Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Paul Weightman

Paul Weightman was the youngest of three sons, born in May 1955 on the Island of Malta . . . His parents, George and Mary Weightman, had been stationed on the island as part of the British military contingent shortly after world war two. Paul spent the first three years of his childhood living on Malta. Then in 1958, his parents were posted by the British army back to England. After various short term postings with different units of the army, Paul’s family settled down to civilian life in the Yorkshire seaside town of Bridlington. Paul’s two older brothers went onto and joined the army, whilst as a boy, Paul enjoyed the rest of his youth exploring the caves and cliff faces of the East Yorkshire coastline… Because of his insatiable appetite for adventure, coupled with his love of the sea, Paul spent very little of his school days, actually at school. He played truancy so many times that he eventually got expelled! To him, it was the biggest adventure of his young life. He got himself a crew placement as a deck-hand on one of the fishing trawlers that operated out of the harbor at Bridlington. Paul worked as a fisherman up to the age of seventeen, then his urge to experience something different led him to follow in his families footsteps, he too joined the British army.

Paul enlisted into one of the regiments of the Household Cavalry. Throughout his twelve years of service, Paul was involved in active service duties in Northern Ireland and other NATO peace keeping missions around the globe . . . His services career ended with his involvement in the Falklands war in 1982. After he returned from that conflict, he finished his service and became a civilian. After his army service, Paul held a number of positions with various employers; finally he decided to become his own boss and formed his own company. He built his transport business up from scratch, working long hours every day, sometimes seven days a week. This honeymoon period with his business finally came to end in 2004, with the collapse of his company. Paul and his wife Pauline lost almost everything, their home and everything they had worked for.

Since 2004, Paul has been a self-employed courier; both he and his wife now live with a member of their family. For the last three years, Paul has been writing children’s stories and poetry, he had his first literary attempt at publishing, with his first book: The Scallies. The story is based on a couple of fantasy characters who team up with their animal friends to rescue a dog from its cruel owner. Paul first love is writing fantasy children’s stories and poetry, but he gets his inspirations from having a vivid imagination and from taking pointers from day to day events. Paul’s other published books are; Topical Rhymes (poetry), and Orrin, The Dragon, a children’s book . . . in addition to these publications, Paul has been chosen by Spotlight Poets (Forward Press Ltd.) to have eight of his poems, published in their 2008 publication of Natures Faith, A book of poetry.

Legacy of Misery

Britain has been keeping a stupendous secret from its citizens about her past;

Therefore, the tragic tale I feel is my duty to proudly tell, Welcome aboard and please strap in for this roller coaster story of a courageous slave,

Who underwent and overcame living in the deepest layer of Hell! Mr. William Wilberforce from his English mansion he did depart,

Not weighing even one hundred pounds,

But he certainly was tough for his size,

And happened to be an owner of an even stronger heart, he was told of coloured people, climbing aboard Satan's rotting steamboat,

Being stuffed into the lower decks,

With a thousand other captives, every one of them ready to depart!

He fought heroically for his beliefs,

But was forced to make an early retreat,

While his comrades were failing to gather support,

William continued to push his beliefs.

Shackled in these god forsake and sadistic ships,

With the thoughts of food, family, and freedom on their minds,

..And not the slightest idea of where they were going,

Leaving their families and tribes behind!

He'd rather be flirting with death against the lion they said,

For against that foe, you gained respect,

Were not nearly as dangerous as these boats’ diabolical decks, praying that they’ll somehow manage to climb over that guard rail,

And smell the fresh air again, but the reality was cruel and stark,

Shackled down below, in manacle and chain!

Vomit filled the vessel, as the prisoners were brought to their permanent port,

On his bare skin he showcased an everlasting whip scar, from each lash he did retort. Marching through the spiteful streets of Portsmouth,

With the crowd calling them "poor, ignorant devils",

Curiously asking themselves "who are these people?"

Someone shouted "they’re from somewhere south"!

When society hears the toxic term "concentration camp",

It automatically thinks of the Nazis and World War II,

But take a minute to reflect back on our own nation's past and deeply dwell, Thousands of lost souls were starving,

And desperately searching for the smallest slice of salvation,

While trapped in eighty awful acres of Hell...As soon as they walked though the grotesque gates,

They made a pledge to themselves, that no matter what,

They would make it out of this human zoo alive, refusing to be one of the six thousand innocent inmates,

That would leave this camp as a corpse;

They decided to use their wisdom and wits, to attempt to valiantly survive.

The prison warden refused them supplies of any vegetables or fruits,

And they didn't have any blankets to cuddle with at night,

When the world became so wicked and cold, their skinny bodies were shaking and trembling in fear,

As they realized that this tale of tragedy and turmoil,

May never get to be sadly told?

They were thrown in the white oak guard house's dungeon,

For half of the day merely for attempting to retrieve a bucket of water for a friend, demising a plan to break through these wooden barracks was an ambition,

To achieve as soon as possible, for they declined the invitation to stay here until their wretched life ends. The Southside of London had become over crowded,

With detrimental living conditions, starvation, scurvy, and miserable misery, the fate of these poor retched slaves, was a sorrowful sight to see.
...Armies of innocent individuals undeservingly forfeited their future and freedom,

And, to their cherished friends and loved ones, never even had a final precious chance to say "farewell", a plethora of poisoned people during Britannia’s great Black Plague,

Were frightened and frantically rummaging around,

For the quickest road to redemption, while locked in eighty atrocious acres of Hell!

Rapacious rumours floated around, such as that the camp had connections,

With an unscrupulous undertaker who sold some of the prematurely perished prisoners,

To medical schools for study or simply hurled them into the river Thames

¼ Only to wash back up on the frigid shore, there were a countless number of faceless names on the tainted list of tragedies,

But there always seemed to be room for an incalculable number of more.

Even regular citizens who merely felt sympathy for these victims,

Were sickened by what they saw,

Some slaves had the option to be emancipated,

After taking a loyalty of oath to English law,

Only greater dangers and uncertainty awaited them,

As they were shipped out to the Americas just like any other slave, if the deceased were lucky enough to receive such noble attention,

They would be buried in an ugly unmarked pauper's grave.

Dancing with the Devil as one out of every five slaves died,

Within these bloodstained boarders, they satanically became so depraved; these poor souls began to hang themselves from corroded ring pins,

From a life of slavery, they would be saved.

But the brave and brilliant Mr. Wilberforce,

Continued to look away, from the artificial livid light,

Refusing to escape reality so easily and shamefully admit defeat. Hundreds of tragic Africans, taciturnly threw away the keys,

To their futures as human beings, for suffering and disease, Brigades of bloodstained bodies, during the missing pages and years,

Out of the History books were hopelessly hunting,

From the highest hill of hope, while anxiously contemplating theirs fears!

They were just one of the many inestimable nameless faces,

Inhabiting these concentration camps of corruption and fear,

But they managed to escape from the cold stone barriers,

With seventy-four of his blood brothers, who dug desperately?

And tunnel his way beneath the wretched walls and flamboyantly flee.

There were only four hundred and fifty who lived,

Some matched up to the thousands of those that perished,

...so their chances seemed to be pretty fine,

To take control over the camp, for freedom was so divine.

Over time, Wilberforce, as well as many of the others,

Have forgiven their former gentry friends,

And hope that they could all someday meet,

And make a toast to the deliverance, for those they did mistreat.

After proudly serving his office, he finally reunited with his loving family,

Back home and was greeted with open arms and tears of joy, His father offered him a proud handshake,

And his mother got to once again hug and kiss her precious boy.

He still recalls that noble night,

Where he left those who claimed ignorance behind him,

And ignored the strident screams of objections

Sprinting swiftly towards salvation,

With god fearing indignation, he surely thought they could see? Stripping out of his torn and tattered attire,

While bathing in that great ornamental lake,

And running through the swarming streets,

Of London town, shouting at last they’re finally free! ...Masses of malignant men starved their marionettes to death,

Yet still brainwashed themselves to salivate to the sound of a vociferous bell, This British born holocaust, was a disgusting awful tale,

But sadly there was only a few that was left, out of eighty thousand slaves,

That actually survived those satanic ships, and those paupers’ unmarked graves.

Before we answer the questions asked,

Did the people know what was going on?

To all those slaves, that was shackled in boats,

Our government knew it was wrong!

Now coloured people around the world, they really know the truth,

Of how our ancestors treated theirs,

And depriving those, of their youth!

A Little Angel Missed

My daughter is so beautiful; I’ve said so in this verse, the day she was brought
through to me, being carried by her nurse. The day she was born in a hospital, I was told she had my looks, her tiny quaint little fingers, were wrapped around mine like hooks.

She is the centre of my life, and I can’t wait to take her home. Her smile is just so heavenly, she certainly second to none. As any man can hope for, I wonder if I’ll cope. And now I spend my days here writing, and thinking of her so. She might someday understand, what daddy is willing to do, and how I’m so very proud of her, but I don’t know what to do?

I have some poems that are not yet hung, upon my drawing room wall, they’re all about a little girl, who makes me proud and tall. She’s such a bright little girl, she really is the best, and I make the time to be with her, because she’s not like all the rest.

She likes to remind me of heaven, she often sheds a tear, like deep clear pools, her eyes they shine, and they’re really just like mirrors. Those eyes they speak a thousand words, they look so very sad, I’ve tried my best to be a good father, and wonderful loving dad.

I was lost in thought for a long, long time, for which I held a glass. I drank the contents dry within it, and then tossed it on the grass. I’ve lost my priceless angel; she meant everything to me, no more smiling Face, nor cheeky grin, no sitting on my knee.

For I’ve been lonely, for so long, there’s no one I can trust. That wonderful little girl, which once was mine, is now a wisp of dust! A night there’s shapes and figures; they dance along the wall, could this be her visiting spirit? I really can’t recall.

I’ve grown so very old now, and my body broken and weak, the days of my own existence, have for so long been very bleak. But soon I’ll see her smiling, as I cross the great divide, and once again I’ll hold her tight, with a feeling of love and pride.

A Mothers Bond

Warm inside the mother’s womb, but the growth of life comes real soon. For the mother nurtures the baby small, in a sacred pouch of a fluid wall. The mothers link between her and child, protect the infant from a world so wild.

Months’ one, to nine the infant grows, both the mother and father are quietly told. Please touch my body she says to him, for it’s our child that grows within.

The mother and the father have a quaint little grin, for both of them love, the child within. For them they know their wish come true, the growth of life a child anew.

For many a month the infant grows, in mothers’ world it only knows. For very soon the child will see, its mother and father, their love for thee.

While the mother lies upon the bed, the father stands there, he’s filled with dread. So now the time has come for the baby to show, a boy or a girl? They do not know!

Six hours on, the baby cries, the father stares and gives a sigh. So, a thank-you lord for this infant dear, I love this child, on that I’m clear. I cherish these and those I love, and I pledge my thanks to God above.

Mothers holds her baby dear, close to breast, its heart will hear. For now the infant knows its mother, the bond is set, it knows no other. The years pass by, the infant grows, its mother now is growing old, in live or death or grave beyond, the baby knows its mother’s bond!

Hurtful Love

The sound of faint echoes, those melodies pounding in her ears
But he isn't the one to caress head, or to dry up all her tears.
So will you do it, will you try and console the pain she feels
She’s so mixed up, she’s in denial, and she doesn’t think it’s real.
The pain of heartless benevolence, it was a blessing in disguise,
As gravel hits the pavement, her catalyst gently shies,
Spattered blood on the canvas, burned into it so brown,
Has she taken a bottle of pills, or has she broken her crown?
Glittering lights, and crazy nights, from a noisy discotheque,
The passion of a child's heartfelt attempt has turned her in a wreck.
And I can see the look his eyes, has portrayed
The way she feels, as a strong arm is placed around her waist,
She pulls away and reels.
I hate you; how I detest you; and the music makes me sick,
I loathe you: and I despise you; I'll forget you just as quick.
Black light on the white out, underlines her feeling of hurt,
Hey there, don’t I know you, I’m the one that feels like dirt!
Cross out those little hearts that are scribbled, on the antique bed,
Shut that foul mouthed hole in your face, or you will wind up dead!
Anger seething rapidly, the taste is bitter on her tongue,
A harmony of this euphony, never yet had it been sung,
So tear me to shreds, my new love; break me to the bone,
Because I'm the poison viper, who never let you alone!
I don't deserve this gentle word