DEBORAH REY

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The Poetry Of...
Deborah Rey........................................................

Hush, hush, be still..

(31st December 2007)
R.I.P ANDREA

Hush, hush, be still
and realise that there
is nothing here to
celebrate, that this is
just the end of the most
cruel year and the start
of the saddest.

Hush, hush, be still
and think of them, her
parents, and all the words
you never said, because
they were useless,
inadequate, never enough
so very poor.

Hush, hush, be still
no family you know
is poorer now, or soon
will be, will lose what's
oh so dear to them, a joy
a child a product of their
love, their life.

Hush, hush, be still
and just remember, think
of the courage, of the strength
of giving BigCee bastards hell
for many years, not giving up
not giving in, too proud to
just let go.

Hush, hush, be still
and let them know you're
there and love them
mix tears with them, hold
shaking hands and tenderly,
with deep respect and even
more compassion
hush, just hush...

For Karen
with Moonrivers of love

Christmas candles lit
in welcome windows
Christmas shopping buy
buy buy and screw the budget
Christmas overeating venison
hit the booze pop the champers
get pissed while millions
all around the world will starve
to death during Christmas
without a home Christmas
in a cardboard box outside
Christmas new expensive
clothes for wild and sex-filled
parties fucking up a happy
marriage or two or more
making matches that won't
last over the New Year
Christmas drunken fights
in pubs and on the street
Christmas chic diamonds
over-boring at the chic silver
crystal and over-boring restaurant
soft Christmas music in the
background fake laughter
all around, much of the
excessive chow left over
thrown out it is Christmas.
Christmas must go to
the in-laws, bloody hell
Christmas 'family get
together' only once a year,
thank G-d! Oh, shit, He's
also in the Christmas scene
together with His Son
Christmas Birth Day of
the Saviour who was
not saved ... just like
that soldier in a far-off
foreign desert land
fighting in the name of
G-d or the leader of his
saviour country even
during what they still call
The Merry Christmas
Season. Christmas again.
I cannot help but wonder
each and every year
what –
in G-d’s name –
what the hell
ever happened
to Christmas,
Peace On Earth?

Mr. Bigcee

I have known Mr Bigcee
ever since I was a child.
No, not me in person, but
via my grandmother, an aunt,
a neighbour, and, which hurt me
most, my very first-forever
dearest boyfriend, who called me
Princess and often kissed my cheek.

I met Mr Bigcee
all through my life,
was confronted with
his nasty, sometimes deadly
habit, of moving in with people
I dearly loved. I despised his
foul manner of wasting my father
away to a place called Heaven,
Nowhere, or Beyond.

I always kept a sharp, clear eye
on the chance of Mr Bigcee
moving in with me, and if I'm
very honest, I knew he would
someday, and thus, I was prepared.
Then, when he did, transformed
into a little lump (the coward
hardly ever shows his face), I
countered him head-on, as did the surgeon.

In order to get rid of Mr Bigcee,
without any rays, beside those
from the sun, no chemical offensive
through a plastic umbilical cord,
I made a deal and traded in a breast.
That deal with Mr Bigcee cost me
my marriage, and made my right side
'siliconed', but in return, Mr Bigcee
gave back to me my health.

I still keep quite a keen, sharp eye,
even after nearly thirty years,
on each and every little sign,
or message from Bigcee.
The mammographic and blood
results tell me every year,
that everything is under control,
and, my way to counter Mr Bigcee,
I positive-think him away.

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