Buses For Women, By Women.

We’re women and we’re bus drivin’,
’round your neighbourhood.
We only take onboard women,
(and girls)
is that understood?

If you’re a man looking,
hoped to catch a jolly ride,
know we’re pleased to taser,
should you try’an get inside.

We’re out to guard against,
malevolence, attack and rape.
Not only here in London,
we’ve spread ‘cross the landscape.

And it’s not just in England,
we’re needed everywhere.
Depots soon common,
through donations and ticket fares.

Opening up across the world,
like a new found faith.
While culture learns to civilise,
women, will feel safe.

© Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a collage)

Suddenly

Scientist:
"Listen Doctor Wong,
You've got it all wrong.
No benefits are gained from 'Chinese medicine' concoctions."
Doctor:
"Blue-eyes, I object.
Counter in effect.
Our recipes are handed down through generations."
Scientist:
"Maybe as you say,
But Mao Zedong had his way,
in 1950 driving forward their popularisation."
Doctor:
"Young scientist, think you're hip?
Well, just you regain your grip!
To suggest political necessity and conniving motivation!"

©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (story inspired by picture)
With special thanks to the Covid-19 Lockdown

Socks-and-Pants

My dearest Jemima Journal,
I am sure you will understand.
It’s time to review that top drawer,
Pull socks-and-pants from a dark hinterland.

Resembling a bloated melange,
Absent form, lacking pairing and folding,
A call for a cull I broadcast,
Cruel riddance applied, not withholding.

They must go! They must go! Go they must!
These relatively old worn-out saggy things.
Slung in the bin and out of my sight,
Before my judgement swings.

Wait, why do I ever feel sentimental,
Over losing cotton or woollen underclothes?
No! I want softness, newness and fresh colours,
To cover my bum, ankles and toes.

(British definition of Pants: men’s underwear – male styling/cut/shape)

I Wore A Leopard Print Shirt

I KNOW what they were thinking, seeing me
wear a leopard-print shirt.
That I was making some kind of statement,
What next, lipstick – a short plaid skirt?

Conservative society (with a lowercase “c”),
You’ve got to stand down, let people be free.
Otherwise…
You validate thugs, to behave how they want.
My advice: mainstream-insiders, just be… nonchalant.

“Ah, but you’re a frilly attention-seeker!”
They say,
“You want us to stare and peek.
You’re an introverted wastrel,
An unnatural freak!”

What did I do, I ask, to generate such hate,
To so stick in your craw and exasperate?
I’m just wearing a shirt of a classic design,
No need to pray, for intervention divine.

“That’s an idea! Strike you down, strike you down!”
Well,
What response to an attitude such as this?
With stoicism,
Since it’s they who free fall,
Into the infernal abyss.

Footnote:
This poem, inspired by a “Hate Crime” experience.
In UK Law, a hate crime definition includes a situation where the offender demonstrates hostility towards the victim based upon the sexual orientation – or the presumed sexual orientation, of the victim.