shooterspen
shooterspen

Poems

Nothing to lose

 

written in reaction to the resignation of Judge Lowell Goddard from the CSA inquiry

 

Don’t give me hope

then turn out the light.

Trust is for dreamers,

that thief in the night.

My dreams, they were shattered.

They lie in the dust.

You might think I lie.

Think that, if you must.

Where has it come from,

this black, bile-drenched spew?

Wasn’t there at my birth,

I was shame-less, like you.

 

So don’t give me hope.

There’s no friendly light,

when real monsters strike

in dead of the night.

No one to hear you,

protect who you are,

leaving you slashed with

this festering scar.

It screams out for hope.

It screams for the light,

but no saviour comes,

no justice, no right.

 

And so it goes on,

this great suffocation.

There’ll be some grand words,

self-justification.

But justice is deaf.

It serves those with power,

the ones who can hide

in their fortified tower.

'No one will listen

to nutjobs', they think,

'Who wants to hear stories

from people who stink?'

 

Who’ll wade through darkness,

the stench and the shit?

Who’s nothing to lose?

Who’ll stay in the pit?

Who’ll see it right through,

no matter the cost?

It's not about winning,

We've already lost.

We've lost our self-worth.

We have no desires

even when barristers

brand us as liars.

 

So don’t give me hope,

no tricks of the light.

I’ve nothing to lose,

I lost all that night.

 

Susan Shooter, August 2016

85

Storm rages, a tempest known
Regular waves hit home.
Never a miss, never a respite.
Crash down, you breakers of black delight!
Delight, you say? How can tranquil
Waters churned by anger, venom, hate
Be delightful to you, daughters?
Familiar blood floods familiar veins
Better the devil you know.
Truth unleashed cleanses deep
and scoops out smooth crevasses.
Eroding years have passed her by
Untouched by soft or gentle words.
Splintering age shatters down through all
Annihilating love and spitting gall.
We are family pulverised and wan
We are gone, storms rage on.
 
Susan Shooter 2015

Not the fire

 

This fire is no cleanser.

Scorches throats

A coating of lies,

Voices molten into silence.

Muddy ashes gather deeply,

Threatening lightly, snowflake lightly

Without clout.

To unpick puckered flesh,

Who would bother?

Thankless task.

The ice remains

And flames cannot warm again

The unfeeling grime

But someone did this crime.

It was not the fire.

 

Susan Shooter July 2014

 

Print Print | Sitemap
© Susan Shooter