in passing

What became of what’s-her-name
the one who hung around last fall?
Or was it spring, I can’t recall?

Seemed quite sad and melancholic.
We thought she might be alcoholic.
Remember her?

She was with us at your brothers ‘do’
And we talked of how our nails grew?
Well, WE talked, she listened.
Or seemed to.

Then she cried, her mascara ran.
Describe her? I don’t think I can
No, never saw her with a man

Yes! That’s it, you’ve got her now
The one who said you were a cow
to laugh at her that time.

Hey, WOW!

Gassed herself? And her cat?
Why ever do a thing like that?

So who’s now living in her flat?

 

in her heart a maiden

what does it matter come the day
it’s only chatter what they say
she’s had her life, she’s old and grey
mad as a hatter anyway

she turns her head with muted cry
to hear these words as they pass by
she knows how fast the years can fly
how all lifes plans can go awry

her winter feet now feel the chill
all steps become an act of will
but she can bear life’s bitter pill
while in her heart a maiden

 

late night shopper

supermarket window shows the ghost

of the someone she’d once been

not dumpy and dull with swollen legs

but a girl with sights unseen

 

such a pretty girl and a bright girl

with a sparkle in her eyes

life with meaning to be seen in

how she’s reaching for the prize

 

eyes growing teary, she’s so weary

as she leans against the glass

and slides slowly to the pavement

as the late night shoppers pass

Painter As Poet

I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said
Why have I waited all these years to try my hand at rhyme?
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

Teasing syllables and sounds out from all the things I’ve read
To paint the kind of image that depicts things from my time
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said

Of happy thoughts, or sad ones where my soul was filled with dread,
Selecting adjectives and mixing, with no canvases to prime,
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

To create a kind of tapestry with words instead of thread
Coloured crimson, pink and purple, cerulean blue and lime
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said

Shall I start just anywhere? Things living or things dead?
Original or act a part? To mimic or to mime?
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head

A poet uses language for rich tints and hues instead
– no need for paint where words are art, to forget this is a crime
I feel as if a thousand poems are waiting to be said
Using sentences as colours for the words inside my head