Wasted Generations by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

Wasted Generations

Walking through this
lockdown ravaged
town, I see generation
after generation
wasted due to extreme
Government policies,
and insane politicians.

I see frustrated men,
and women, living
on streets filled with
drugs, drug related
crime, litter, and
despair. Men, and
women who can only
deal with their problems
by using, and abusing
drugs, and alcohol.

Across the street,
hanging out on the
street, like the world’s
oldest, and dumbest
teenager, I see an old
acquaintance.
He looks so stoned,
that if his eyes were
open, I’d be able to
look into them and
see above the clouds.
I pretend I haven’t
noticed him, and
quickly turn away.

It’s not like I’ve missed
anything, just a load
of mush-mouthed,
incoherent gibberish,
fuelled by alcohol,
and downers.

A generation wasted
in more ways than one. 

The Birds And The Bees by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

I know that I’m not the
brightest bulb in the box,
but it’s only just occurred
to me that far from being
the most intelligent species
on the planet, as we tend to
arrogantly assume that we
are, we surely must be the
dumbest.
Just take a look around you.
The intricacies of the work
that goes into a bird’s nest.
Not to mention the green
factor involving all of the
recycling.
Or the incredible feats of
engineering involved in
the making of a beehive.
An anthill, a rabbit’s warren.

None of these animals had
to spend 11 years in school,
then college, university or
whatever to build their own
homes. Squirrels don’t need
a City & Guilds qualification
to know how, and where to
hide their nuts. Lions, and
tigers, hunting in the wild
didn’t need to spend 3 years
studying, then a gap year to
find themselves, before they
could do their jobs.
We humans are as thick as
shit.
We should be ashamed of
just how useless we are.
I know that I am. 

It’s Just Begun by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

It’s Just Begun

If there’s one thing
I know that can lift
me ( temporarily at
least ) out of a bad
depression, it’s music.
Right now I am going
through the worst
bout of depression for
several years.
Yet, walking my dog
just now, the sun
was shining, and the
radio station inside my
head started playing
” It’s Just Begun ” by
the Jimmy Castor Bunch.
Suddenly my mood was
lifted. I could feel the
funk flowing through my
veins. It was all I could
do to stop myself from
spinning in the streets,
and pulling some other
funky moves.
Of course, the reasons
for the depression are
still there, waiting for me
when I come down. But
I’m incredibly thankful for
those few, funky minutes.
Without them, I don’t
know if I could cope. 

The Blink Of An Eye by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

A dull, overcast, Sunday afternoon,
strolling around my old neighborhood.
Past the bungalow in which I grew up,
the place where we used to play 4 hour
long games of football, which no one
ever won. Past what used to be a park,
where I remember falling from the
roundabout, and grazing both of my
knees.
I find it really hard to believe that these
things happened 40 or more years ago.
It’s true what the old people say ( you’ll
find out that a lot of it is ) life goes by
too fast.
In the blink of an eye you’re 21, you
blink again, you’re nearly 50.
Now I try to keep my eyes wide
open all the time

Don’t Ask Me by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

Don’t Ask Me


Things, for me, always seem to go wrong,
but that’s nothing new.
It’s been going on for far too long,
disaster is my natural milieu.

I’m not sure what’s happening with my head,
I don’t know my own dialectic.
I can’t remember anything I’ve said,
and my brain patterns are too hectic.

I’ve been falling apart since before I could walk,
as soon as I could, I wanted to leave.
I was asking why as soon as I could talk,
wondering why as soon as I could breathe.

Nearly 50 years on, and nothing has changed,
the world and it’s ways still confuse me.
Is it me, or is it life that is strange ?
I try not to think about it usually. 

Worried Blues by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

Worried Blues

I’m sitting here, alone
in my Mrs’ living room.
Sitting in the middle of
the floor, my head in
bits.
She’s in hospital, and I
just don’t know what to
do. I try to read, the words
bounce off my brain.
Making no impact at all.
It’s the same with T.V.
I’m lost, all alone, I’m not
normally the worrying type.
” If you can’t change it, then
what’s the point worrying
about it ? “
No, now I’m worried.
I’ve got those worried blues,
but I don’t have my guitar
to try to play those old,
familiar twelve bars. 

Blocked by Ian Lewis Copestick

Ian Copestick, Poetry

Blocked


I haven’t written a word,
or had an idea, in nearly
two weeks.
I have to admit that this
scares me. It’s not that I
think that the world is
suffering due to the lack
of my scribblings, but I know
that I am, I’m absolutely
terrified.
What can I be if I’m not a
writer ?
That’s been part of my self
image, and helped me to go
on for the last twenty years.
If that’s not who or what I am
anymore,
then who the fuck am I ?
What the fuck am I ?
But, if I write about  not being
able to write, doesn’t that mean
that I am still a writer ?
I hope so.
I’ll have to see how it goes. 

Worst Xmas Ever by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Christmas, Ian Copestick, Poetry

 Worst Xmas Ever


Surely this is going to be the
worst Xmas ever.
During both World Wars, and
the years of the depression
in-between, times were hard,
and then there was rationing.
But, although people didn’t have
much materially they could still
meet up for a drink and a song.
Voices lifted in unison, and singing in harmony can make things seem that little bit
better, or at least not quite so
bad. This is why we have folk
music.
The dirt poor families of the
rural areas gathering together
at night, with a guitar, or more
usually a  banjo, or fiddle, and
they would sing the old gospel
songs of ‘ better times a-comin’.
Then some started to write their
own songs, about their own lives,
Which has led to a great tradition,
one of the few traditions that has
been worth keeping.

But, no we are denied even that
fleeting pleasure.
Friends and families aren’t allowed
to meet, never mind mingle, and
laugh, or sing.
Or do anything.

Like I said, the worst Xmas ever

The Choice Is Yours by Ian Lewis Copestick

Ian Copestick, Poetry

The Choice Is Yours

Never forget that,
no matter how bad
today may have been,
tomorrow is always a
new set of opportunities.
Every 24 hours is another
chance to change your
life, and yourself for the
better, or worse.
The choice is yours.
However you approach
it, tomorrow is always
there for the taking.
Unfolding like a piece
of origami. Opening up,
like a rose on a time
delay film.
Every minute of every
day is a countdown to
what could be the best
day of our lives.
Can’t you feel it ? 

Redundant by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

Redundant


I remember, as a child
thinking of the future.
Of the year 2000.
Even then I knew that
it wasn’t going to be
like the T.V. programme,
Space 1999, I wasn’t
expecting an atomic
jet pack. Still, I thought,
” In the year 2000, I’ll be
28 years old. My life
will be settled, I will have
a wife, kids a calm life
and a good career.”
Here I am, aged 48, and
my life is a howling chaos.
I don’t have a wife, or
any kids, and a calm,
settled life ?
You must be fucking
joking!
As for a career ?
I must have had at
least 50 jobs and nearly
every one I’ve hated.
The few I’ve liked, and
the rest, have all ended
pretty much the same
way. Redundancy,
recession, or just being
fired. But usually,
redundancy. There’s
nothing that destroys
your pride like being
told that you’re redundant,
in the real meaning of
the word ;


Out of date,


Obsolete,


Of no use to anyone.


Yet the people of my
generation have had
to get used to being
called it again, again
and again.
Yet we get up, brush
ourselves off and on
we go. Applying for
any job that you can
get your hands on.
Minimum wage,  no
brain jobs, I even got
turned down by fucking
McDonald’s !


Am I bitter ?
You bet I fucking am !
Once upon a time
I had a trade, I was a
precision engineer.
Then they closed all
of the factories, moved
the jobs to Indonesia,

or maybe Malaysia
and all of the workers
were left high and dry.
I had worked hard, gone

to college at night,

after a full day at work, but

suddenly there was no

need for my skills anymore,

my qualifications were useless.

It’s the way that capitalism

works.

Then you were something,

because we needed you,
now you’re just
redundant.

This is the story of my life, my city, my county.
We were known as the potteries, now we are nothing.