Poetry – memo to self

a rhymer’s style is one that’s neat
following form and counting feet
free-versers claim their way is better
no need to follow to the letter
some poems only seem to ramble
endless screeds all in a tangle
esoteric styles depress me
grandiloquence just don’t impress me

so what’s the best thing I can do
(the point of this iambic stew)
read those I love and worry less
write from the heart – not to impress

Sunday Ladies

those Sunday ladies – we’ll not forget
their plumage of sobriety
as they’d humbly genuflect
– such bastions of society

hats worn with amazing elan
pious looks of delight on their faces
believing in God’s greater plan
– already quite sure of their places

bake their very best cakes for the stall
knit socks for the halt and the lame
invite the vicar to come round to call
– “and it’s such a huge honour he came”

making visits to those who are ill
but not if it’s something too catching
taking note of the dust on the sill
– and whether the curtains are matching

discussing some marital state
reporting some kid’s bad behaviour
saying ‘wind up in clink at this rate’  
– and all in the name of the Saviour

with such rituals shown week after week
it was hard to equate what we knew
of their cold two-faced ways, so to speak,
– with their posture when sat in a pew


image from http://thesaltcollective.org/lets-give-church-ladies/ (with apologies)  

Reality Check

Where is she,
the ‘me’ I used to be?
Fading, shredding, wafting free
in ragged pieces, desperately
spinning, shrinking, hard to see.
Pretending, as things become less clear,
that nothing’s wrong, I am still here.

Inside I sigh
and tell physicians passing by
‘I’m not the same, although I try,
I’m crawling where I used to fly.’
The truth is hid in their reply
– ‘few treatment options for a brain’
I know I can’t be ‘me’ again.



[This is an extension of ‘A new reality’ posted a few months ago.]