Oliver, The Prequel Poem by Bryan Norton

When I was young and fate was kind
No mocking tongue nor state of mind
Betrayed my room, my welcome bed
My refuge in the years ahead

Where nothing but the night is black
And black is never dark for lack
Of something bright or greater light
But merely brings a lesser sight

And should a sullen something scratch
Or enter unbeknownst to hatch
A nightmare by my crib or bed
No lack of love appeared instead

But still there grew impending fear
That drew from shadows newly near
To tempt the tender tears of youth
And soon betray a child's truth...

In days of yore, the greedy game
Betrayed the poor, the needy same
Who lost the score, but won the shame
Of those who bore the pauper name

Though many more who win their place
Are firm before the master's face
The ones who plead for simple grace
Are shown the door of their disgrace

The mother weeps for one so dear
Her flesh and blood are buried near
Alone and lost, she's not the first
To bear the cost of what she nursed

A baby sleeps, she could not save
Or rescue from a silent grave
A sad goodbye to someone small
Who learned to cry but not to crawl

In London Town the work is spare
No space or ground is not a fair
For those who seek to buy or sell
Or pose for those who try as well

The sour face you greet today
May take your bread and run away
Without a word of gratitude
That shows a better attitude

The children cry for lack of food
While passersby who treat them rude
Are prone to pass them on their way
In spite of how they want each day

And so it was in olden times
When sadder lives were not the crimes
That many made them out to be
The story of my family...

My mother's name was Seraphine
A woman strong but still serene
Who kept a cherished memory
Of someone dear who used to be

Her mother's name was Mary Pace
A mortal with an angel's face
Who found the strength of will to fight
To keep her baby safe at night

When she was young and indiscreet
She met a boy who made her greet
The rising sun with such delight
That heaven seemed to be her right

His eyes were brown, but not so deep
That all he fixed per gaze might weep
Or hope to share and then to wed
The sweet, alluring joys of bed

His hair unfurled from it's place
But curled more about his face
Which made her laugh with pure delight
To brush his hair and make it right

He never was the kind of lad
To make you think of him as bad
His earnest ways and silly jokes
Were popular with many folks

No pleasant lad was more sincere
To pledge his heart and make it clear
That this the love they shared was sure
And Mary called him Oliver

Though Oliver was Mary's light
Her mother thought it wasn't right
That Oliver should make her laugh
Without a job on his behalf

The mother's name was Lady Jane
A noble lady who might feign
To be the class she hoped to be
The cusp of aristocracy

Her light brown hair was in a bun
Though slightly reddish in the sun
The stoic image of the strong
Who tell you no when they are wrong

When she was young at twenty-three
She left her home and family
To marry one she barely knew
A burly man named Killebrew

Though Killebrew was often drunk
He kept our lady in a bunk
And hit her with a punch or stick
To prove the hunch that he was sick...