Bully

POETRY JAM
http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com.au/
asks us to consider the unpleasant subject of Bullying


BULLY

Imagine the plight of the victim, if the victim is a child!

Compared with this all adult pain seems to be very mild.

There will always be rogues and ruffians, with taunting on the brain,

With nothing else in their vapid minds than the need to cause others pain.

But an adult has recourse to law, and an adult knows his rights,

He also has the experience to avoid unpleasant fights.

But picture a child, maybe small and quiet, maybe newly come to the school,

Who's never even heard of bullying and is treated as a fool.

Who's taunted, teased and terrified, in secret shadowy places,
While other weak creatures stand and watch, with sick grins on their faces.
The teachers say 'No bullying!'; the teachers say 'Report it!'
The teachers say ' Just let me know and I will come and sort it.'
But what if the Bully says 'You  tell and you'll get even worse!'
The poor little victim's sure to feel that he is under a curse.
Imagine waking-up each day to a life of taunt and threat.
Imagine dawdling ones way to school thinking 'How much worse can it get!'
And if your Mother notices that something's on your mind,
And says 'I'm telling those teachers! They must be completely blind!'
Imagine yourself crying 'No Mum! He'll get me if you do!
And I'm not telling you his name! That would be dangerous too!'
How will they grow up, these two boys? The Bully may get by
By bludgeoning his way though life, making other people cry;
Unless he recalls his bullying, when he is fully grown,
And suffers regret for evermore, secretly, on his own.
But the victim may be scarred for life, ashamed of being weak,
Never daring to make a stand, being docile, being meek.
*
And what of the female Bully? She's deadlier than the male,
Because her tongue's her weapon, and tongues can whip and flail.
Nasty jibes and little notes, playing 'no speaks' and sneering,
This are the things that little girls spend their school-days fearing.
The Bullied need their champions, champions that they crave;
That can stand-up to the Bullies!
Come on, kids, be brave!
*
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This is my daughter, Rebecca, who doesn't resemble me in the least. But watch out, Becca!

TRANSFORMATION

‘All women become like their mothers’. So said Oscar Wilde,

And I have absolute proof of this; I am my mother’s child.

In my youth I never resembled her; we didn’t look the same;

This was a matter of regret to me; I thought it was a shame.

She had great big brown eyes; mine were rather small.

I was short and dumpy; she was slim and tall.

She had dark hair, wavy too; mine was ‘mouse’ and straight;

And I wore glasses too, I fear, something I used to hate.

‘I wish I looked like my mother’ was often on my mind;

I felt that Fate had seen me coming and had been a bit unkind.

Yet, now that I am elderly, and my mother no longer here,

Vestiges of my mother suddenly appear.

Oh, not the looks, but mannerisms, a turning of the head,

A pursed-lip type of reaction to something that’s been said.

I look in the mirror daily and see a familiar sight…

‘All women become like their mothers’; Oscar Wilde was right.

*