Midweek Poetry. What Are You?

There are two links here, one for the licence arrangement for the picture and the other is to the blog I wrote about the car accident. If you wish, have a read about the accident first and you will see why I wrote the poem. I tried to write one about the boy and for the life of me I couldn’t do it. After 31 years his death still hurts me deep inside, the senselessness of it and the neglect shown by his father. The father, his brother and a mate had hijacked two million dollars worth of frozen seafood and they were selling it off around the countryside. He had two thousand dollars in his wallet when he died. The poem is about a step mother. I may be judgemental, I don’t know, what I do know is she had no feelings other than for herself. That made me angry. I put the car there to illustrate the poem, the actual wreck was black and twisted, a bent oven. While waiting for the car to cool down I drove to the caravan park ( trailer park ) to let the driver’s de facto wife know what had happened. I’ll let the poem tell the rest.





You call yourself a mother.

Then you stir and stagger

from your foetid den of crime and booze.

Then scream at me when you are told,

that they are dead.

No care for him, just,

where’s my gold?

He had the money, it must be you

who’s taken it.

The boy?

It wasn’t mine, I just don’t care.

Now fuck off and let me grieve,

for a man I’ve lost who paid my fare.

He said we’d move from this

bloody dump.

Where I must stay and drink my Jack

and spread my legs to keep his love.

Now you tell me he’s gone.

You bastard pig,

you lying swine.

Oh my man, my man,

we would entwine

he’d tell me things.

So fine.

Of what we’d do when his ship came in.

Come in it did they robbed it blind.

Oh God, I thought my mind

would burst.

At last,

I can leave behind this den of lust

and drugs and live again in some far off place.

But then you come and tell me lies.

Look at my face

and say it isn’t so.

He isn’t dead.

You bastard.

Can’t you lie to me?

He always did, that’s why I’m here.

Now go away and let me cry

for someone bad and bold.

Now piss off mate,

just find my gold.

Laurie Smith copyright 2013.


6 thoughts on “Midweek Poetry. What Are You?

  1. patgarcia

    I remember this blog posting so clearly and your own reactions that you posted within the blog. Thinking about that posting and now reading the poem, I see your disappointment in a woman who was very disillusioned and had probably never received the kind of love that you think she should have given to her dead son.

    It is difficult to give that which you have never experience. The poem itself, full of anger and disappointment speaks to the hearts of those people who have experienced or were brought up in a uncaring enviroment.



    1. laurie27wsmith Post author

      Hi Patti, what an insightful response, I actually re-read the blog and it still upsets me. I may have to let it go. I think feelings about my mother surfaced there as well. Yes it is hard to reconcile all of this Patti, it hurt that she cared more for the money and herself, than that little boy cooking in the car.


  2. kelihasablog

    Isn’t it strange how some of the worst parents are gifted with precious children that they seem to even care about them when so many others, good parents, can’t have or find children. Excellent post! 😀


  3. Raani York

    This, Laurie, is a very impressive and emotional poem which touched me deeply. It seems you found a great way to express your thoughts about things happening that are still in your head. And you’re doing this in a very special and fantastic kind of way!


    1. laurie27wsmith Post author

      Thanks so much Raani, to say that this woman floored me with her attitude is an understatement. My son was the same age at the time, and I guess the whole thing hit home on how easy it is to lose someone you love.



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