The Green Party
Making someone small eat what heíd rather not
requires the sort of tactics that every motherís got
(or soon acquires). Supposing itís the veg
that makes for tea-time tantrums and a wedge
of strawberry cake has lost its bribe appeal,
for your child to eat his greens the only answer
is to give a choice of meal.
Before you chop the veg up, in cook-to-adult tone,
ask ďPeas or beans? The choice is yours and yours alone.
To be just like a grown-up with the right to choose between
makes him forget he hates all veg, not certain shades of green.
Choosing is confusing and cons him to believe
that what he gets is what he wanted not
what his mum let him receive.
Just like that cheated child, who eats his Ďchosení veg
Iím bribed, cajoled, bombasted by each politicianís pledge.
This greener, better future which they say they offer me,
has horizons built of money on the dead dreams of the free.
Unless I stand for my beliefs myself, election means
that Iím doomed to cast my vote
for processed peas or processed beans.
Manís talk is like
a team game where you intercept,
catch the topic and run with it,
assert yourself, avoid contact till
the interruption trips you up and
someone else is running while
you watch and catch your breath.
Listening helps you time your move.
You might even pass to team-mates
whoíll get you straight back in the game.
It can be thrilling but not
when youíre left speechless
on the sidelines.
Women like to agree,
to let ideas grow gently
so that no-one knows
who said what first;
to make supportive contact
through words of little meaning
but as strong as spider silk,
working nets of friendship.
Divergent thoughts will cross and bond,
Itís sociable and warm
flaunts her difference.