demon eyes.
Others see a thin child
nothing more
but much less in soul
they justify
their negligence
by quoting
numbers
pressures
temporary blindness.
Loveless little boy
whose only sin
is being born
to savages
the night comes
and the darkness
makes him cry
and in that crying
his fate is sealed
as one by one
the blows fall
until there is no
breath to breathe
no heart to beat
no tears to cry
pity etches scars
upon a tiny coffin
we should remember
and, as a nation, mourn him
we, who could not protect
a child
from the clutches
of hyenas
© Ian Whiteley
Daniel Pelka murder: Mother and partner given life
Ian Whiteley was born in Wakefield but lives in Wigan. He is a performance poet and his poetry collection ‘A Step Towards Winter’ was published recently. http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/ianwhiteley
Showing posts with label child murder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label child murder. Show all posts
Friday, 9 August 2013
Thursday, 14 February 2013
Sky Burial
They being Buddhist,
the body an empty vessel when worn
and that vessel cold
because He has taken you from your shelf now,
and having no taste for wakes or sleeps,
or tears, or what a decent man he was,
or what a proud mother she was,
and such nonsense,
and having little wood to burn you,
no soil to hide you,
no lies to embroider you,
no basket to solicit your last few coins,
no prayers to appease you,
no child to love you, poor cadaver,
the Tibetans will bear you to a plateau on a mountain,
shadowed by wild dogs barking your song.
That song will be discordant now
because the wind is cold
and the tripping monk with stiff fingers will lay you
on the bed of rock.
Denying the worms their banquet,
denying the fire its fury,
grinning down his whiskey,
he will rend your flesh with a cleaver,
scatter your bits aside
for the griffons who come first.
He will crush your bones with a sledge
to be mixed with flour for the hawks
and the crows who come last,
who will pick the bed of rock, and your shroud, clean.
If you were meagre you become bird faeces falling
from the sky to fuse with the pungent guano of those who had station.
Together you will feed the bitter grass to feed the yak to feed the people.
Later a boy will take your shroud and wash it in the stream.
Later he will lay it on the roof of the world to dry.
the body an empty vessel when worn
and that vessel cold
because He has taken you from your shelf now,
and having no taste for wakes or sleeps,
or tears, or what a decent man he was,
or what a proud mother she was,
and such nonsense,
and having little wood to burn you,
no soil to hide you,
no lies to embroider you,
no basket to solicit your last few coins,
no prayers to appease you,
no child to love you, poor cadaver,
the Tibetans will bear you to a plateau on a mountain,
shadowed by wild dogs barking your song.
That song will be discordant now
because the wind is cold
and the tripping monk with stiff fingers will lay you
on the bed of rock.
Denying the worms their banquet,
denying the fire its fury,
grinning down his whiskey,
he will rend your flesh with a cleaver,
scatter your bits aside
for the griffons who come first.
He will crush your bones with a sledge
to be mixed with flour for the hawks
and the crows who come last,
who will pick the bed of rock, and your shroud, clean.
If you were meagre you become bird faeces falling
from the sky to fuse with the pungent guano of those who had station.
Together you will feed the bitter grass to feed the yak to feed the people.
Later a boy will take your shroud and wash it in the stream.
Later he will lay it on the roof of the world to dry.
©Noel Loftus, 2013
Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.
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