edithbertrand.com
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Poems from the heart
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People
Contents
The immigrants - They sailed away in innocence
The addict - It started off in innocence
The prostitute - Behind her lit-up window
The migrant son - Born without kinfolk, born without ties
The battler - His wrinkled face and calloused hands
You (1) - Restless like the driven wind
The immigrants
They sailed away in innocence
with only one ambition,
a future in that far-off land,
so they parted with tradition.
They severed ties with family
and fare welled friend and foe,
good luck and all the best to you,
be careful how you go.
A mother sheds a lonely tear
and whispers her goodbye,
why does she loose her child today,
is there a reason why?
But they were young and full of life,
there was no time for tears,
their future was the promised land,
no worries and no fears.
But years rolled by and took their toll,
life's lesson at an end,
of broken hearts and shattered dreams,
one prays they'll understand.
I shed a tear, once more I see
two children hand in hand,
who thought that life was oh so sweet
in that far-off promised land.
September 1992
The addict
It started off in innocence,
to do it was quite "hip",
a puff or two of Mary-Jane
that sent you on a trip.
But pretty soon 't was not enough,
you needed something stronger,
so LSD was your next choice,
it lasted so much longer.
Most friends dropped off and they went straight,
to them it was just a trend,
but you increased your daily dose,
forever you were bent.
Then came the day that you shot up,
by God that was a blast,
you travelled through the universe,
no future and no past.
But when you landed back on earth
you craved for more again,
there was no money to be found,
we know what happened then.
A life of crime and violence
to get your daily dose,
some went directly in the vein
and some straight up your nose.
You tried to kick the habit once,
but did not have the guts,
confronted with the real world,
it nearly drove you nuts.
You're nothing now but flesh and bones
and people pass you by,
another overdose, who cares,
you're just a faceless guy.
Adieu you poor and lonely soul,
the journey at an end,
I pray you find some peace up there,
God bless and keep you friend.
September 1993
The prostitute
Behind her lit-up window
she sits and plies her trade,
it is the oldest in the world,
her clients on parade.
She prostitutes her body
for sale to you and me,
men ogle her in silence,
her flesh for all to see.
They come from every walk of life,
the famous, rich and poor,
frustrated by their passion,
she makes a welcome cure.
And after payment of a fee
her clothes drop to the ground,
where upon the client mounts her,
almost without a sound.
He goes through all the motions,
sometimes he'll give a snort
and then like "rigor mortis"
all movement will abort.
There is no love, no feeling,
he does not know her name,
just like two dogs out in the street
performing without shame.
He leaves the room, there's no farewell,
to him she's just a whore,
he's paid for what he wanted
like a purchase in a store.
She adjusts her scanty clothing,
repairs her wrinkled face,
slaps on some rouge and lipstick
and resumes her window-place.
May 1995
The migrant son
Born without kinfolk, born without ties,
lost to the roots where his ancestry lies.
He'll grow up a stranger with some foreign name,
the name of his father, from wherever he came.
He'll grow up and wonder how life could have been
surrounded by family that he's never seen.
So when he grows older he will feel forlorn
and visit the country where his father was born.
The language is foreign, but he will feel at ease,
his mixed up emotions can find some release.
Is there anger or sadness, a feeling of hate,
because of a decision his parents once made?
To leave all they had for streets paved with gold,
where dreams would come true, or so they were told.
He remembers his parents who worked day and night,
who struggled and saved, so he would be right.
Their youth then cut short on those streets paved with gold,
by the time they reached forty they were haggard and old.
They had swallowed their pride and buried their tears,
a migrant grows tough after a number of years.
Their hearts cry in silence as they constantly yearn
for the land of their fathers, but cannot return.
Their children then migrants, their story the same,
they'd be homesick and dream of the land they once came.
November 1995
The battler
His wrinkled face and calloused hands,
a remnant of the past,
remind him of a life gone by,
but now he's free at last.
He's pensioned-off, the work is done,
there’s no more clock to punch,
gone is the chatter with his mates
at smoko and at lunch.
He spent most of his natural life
a slave of industry,
he knew no different and now he's lost,
now that he's finally free.
His meagre pension won't go far
towards all those life-long dreams,
they kept him going all those years,
to no avail it seems.
His kids grew up and moved away,
a family of their own,
the only time they come around
when asking for a loan.
The worker longs for days gone-by
of hardship and of sweat,
when a man was a man who fought for his rights
as he slaved for his daily bread.
There was Taffy and Jock and Bluey and Bill
and Saturday night at the pub
where they did drink their fill until "Gentlemen please"
and then they went off to the club.
The loneliness hangs like a noose round his neck,
unable to cope with the time,
surviving on memories and tales of the past
when the price of a beer was a dime.
And so life goes on, till death beckons him,
the loneliness finished at last,
his weary eyes close, but there's a smile on his face
as he is saying farewell to the past.
November 1995
You (1)
Restless like the driven wind
the past now comes to rest,
discarded are the countless fears,
you’ve understood the test.
The spirit’s lesson now begins,
your future is secure,
you’ve banished negativity
and fled the devils lure.
The spirit now is in command,
invite its loving grace,
accept in humble gratitude
spiritual embrace.
The balance twixt yourself and it
will slowly reach its peak,
while others dwell in ignorance
not knowing what they seek.
January 1998