Thursday, 10 November 2011

The women left!

Image by Getty Images via @daylife
I grew up in the 50s and 60s and I heard many stories of women who lost their men in the first World War and how they suffered.  My aunt lost her "young man".  She never spoke of it and she never married.  There was no one to marry; a generation had been lost.  But the women who had it hardest were the widows of "other ranks" who were left with children to care for and little or no support.  This poem is for them.

And we the women left
Make lives for ourselves.
Brave women we,
The women left.
Like flotsam on a stony shore,
We shouldn't be here.
Discarded parts!
Our seasoned wood
Has gone beyond its season.
But still we scrub and clean
And make our knuckles raw
With all your dirty laundry.
If not, who'll feed our kids?
Brave women, we
The women left.

Saturday, 8 October 2011

Blackfriars’ Gothic.

Blackfriars Bridge, London  
Light swaying over water
As another boat goes by.
Tick, tick goes the clock,
Tock, tock goes a heartbeat,
As the traffic wails a warning!
A chill is in the air,
I feel breathless.
Knock, knock, what swings below?
Slap, slap goes the water
On  stone?
Or is it bone?
Another found salvation here,
Or was it hell?
The twisted rope!
The twisted tongue!
He’ll tell no other tales.
Quick, let us go.
I do not like this place. 

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Sanguine not Sangreal!

I am surrounded by roses!
They are the colour of blood.
The pin-pricked finger
Has begot a bud.
Petals unfurling till it drops
Upon my frozen feet.

Why is it thus?
The life force gently flowing
And my feet are cold?

Warm blood,
Warm blooded me.
Too much heat!
Gone now,
In a trice.
Whatever that is.

Life's too short!


The gentle sounding out
And self exposure!
I am this!
I am that!
Two people,
Of mature years
And not beautiful,
Gently exploring
Who are you?
Where do you live?
What do you do
In the evenings?
Lunch time perhaps?
But we both have a life
And others in it.
And we know
That there will be a limit.
No real possibilities then!
Oh perhaps a few!
No, not really.

Dream Maker

"I will write to you tonite"
But you never do!
What do you mean?
"Write to you tonite"
Not pen and ink,
Nor words I think.
Touching my dreams perhaps.
Weaving a spell in my ears
With your music.
There's the clue!
And all these weeks
I thought it was


For I am old and cold my love
For I am old and cold
And dried like a husk of corn my love
Dried like a husk of corn

You think to warm my bones my love
You think to warm my bones
But my cold is deeper than bone my love
My cold is deeper than bone

The chill is in my soul my love
The chill is in my soul
Can your warmth reach so far my love
Can your warmth reach so far

Oh but a body's heat is comforting
And you are scorching young
Then try your heat my lovely lad
And warm my very the soul


Feather and leaf,
Quiver in grief.
Fur and claw,
Know there is more,
Bone and bough,
Oh how they
Tremble now.

Confusion in the wind.
Rumbles the trees.
Whispers of sadness,
The crossroads ahead,
Lost in the shadows.
All of our making!