Park Bench Tales and other writings

Thoughts and writings reflecting the poet within and the activist


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We Have to Stop Meeting Like This (Song)

Finding the Pure Woman

Meeting Like This – Sometimes you just have to let a girl know how you feel

I write to the sun and you write to the moon

Words streaming so fast I just want to swoon

Right into your arms to feast on your charms

But all I can do is just croon

We have to stop meeting like this

I want so much more than blowing a kiss

Between me and you

This feeling of love

Offers a lifetime of bliss

So we have to stop meeting like this

We have to stop meeting like this

Love so directed is love reflected

A love not dissected is love detected

All that I could ask that we take off the mask

It is time that the pitch that was sung was inflected

We have to stop meeting like this

I want so much more than blowing a kiss

Between me and you

This feeling of love

Offers a lifetime of bliss

So we have to stop meeting like this

We have to stop meeting like this

I think that you know that I want so much more

What you first thought was jest then I became sure

Your dance was so light I could not take flight

Now love flows in the poems travelling from shore to shore

We will stop meeting like this

We’ll make love not just blow a kiss

Between me and you

This feeling I have

Will give us a lifetime of bliss

So we have to stop meeting like this

We have to stop meeting like this

We have to stop meeting like this

Copyright: David Hopcroft June 2019

(To misquote a line:’It ain’t what you, it’s whether you got the courage to do it)

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Our Children

Warning Spiritual Content

Our children

(this poem is about children, it is not about the issue of migration, it is about how we see Jesus and how we see His love for children)

The great pretence of love is the face of an evil mask

To keep children in metal cages and talk of compassion

To let them sleep on a cold concrete floor

You can turn your eyes away

It is so easy for you

Forget about such horrors as you play that next round of golf

Leaving others to carry out your dirty deeds

Then you pretend that your actions are humanitarian

Trying to deny soap and toothpaste

To let them become dirty and diseased

Just as your ancestors treated native Americans

And just as they treated black people like slaves

Then you can paint that image

Pretend they are no longer human

So you can treat them like vermin

Let us be honest and admit

This is pure unadulterated evil

Meanwhile across the nation people wave their red hats

Pretending that treating children as animals

Will make the country great again

Supporters wrap themselves in cloth

Claiming that you are the next Jesus

If that is really so

Then your Jesus is leading us to the eternal fires of hell

Mothers celebrate such treatment

Cry out that these people should be detained in these conditions

That brutality is some sort of necessity

To act in a humanitarian way

I ask

What if this were your child

What if they had to flee

War, murder, starvation, drought and disease

What if their homes had been destroyed

What if they walked a thousand miles

To be spat upon

By the Jesus that you claim to worship

Is that what you would want for your child

These children, no that is not what they are

They are OUR children

You hear that, OUR children

They are MY family and they should be yours

The real Jesus

Did he tell you to lock them in cages

Did he say take away their soap

Did he say let them become dirty

Did he say they should be treated as vermin

I think not

What he said about children and love

You need to read and try understand in that skull

He talked of love not your fancy words

He said Show love to OUR children

You hear that again OUR children

Please don’t apologise or make fancy excuses

Because I do not apologise for writing this

If you are too damned embarrassed to talk about this

Then either you think these children really are vermin

And can be treated like this

Else you just too ashamed of yourselves

To even open your mouths

Copyright: David Hopcroft June 2019


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The Attraction of Mystery

The Dancer

I climbed a spiral path through a swirling morning mist

A cold chill that left discomfort not just in bones

Hopes perhaps frozen in my heart as I climbed higher

The dream where she came to me and we kissed

The energy that I had felt in a circle of stones

When she danced she set my body on fire

How much is real and could vision be but a fantasy

Where is the sign

Please cast the runes

From a square tower I looked across as the sea

Revealed those islands that rode above waves

Which of these was Avalon or was that also a dream lost

I see castles but will her portcullis be opened for me

Is her heart hidden and locked in Merlin’s caves

My heart painted her picture a canvas with lips glossed

How much of the fantasy is vision, is nothing real

Where is the sign

Please cast the runes

A weary figure I descend to pray for what I seek

From the spring I draw the red water to fill my chalice

The life blood of love that I want flows in her veins

The rising desire as my arteries sought her heat

That pure love that flows freely with no malice

I ask for a heartache spell she might cast to remove these pains

Let there be enchantment and tell me that all is real

Send me that sign

Cast your runes

Copyright: David Hopcroft June 2019


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She put the pretty into summer

The first time that I saw her she smiled

I responded with what must have seemed a cheeky grin

This eloquent beauty with beautiful eyes

Nearly captured my heart before she had spoken

Hesitation then, could it be both hearts had been broken

Then she danced right over with those beautiful eyes

Stopping before me, my heart trying to cope with surprise

So light on her feet and when she spoke she was wise

She wrote of her love, but not now and then

Her love was so strong she wrote again and again

From professing her feelings she just could not refrain

From morning to night she set hand to pen

Love flowed so sweetly he was drawn to remain

In sunshine her words so pretty yet never vain

Whilst in storms her writing still gushed like the rain

Pouring from a spout but withheld from the drain

Though overseas I can still see her dancing

Twirling as if she were on air, skirt riding high

Naughty thoughts when I saw just a glimpse of her thigh

A summer of madness that passed all too soon

Evenings strolling the beach, cafes at noon

White sands her dance floor beneath silvered moon

Light steps barefoot and my poor attempts to croon

If only more could be foretold by rune

To meet this dancer could ne’er be too soon

Sorrow might bring the tear to caress the eye

My regret as I watched unable to share her stage

Her dancing was mystery, did she lead or I

How do we find what might be true

M’lady, May I have this dance with you?

Sadness as youth fights to overcome age

Maybe, in years long passed, another stage ………

Copyright: David Hopcroft June 2019


11 Comments

This Poet

Faith : Who is this poet ?

So you think you know me because I write words, because I mix them all together and get some to rhyme, think you know what this all means, well you ever thought, maybe you know nothing, because maybe I know nothing too. So you think because I write the pretty love poems that you know who I am, think you know how I think. If you do you might be better than me. I write a love poem, it ain’t just words, that is a piece of my heart I am putting out for her and she take that and cherish it so much I just get stuck on her like super glue.

So you think you know me. Well if you want to know me then you had better know Him, maybe She. Does not matter what name you want to give, all the same to the One I serve. Call him God, Allah, Freya, anything you wish. Just remember he ain’t the president and you wont find Him in the parliament or some dam Congress or Senate. He is better than all that crap because He really cares. You find Him and you share that, then maybe you do know me. You go look in the shelters and camps and you will find Him there.

You know me? Well you ain’t gonna find me supporting war. Keep your killing fields for getting the attention of Lucifer and he is going to welcome you through those fiery gates. You know what, you don’t even need a key to get through that door. You think you can drop a bomb on some bus full of innocent kids and still get His love. You are just plain mad, and evil. Just because you are about to be elected don’t make it right. You want to give guns to children, you don’t know me. My soldiers work in a hospital trying to put right all the dam mess you made.

You think you might know me. Well then you gonna be taking some sort of pity on them refugees, homes gone, nothing else to lose except their dignity. You take that away from them and I say you don’t know me and you don’t love Him. You get some kick out of kicking a homeless guy in his cardboard box that is his only home, think you are big to your mates because you just spit and pissed on him and his dog. Let me tell you this clear, you post that notice against the poor, against the aid, and you are not just spitting on the homeless, you spiting on Him, you are emptying your gob on God.

You tell me there is some dam fancy code telling me everything you think right or wrong, I tell you this. If them rules come from Him then why you not care about your neighbour, why you not care about murder, why you not care about stealing. That big fine rule book of yours is no better than shit and I don’t care whether you wear some fancy grey suit, or some fine robe with a mitre hat. You care then you gotta show it, cos I ain’t seen it yet and I been waiting a long time.

You think you know me. Well then you better know I don’t go for this no abortion crap either. That body belong to that woman, she did not give it to you. You take her body that way and then deny her and you are no better than the damned rapist. You need to see that crap and if not then someone should stuff her clothes in your gob, see how you choke. You tell me she can’t feed her child in public just because she use her breast, but you ain’t complaining when some skank come walking around, skirt showing bare ass, tits falling all out of her shirt, then you ain’t got no reasoning at all at and He knows that too. You tell me you can treat her like dirt, hit her, beat her, starve her, then you put on your fancy suit, go to church, pretend nothing happened, then I tell you that you don’t know Him.

You want to know this poet then you need to know that he writes from the gut. Ain’t nothing he is feared to write about. You think there are taboos protect some establishment shit. Don’t work like that. Only He tell me what is right what I can write. You wanna blame the addict, blame the poor, blame the sick, blame the disabled for who you are. What kind of rubbish is that. You live in some fine house and get us to pay for it and you think we ain’t gonna get hungry and angry. Well we are angry and we getting hungry for Him.

You talk of love, I told you what that is. You think I know women, that ain’t true either, but they may know me. I got women I know they are proper jewels, covered with diamonds from head to toe. You, you just collecting pieces of coloured glass from a broken bottle that was thrown out because it was empty and stank. How do I know? Because the women I know they know Him and they know all that I wrote here and more.

This poet he is more than words, if you don’t know that, you don’t know me or Him.

Copyright: David Hopcroft June 2019


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On the edge: The Final Sleep

Almost 500,000 children under 5 die from malaria each year.

On the edge: The Big Sleep. Written to raise awareness.

Beneath a hot sun, rain dripping from long green leaves

Whilst helping her mother tend the small plot

A sharp prick like a needle pierced her soft skin

Grandmother watching whilst she weaves

A blood-heavy visitor leaving a swelling spot

Last year there was drought, crops were thin

A small sharp prick; the deadly parcel accepted,

Whilst busy hands planted cassavas and beans.

If disease stays away they will eat well this year.

Anopheles heard, unfelt, her meal collected

A girl playing a game discovered in dreams

Safe in the village, Shani plays without fear

The sun slips down beyond the river bank 

Shani rests in her blanket on dung-polished floor

A tiredness now, she has ceased her playing

Heavy-laden evening air; the hut seems dank

Breathing is harder; an elder mutters old lore

Her head is throbbing, hears not what he’s saying

Tethered goat in the yard misses her company

Her body shivers, she trembles, mind wandering

Her mother knows, but does not want to believe

Villagers peer in the door, offering sympathy

Another blanket, some water, more comforting

A doctors calls; no money, he takes his leave

Sweat-soaked shirt drenching her skin

Anopheles’ curse is claiming her soul a degree at a time

Life’s gasping plea sucks love from a precious bond

The hold of the thread becoming thin

Fever with fury enveloping her body like a vine

Maternal feelings of being cheated and wronged

Keep the fire glowing, nourish those embers of hope

Medicine is for those who sing at another camp

The tears of a mother run down a cheek

Too late to keep this young life afloat

The body grows cold, the skin feels damp

As the child in her arms takes the final sleep

Copyright: David Hopcroft Revised June 2019