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Sharon Harriott's Poetic Works
The Old Man
Cars and busses, feet on wet
pavement,
Swoosh, tap, pace, and rap.
And you, oblivious to time, you lament
At dark windows, docking your cap.
Dapper old man in your battered suit,
Aiming your lighter toward your fag,
A story set in your own head, you salute
All that is familiar to you; a sad,
Weathered building in Muswell Hill.
Lights green, clutch off, and off,
I launch myself into now, and still
Seeing you, rush from all that was silent.
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I Was Scared of You
Your lips stop momentum.
Set nondescript, then twisted;
My gut quickly mimics the movement
Yanking my innards and then freezing them fast.
Your eyes have no depth
And thus, my image skims your surface
How your words blow into my face!
Surge, and flow through my damp eyes.
Now, memory juts jagged,
Impressed on slow blinking lids.
A coma vision for when, again,
I am repulsive and obtuse.
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The Prostitute’s Story
Bustling bodies reach under, over bright brass taps.
Rare as good house wine, in dim nooks avoid
Hustling Chinese selling ‘Fi-pound’ movies.
There, ensconced you read, unaware of sharp
Glares from hostile competition; content.
You and your cursory eyes, green/blue stars
Bared in the pit of Camden. Me, subtle
Skew on a desperate bid for favour.
Lewd remarks just wouldn’t cut the mustard.
My slick patina shrivels in your glow.
Few see beyond the red nails and net;
By pity or contrition you see deep.
Soul watcher, in a dim corner. You read
Whole paragraphs of me, and aren’t repelled
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Copyrights @ Sharon Harriott
2007-08
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Sharon Harriott's Poetic Works
Newman
Passage
One, two, three, four,
they`re pissing in the corridor.
I saunter through Newman Passage,
avoiding rivulets on the floor.
Short skirts, lit fags,
they`re breathing in the smokey plumes.
I stumble through Newman Passage,
avoiding retching in the fumes.
Five, six, seven, eight,
the cobbled stones do cut and grate.
I shuffle through Newman Passage,
avoiding libertines, I`m a state.
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The Address
Number 00 Fortune Raw, Toothing,
London, SW00 OHL,
United Kingdom,
Earth,
The Universe
Tree green, dotted with tiny white flowers,
The large roomed imitated a forest glade.
So different to outside, the grey, and the red.
The cars, the shops and the school run.
The bed dominated its vast centre,
Its Barbie pink beckoned comfy nights.
No more bars, only the rumple of PVC.
And no more bruises on elbows and shins.
If I looked right, from the sash window,
I could see the park, and imagine the slides.
Beyond, a hospital chimney spewed soot,
And the leisure centre with D.I.S.C.O at 8pm.
The magic cupboard had a brass-handled door,
I could crouch and hide with Humpty.
Until I realised the dark had crept in,
Then jump the small divide to mum’s.
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Prodigal
Warmth, refuge and love; musings on my father
Who, with quiet gravitas, coaxed a wayward son.
Heart weary, your renegade renders you a holy ghost!
Such pride filled eyes; we girls excused favour of your son,
Blind to stacked hope that threw shadow over our holy ghost.
Pride turned to water and splashed at our feet; broken father.
How many times to forgive? “Seventy times Seven”, says the Holy Ghost.
Greying optimist, you put your trust in God the Father
And nod with bent knee and head, noting your absent son.
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Copyrights @ Sharon Harriott 2007-08
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