A woman in Abergavenny
said "I do wish that I had a penny
for each doctor who's said
M E's all in your head
for, to goodness, there's been far too many."
A girl with M E in Belize
said "What's going on with my knees?
They were fine yesterday
now they keep giving way!
Would somebody help me up, please?"
A woman with M E in Kent
was alarmed when her fingerprints went.
It made gripping things tricky,
unless they were sticky,
but fun - to a certain extent.
A man with M E in Newcastle
found life such a terrible hassle
he ran out of hope.
Now he hangs from a rope:
a gruesome Northumbrian tassel.
A girl with M E in Lancaster
finds being so ill a disaster.
A dominatrix,
who got tough for her kicks,
she must now meekly follow her master.
An acrobat living in Mumbles
spent years on his high flying tumbles
til M E spoiled his plan.
He's now known as the man
from Mumbles who fumbles and stumbles.
A lovely young woman in France
wanted so much to sing and to dance
but M E left her stilled
and her dreams unfulfilled,
though she still can beguile with a glance.
A woman with M E in Chester
was taken to be a protester.
She was so often found
lying flat on the ground
that they sent for the cops to arrester.
A young man with M E in Hexham
had muscles but couldn't now flexham.
His doctors despaired,
a feeling he shared,
but couldn't oblige, which would vexham.
A girl with M E in Eilat
spends all day covered up in her flat
for the noise and the light
make her long for the night.
Now she thinks of herself as a bat.
In Hollywood there was a hunk
who appeared to be frequently drunk
but he wasn't at all.
What had caused him to drawl
was M E, for he lived like a monk.
A young girl with M E in Cork,
so weak she could no longer talk,
had to lie on her bed
and would just nod her head
but she felt like a bit of a dork.
"Can the government not understand?"
cried a man with M E in the Strand.
"Despite all the find-
ings, it's "all in your mind"!
It strikes me as damned underhand."
There was a young girl in Bridgend
whose M E had cost her a friend.
Though she'd tried to explain
how it addled her brain
he simply could not comprehend.
A man with ME in the Rhondda
used to burn up the miles on a Honda
but now he's so feeble
he walks like a weeble
and has to make do with a wander.
A girl with ME in Pwllheli
had a terrible pain in her beli
"This darned IBS,"
she groaned. "I confess
I've been spending too much at the deli."
A Scotsman who lives in Dundee,
cut down in his prime by M E
has given up whisky
and, no longer frisky,
just sits round all day drinking tea.
A "hostess" in London called Joyce
got M E and quite lost her voice.
Now no longer vocal
and rather bifocal
she doesn't have much of a choice.
An outlaw remarked, in Virginia,
"Ya cain't catch M E from me, cinya?
I jest had ter ask,"
he remarked through his mask,
"Cuz ya know ah've got nuthin agin ya."
A woman in far Timbuctoo
had to give up her hobby: kung fu.
For now she'd M E
she'd no balance, you see,
and was very soon all black and blue!
An Aussie dog breeder in Tsavo
thought she was infected with parvo
but alas! she was wrong,
'twas M E all along,
as the doctor informed her this arvo.
A Sheila with M E called Jaq
was real bad and flat on her back
but nothing she took
left her feeling less crook,
not even the stuff from the quack.
A young man in Abergavenny
had symptoms of M E, and many.
His father said, "Fred,
you'd be better off dead,
'cause that way you wouldn't have any."
I knew a young person in Kent
who gave up her M E for Lent.
She said it was fun
seeing how things were done
though her energy quickly was spent.
A man with M E in Darjeeling,
according to how he was feeling,
could sometimes be found
with his head on the ground
with his feet pointed up to the ceiling.
I had a young friend in Tangier
who started to feel very queer
but the words of the doc
gave us all quite a shock:
"I'm afraid it's M E, and severe."
An Aussie who lived down in Alice
had a house all done out like a palace
but when struck by M E
he said, "Bugger me,
who'da thought that the gods had such malice!"
A girl with M E down in Devon
was sure she was heading for heaven;
she felt at death's door
every morning at four
having been wide awake since eleven.
A man with M E by the Tees
was especially bugged by his knees.
He never could kip
as they gave him such gyp,
on account of this awful disease.
A Scot with M E up in Sterling
found his head in the habit of whirling.
He tried to restrain
his disorganised brain
but he had to give up on the curling.
A girl with M E out in China
used to chatter away like a mynah
now she's found to her grief
that she has to be brief
and she sounds rather like a headliner.
A man with M E in Bridgewater
finds his body won't do what it oughter.
Now he sits and he frets
placing numerous bets
on how long he can cope with his daughter.
In Sheffield a girl with M E
has to climb up her staircase to pee.
It takes far too long,
as she's not very strong,
which isn't ideal, you'll agree!
A woman with M E in Oldham
would frequently cry as she told 'em
"I'm a mum and a wife
but it's no sort of life
'cause I'm simply too feeble to hold 'em!"
A man with ME from Zambezi
was quite often breathless and wheezy.
He'd sound like a whale
when he tried to exhale
though to breath in was really quite easy.
A girl with M E in Uganda
was so weary she looked like a panda.
She'd drag herself down,
in her nightie, to town
til the people protested and banned 'er.
A lad with M E lived in Jarrow
where his friends wheeled him round in a barrow.
One day they were struck
when an oncoming truck
found the roadway was simply too narrow.
A man with M E in Brazil
grew increasingly feeble and ill.
His doctor, alarmed,
said he'd better get armed
as he'd need to find cash for the bill.
A girl with M E in Campinus
thought that liquified foodstuffs demean us
but was to weak to eat
either fish, fowl or meat
so her feeding is now intravenous.
A woman who lived in Dundee
was incurably ill with M E.
Her weakness and pain
nearly drove her insane
for she once was as fit as a flea.
A Lancashire lass called Joanna
loved to play jolly tunes on t'pianna
till M E gave her chills,
now she's less Mrs Mills
but as like as not still Pollyanna.
A girl with M E in Jamaica
was so tired that no one could wake her.
Her mother, now frantic,
said "Try the Atlantic.
We'll see if she's really a faker!"
A man with M E, who was Asian,
thought the cure was in pure meditation
so he sat and he sat
on a very small mat
til absorbed by his own contemplation.
"I've written enough for today,"
said the poet, and wandered away.
She lay down full length
to recover some strength
which M E had been draining away.
Tuesday 28 May 2013
Tuesday 21 May 2013
LIving With M.E ~ Poems written between 2001 and 2013
How Quickly
How quickly now my brain-fogged mind
reaches saturation point
decides it’s had enough
and goes on strike.
Too soon, too soon it closes down,
too soon the eyes begin to ache
struggle briefly,
then give up the fight.
Sept 2001
Frustration
I used to have a life.
I never was a sprinter, not even as a child,
but yet I had a life.
I trained as a dancer, and worked to pay my way;
and later on I left home and danced upon the stage.
Then I got married, and had a bunch of children,
One, two, three; and, still only 21,
I did the things that mothers do, cleaned the house,
the school run, helped my husband with his work,
went to church, taught sunday School, camping with the kids.
Life was very busy.
I took my dogs for long walks up into the hills,
and life was hard but, nonetheless,
I coped as much as anyone and maybe more than some,
and never did I guess, not even for a minute,
that one day soon my life would end,
well, life as I knew it.
Who could have known a bout of flu, or something very like it,
would lay me so low? Would take away my freedom,
and leave me a prisoner of this all too solid flesh?
To be reduced to this! A dessicated vegetable
too weak to hold a cup of tea, too tired to even think.
I went to the doctor, and he of course looked cynical,
Well, I was a woman. And middle aged at that!
I must be depressed. Or better yet, neurotic.
And ever since then, I’ve done the rounds of blood tests,
and “Are you depressed?”
“No”, I try to tell them.
I went to University and got a good degree.
Does this sound like depression?
I rather think not. And only exhaustion
made me give up on my longed for PhD.
But still and yet they ask me boringly, repeatedly,
“Are you depressed?”
No, I’m frustrated, I need to get a life!
My body won’t allow me to do the things I want to do,
to walk and dance and sing, oh how I long to sing!
I want to dance the night away just like I used to do,
or even go out walking, or have a holiday.
Instead I watch TV, and chat to people on the net
and, quietly and unobserved, go out of my mind.
© 2001
On living with ME
Why don't I get angry?
Rant and rave?
Why this?
Why me?
And why so long?
Truth is, I can't afford it,
the energy required.
Just getting through each day...
I've none to spare for anger.
An unstrung marionette
lying deserted, abandoned.
But no, not that,
for then I'd never move at all,
and move I must.
A beanbag, yes, but filled -
not with light and fluffy stuff -
much heavier than that.
Lead shot, that's it.
Or better yet,
lead jello.
Yep, that's me.
Lead jello.
With brainfog.
And tiresome sensitivity
to noise and light
and chemicals
and eyes that ache
and muscles too
and coughing, sneezing,
laughing, wheezing...
Oh yes, I still laugh.
What else is there to do
When life's a joke?
© 2002
Sentence Without Reprieve
On days like this I wonder why,
why I crawled put of the slime,
simply sleeping my life away
seems such a waste of time,
such a pointless existence
such a futile attempt.
There's no-one here to know or care
whether the place is unkempt
whether I bother to dress myself
whether I eat or drink
if I have energy enough
to rouse myself to think.
It wasn't always this way
once I had a life
those days were filled with doing,
with laughter or with strife.
Now that energy is scarce
life often seems too hard
it's a rare and precious commodity
something I jealously guard
but on days like this when sleep is all,
all that I can achieve
I wonder how I'll ever survive
this sentence without reprieve.
© 2002
Brain Fog.
I forget to pay my bills, I forget to take my pills,
I forget to clean my teeth and brush my hair;
Most mornings I get changed into clothes however strange,
Though some days I'm too tired to even care.
I forget to clean or dust, though who's to say I must
When there's no-one here to notice anything?
And last month I forgot to arrange my bulbs in pots,
So I won't have any flowers in the spring.
I forget to make a drink, leave my dishes in the sink;
I forget about the toast under the grill;
And although it may seem crazy, my brain is just so hazy
I forget to ring the doctor when I'm ill!
I struggle through the days, my thoughts a misty haze,
Trying to make sense of why I'm here.
My children rarely call, one never does at all,
And yet I feel I ought to persevere.
I rarely leave the house, I'm as quiet as a mouse,
So people rarely notice me at all;
The postman calls of course; the aggravating source
Of piles and piles of junk mail in the hall.
No-one bothers me, so I read or watch TV,
I write to penfriends, paint; and stuff like that;
And sometimes when I'm sad, or the pain is really bad,
I go to bed and snuggle with my cat.
And now it's mid November, and I hope I can remember
To send a birthday card that's almost due.
It's for my grandson, Kain; I can't forget again,
He'll think I just don't care - and that's not true.
It's just that I forget. I wish that I could get
A brain that functions normally, you know.
And while I'm asking, please - some brand new batteries;
So I won't be such a sad old so-and-so.
© 2003
Climbing Everest With Shakespeare.
As I lie here on my bed
I wonder what the future holds;
resting gets so boring
when even reading wears you out.
I have a radio of course though
interference ruins it.
When sorrows come they come not
single spies but in battalions.
Just getting up to feed the cat
is something of a challenge.
That it should come to this...
Imagine climbing Everest,
that should give you some idea.
A horse! A horse! My Kingdom for a horse!
Then back upstairs to bed
and back to boring nothingness;
to die, to sleep;
to sleep, perchance to dream...
Later on I'll go online and chat or write a bit.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
This world wide web is such a boon.
I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.
© 2003
Pollyanna Would Be Proud.
Walking at snail's pace, as I do,
gives one a new perspective;
it has made me even more observant,
giving me time to stop and stare.
I see what the scurrying masses miss
as they go about their business:
the eternal fight for survival,
nature overcoming all.
Wobbling my way past the churchyard,
delicate daisies smile at me;
a golden profusion of dandelions
glows in the light of a warm spring sun.
Wild flowers force themselves
through hard dry city dirt
while tiny mosses on old stone walls
struggle against the odds.
Cherry trees have lined the road
with pink confetti, so pretty,
while others flutter their fresh green leaves
to greet me as I pass.
Signs of rebirth, though tiny,
speak of the will to survive.
I identify with these little things.
Pollyanna would be proud.
© 2003
Like Gold
How could you imagine
there wouldn't be a price?
Happiness beyond compare,
unutterable joy like this
was bound to cost you something.
Who are you to think you should
receive such things as gifts?
So now you pay, and find yourself
bankrupt for the moment;
somewhat embarrassed
in the energy department.
Energy's like gold you know
to people with M E,
it's money in the bank to us,
and you have been impetuous
and overspent yourself.
Sleep again, you sleepy head,
it's back to bed for you,
back to sleeping your life away
back to watching the world go by
till your day comes again.
© 2003
Old Folk's Home
(Very tongue in cheek)
I laugh at my condition,
it's the only thing to do;
there's no point getting morbid.
I've spent enough time blue.
But sometimes - only sometimes -
it gets a little scary;
I wonder what the future holds,
what traps for the unwary.
Will it get so bad that I
can't manage all alone
and end up vegetating in some
dreadful old folk's home?
I guess it has some perks though:
all those lonely men!
Just think of the fun I'd have
attracting lovers then.
Can you just imagine them
fighting lovers duels
(on canes d'you think or zimmer frames?)
and showering me with jewels?
Of course it could be single sex
Oh God! please spare me that!
I wouldn't last a week surrounded
by the endless chat.
I'd have to have some visitors
and sneak them in to this:
the only red light old folks home.
Just knock and ask for Chris.
© 2003
The Outing
I've managed a minor outing
the first in many a day.
The dandelions and daisies
were mostly mown away
but here and there a flowering shrub
enjoyed the summer sun
while I attempted to lose the hue
of an unbaked currant bun.
The prison pallor I sport these days
enthralls me less and less,
though calling it "pale and interesting"
helps a little I guess.
Resting a while on the churchyard wall
I was asked if I was all right
by a woman older than me by far;
I must have looked a sight.
Still, I made it there and back
which is something I suppose,
- thanks to the thick, black, hot as hell,
elastic, knee high hose.
© 2003
A Virtual Life
I love my life on the internet.
It's all so easy you see.
If only real life were as simple.
How wonderful living would be!
[click] and rubbish would be removed
[click] and dirt disappears
[click] and the walls are covered with paint
[click] and the window clears.
No wonder I hang around online;
I pretend that I'm healthy and fit.
It's taking my mind off my problems
and often that helps quite a bit.
© 2003
Getting Horizontal
My need to get horizontal
is occasioned by different things;
it isn't always what men suppose
in their wildest imaginings.
Sometimes, it's true, I like to indulge
in the kind of thing I do best,
but sometimes I'm merely exhausted
and need to lie down and rest.
But try explaining that to a man!
Whether he's bright or dim
"I need to get horizontal" I fear
means only one thing to him.
Don't tell me that not all men are the same
you don't have to make excuses;
I know what goes on in the masculine mind;
the visions that phrase unlooses.
Whatever a man's convictions
always, for good or ill,
his thoughts are controlled by a primal urge
to procreate at will.
Survival of the species
is an instinct really rife.
Why do we make such a song and dance
about something so basic to life?
But next time I use the expression
don't assume that you are desired.
Ask and I'll say if I want to mate
or whether I'm simply tired.
© 2003
In Love
I'm sixty now and, even worse,
this illness takes its toll.
I stumble 'n' fumble these days
instead of rock 'n' roll.
Weak and wobbly, worn out,
I stagger through the days
body aching, eyes dim,
my mind a misty haze.
Yet still my spirit struggles on;
I'll not lay down and die,
not while I have breath in me,
even just a sigh.
Depression lurks at every turn,
threatening and bleak,
but lately it doesn't last as long:
a day instead of a week.
In love and not for the first time,
though possibly the last,
this one surpasses anything
I've experienced in the past.
This darling man who loves me
for my body and my brain
makes me forget how old I am
and whether I'm in pain.
He's shown me much about myself,
fulfilled forgotten dreams,
taught the old dog some fancy tricks -
it's never too late it seems.
So, sixty now and counting;
roll on sixty one!
Far from being over now,
life's only just begun!
© 2004
Character Building
Character building they call it:
the struggle to survive,
when every day you're battling
just to stay alive.
When you really need that cuppa
and your body won't respond
and you've nobody to lend a hand
and you've lost your magic wand
what character does it take to cope
that you haven't already got?
Do I really need it building up
or should I just be shot?
Put me out of my misery;
you'd do it for a horse,
but human life is sanctified
and dignified. Of course!
When my legs decline to function
and I've stairs to navigate
I'm reduced to going on all fours.
It works, but isn't great.
I was made to be bipedal,
the arms are just too short;
it's ok going up I guess
but down is rather fraught.
So then I lurch from step to step
hoping as I go
that I won't fall headlong down the lot,
for nobody would know.
Character? Who needs it?
I've character enough.
What I need is a slave or two.
Not PC? Well, tough!
© 2004
When
When your legs behave like jelly and your body feels like lead;
when your hands won't do things properly and fog infests your head;
when you want to go out dancing but you have to sleep instead
and your life consists of getting up and going back to bed;
When your home is like a prison and you're under house arrest,
when you rarely see your family or any other guest
then it's really not surprising if you sometimes get depressed
and it's too much of an effort eating, washing, getting dressed.
And when you get a visitor it's quite a big event,
like celebrating Easter after fasting all of Lent;
you give it all you've got until your energy is spent
then it's back to being boring to a very large extent.
So spare a thought for folk like us who slog it out alone,
who only contact others or the web or on the phone;
our lives can be quite difficult though we don't like to moan,
and occasionally tears will fall though mostly unbeknown.
Like a cactus in the desert, life has forced us to be tough;
the strength that keeps us going comes from having it quite rough
but underneath the prickles or what seems to others gruff
lies a soft and tender heart that often feels it's had enough.
© Aug 2004
Down and Out
Up too long
should have known
I'm overdue
a down time
shaky, nauseous
weak as water
weepy, drained
emotional
burnt out
exhausted
snail-like
I retreat
forget the arms
of Morpheus
more comatose
than dreaming
motionless
beyond relaxed
leaden limbs
refuse to move
breathing in
breathing out
fleeting thoughts
in disarray
unbidden feelings
loom large
hopeless, helpless
woe is me
no energy
to even pray
god knows my needs
are basic
simply getting
through each day
eat and drink
a little fun
someone to care
to be there
share life's burdens
and delights
but just for now
sleep is all
isolation
restoration
taking time
to heal.
© 2004
Laid Low
I used to run round on a big wooden ball
when I was much younger and fit
but now I can barely stay standing at all.
I've enough trouble trying to sit!
I stagger and stumble all over the place
and my hands do whatever they please.
My words come out slowly, forced out of my face,
as if they're determined to tease.
I lie on my bed while the universe tilts;
a beached whale in t-shirt and skirt.
What just walked across me, a man wearing stilts?
No, only the cat, but it hurt.
So what's brought about this unfortunate state?
What happened to make me this way?
Did a witch cast a spell? Was it something I ate?
No, 'twas something I did yesterday.
I went to the doctor, he gave me some pills,
he said they could help me, the creep.
I took just the one and it gave me the chills,
made me nauseous and sent me to sleep.
For more than a day now I've slept on and off;
it's been twenty eight hours so far.
I haven't the energy even to cough
and I've rarely felt quite so bizarre.
Never again will I take his advice!
I'll stick with the stuff that I know.
The herbs that I take may not work in a trice
but they've never yet laid me so low.
I think I should add that this state of affairs
made me stagger for over a week.
But now I've recovered - just one of life's scares -
and my future's no longer so bleak.
© 2004
M.E. and ME
I'm living with an illness
of uncertain etymology,
a fancy way of saying
that they don't know what it is.
It's known by many names
but it's a Cinderella thing,
hidden from the gaze
of the public at large.
Thousands live this way but
they're often overlooked;
too ill to leave the house
how can they be seen?
Doctors, in their ignorance,
fail to recognise
that our quality of life
is phenomenally low.
No drugs exist to help us,
no research makes the headlines,
there's little money spent
and the findings are diverse
but then they have the gall
to suggest that we're depressed!
I'd like to see them live this way
and stay on top of things.
We sit or we lie while
the world moves on without us,
watching from the sidelines
instead of taking part
Year after weary year,
waiting for an answer.
When will Prince Charming
come to our aid?
© 2004
Overdrawn
Overdrawn at the energy bank,
a weekend away cost me dear;
in the red, resting up,
awaiting further funds.
© 2004
A Good Day All in All
I needed to go out today
car was dead as a dodo, so
decided I would take a stroll
more of a wobble really.
Weather was warm and sunny
a few buds on the trees
funny, some of the things you see
the old church that isn't now
but still used for lecturing
a young oriental woman
well dressed, immaculate
walking along
laughing and chatting
to herself
the kind of thing I associate
with older folk or inebriates,
people living on the street.
Found a closing down sale
bought myself some bargains
and I was almost home before
the pain made walking difficult
Wrote this to pass the time
walking through the streets
maybe I was muttering too
making others wonder.
Though not ideal it proved
to be a good day
all in all.
© 2004
Swiss Cheese and Twisted Genes
They say that my brain is turning to mush
metaphorically, swiss cheese,
with gaps appearing all over the place
and scarring too, if you please.
And now they're discovering something else,
my genes misbehave as well.
Maybe they went though the washing machine
on the hot wash cycle from hell.
Neurologically speaking I'm all messed up,
immunologically too,
and my poor old mitochondria -
don't ask - I haven't a clue.
This morning I found that, while I could write,
my speech had taken a dive;
I had to keep stopping as words disappeared
and I went into overdrive.
Right now I'm forgetting the alphabet,
it's crazy, but there it is;
my hands are working ok for once
but my mind is all in a tizz.
So how can I make up poems at all
in such a dreadful mess?
I'm beginning to think they write themselves.
And they do it with such finesse!
© 2004
Heroics
Watching Olympians exhausting themselves,
struck by the differences and similarities.
Familiar symptoms,
the time to recover,
but often all I've had to do
is get out of bed.
© 2004
Afternoon Delight
What a wonderful day it's been
I finally got some sun!
I had to go for a mammogram,
not my idea of fun.
Some nice new clothes and a bit of "slap"
gave me the lift I sought
with some earrings and a necklace
that I'd recently, proudly, wrought.
I took a cab. It wasn't far
but all of it uphill
and went through the procedure,
uncomfortable, but still
it's not that bad, I've been through worse
and often do each day.
What can't be cured must be endured,
or that's what people say.
The journey back being easier
I decided to walk a ways.
The sun on my skin felt wonderful
and I revelled in its rays.
The snail's pace I accomplish
means many pass me by
and a friendly smile may be returned
if you catch another's eye.
While welcoming the summer heat
I enjoyed each cooling breeze
and dappled shade that beckoned me
beneath the city's trees.
I stopped to gaze in pure bliss
at flowers along the way;
my journey through the city streets
was like a holiday.
Ignoring the traffic's rush and roar
I sat for a while to rest.
Almost home, but I needed it;
I've come to know what's best.
I was only out for an hour or so
though it seemed a great deal more
but I couldn't have liked it better
on some far flung ocean shore.
It's been so long since I was out
- I'm a deathly shade of white -
that I treasure the simple pleasure of
my afternoon delight.
© Aug 2004
Little Fruit
Springtime proudly promised much
but summer brought its shadows;
undeveloped fruit now falls
to lie in winter meadows.
© 2005
Endless Night
Written during a time of deep depression.
For nigh on twenty years now
I've watched this awful thing
whittling my life away,
draining me of zing.
I lie, limp and languishing,
upon my bed each day
as time, once abundant,
slips seamlessly away.
Perhaps I should capitulate
with a modicum of grace,
give up this pointless struggle,
take up my allotted place.
Dreams will be unfulfilled,
fears realised
but, cursed from the very first,
I can't say I'm surprised.
Grey skies glower down,
bare trees brood,
all is dark and sombre,
echoing my mood.
Fate, have your way with me,
I've no more strength to fight;
I'll follow unresisting
into endless night.
© 2005
Arrhythmia
I think I need
a metronome.
Me - who lives
for rhythm!
It's a heart thing:
arrhythmia.
Krupa
on an off day.
Irregular and
pretty weak
it keeps me
ticking over.
Just as long,
I have to say,
as I stay
horizontal.
©2006
Cinderella
It's called a Cinderella thing
and is it any wonder?
This illness means my social life
is all but rent assunder.
No energy to go outdoors,
to wash the dishes, sweep the floors,
to cook a meal - but that's all right;
I've very little appetite.
The heart, it seems, is compromised,
the brain fares little better;
muscles, nerves, capillaries
pursue their own vendetta.
It's difficult to climb the stairs,
to wash or dress or do my hair,
to sit or stand or try to walk;
I've barely energy to talk!
My fingerprints are vanishing
so gripping is quite tricky.
I tend to drop things quite a lot
unless, of course, they're sticky.
No grip to do the smallest deeds,
like threading needles, stringing beads.
Paper, too, escapes my paw
and floats, serenely, to the floor.
They say that I should pace myself
but really, that's a joke.
I do so little anyway,
compared to other folk.
How can I make them understand?
Their world is like a foreign land -
a land I once inhabited
but now I might as well be dead.
Reliant on deliveries
I get what others choose.
Robbed of independence
it's more than pride we lose.
© 2006
Against The Odds
Is it, really, worth it:
struggling against the odds,
putting off the awful day
for some unfathomable cause?
What doesn't kill you
makes you strong, but
what price strength?
And strength for what?
Years run their course,
one upon another;
pointless days of unfulfilled
subsistence, while life,
which never was a friend,
laughs its mocking laugh
and hurries by.
© 2006
Waking
Waking as a beached whale
I slowly, imperceptibly,
transform myself into a seal
but still barely move at all,
battling with gravity.
Every inch of me pulsates,
harmonising with my heart
as, dry-mouthed, I
think my thoughts
and wait
for the tide.
©2006
Last Night
Last night was the worst I ever had.
I've had some nights, but this was Bad.
Hot and sticky, I lay awake
aware of every pain and ache.
Pains in fingers, pains in toes,
a bad sore throat and a stuffed up nose.
On top of that this crazy eye
that's either weeping or far too dry.
Heartburn, that's a constant curse
to add to the list and make things worse
plus indigestion, gas on tap,
enough to make anyone feel like crap.
Limbs that twitched and jumped around,
a heartbeat equally unsound,
swollen feet and ankles too -
what on earth was I to do?
Honey helped to ease the throat
and mastic left a sweeter note
but there was nothing to be done
about the heat. Turn off the sun!
I did sleep briefly, twice, last night
but woke up both times in a fright:
nightmares, something rare with me;
making up for it, obviously.
Finally I slept, and how,
and do feel somewhat better now
but if that's all old age has in store
it's not worth waiting round here for.
© 2006
A Prayer
Lord of the universe, powers that be,
send some energy, please, to me.
Give me the strength to leave my bed,
to realise whats in my head.
It's so very hard to cope this way,
with less and less stamina every day.
So, please, if someone is listening there,
have a heart, please, hear my prayer.
But if that's not part of the grand design
then show me another way to shine;
some help perhaps, some kindly soul
who'll enable me to reach my goal
of simply being what I should be,
before you set my spirit free.
© 2007
The Grey Ones
We cling to shreds of self respect
as all we were just slips away;
watch, with fading intellect,
our lives and loves as they decay.
Like members of some strange new sect
we close our eyes and seem to pray,
bow our heads and genuflect
as energy just ebbs away.
Nothing works as we expect;
limbs and fingers disobey.
People now and then suspect
we're drunk, regard us with dismay.
We do attempt to sit erect
and stay awake throughout the day
but, slowly, as our powers defect
we slump, with faces white as whey.
So if you think that you detect
a lack of willingness to play
you'd almost - almost - be correct
but it's not apathy, per se.
We have to jealously protect
the little strength we have each day;
eke out the energy, reject
activities that make us pay.
We try to hide that we neglect
ourselves and let things go astray;
our conversation circumspect
as life gets harder every day.
Life is lived in retrospect;
betraying us, our bodies sway.
Please think about what you expect
of such as we, whose lives are grey.
© 2007
Bad To Worse.
Things just go from bad to worse;
this illness, like some awful curse,
has robbed me of the will to live.
My brain's as leaky as a sieve
despite the fish oil - recommended -
with the evening primrose blended
swallowed umpteen times a day.
(How do you keep the taste away?)
Pills and capsules by the score
make each meal a dreadful bore,
keep me ticking over, just,
help to stop encroaching rust.
Somehow though it hardly matters.
Long held dreams are all in tatters.
Hope, a cold unfaithful lover,
left me, naked 'neath the cover.
Far too old before my time,
all reason gone, though I still rhyme.
When that deserts me - well, what then?
Breathe a sigh and count to ten?
Shuffle through another day,
life is in such disarray.
What's the point of living such
endless days of nothing much?
Wait! What's this? A quick e-note.
A man in Dorset - with a boat -
wants to write and be my friend.
Wonder where this one will end.
Plus a former lover sent
an instant message, passion-bent.
Men arrive like buses do:
none at all or else there's two!
No I will not meet with either
I'm not really in a fever.
Sadly I'll accept my fate.
It's just fun to contemplate.
© 2007
Life? What Life?
Things are going from bad to worse;
perhaps I'm under some sort of curse.
I find it increasingly hard to walk
and now I croak instead of talk.
My batteries are almost flat
and that is all there is to that.
Who will bring me a bit of cheer?
No-one, for there's no-one here.
I stumble and fumble like some old drunk,
my house is increasingly full of junk,
if something doesn't change round here
I'm simply going to disappear.
Constantly swooning, light in the head
even when lying in my bed!
It's a poor excuse for a life I suppose;
though some have worse ones, goodness knows.
When they handed out lives I must have misheard:
the thought of a wife would have seemed absurd
but now that's the very thing I need!
If they let me start over I'll pay more heed.
© 2010
A Study in Monochrome
Today my little patch of sky
is uniformly white. Dirty white
not starched and pressed;
no hint of colour cheers it.
Veiled by greying net and lace
which dips diagonally down
to a tangle of treetops
still dark in their winter garb
which, in turn, partly mask
the deep grey of
a building in silhouette
it presents a dreary view,
a study in monochrome.
© 2010
Always The Same
Today I woke as dawn broke,
the barely lightened sky appearing
grey through the window net
while, below, the other
now green network
allowed glimpses of
yellow lights, some still,
some moving,
even this early.
My window on the world,
always the same yet
always different.
© 2010
Another New Day
Another day, another view,
no flash of gold, no hint of blue.
The sky is low, a dirty white,
in no way an inspiring sight
yet nature triumphs once again
for, on my window, spots of rain
become as jewels, diamond bright,
as passing cars bestow their light.
© 2010
Another Day, Another View
Today I slept for many hours and woke to a surprise:
my legs were looking normal - that is in terms of size.
Swollen for the longest time, with ankles well obscured,
I now see ankle bones again and feel quite reassured.
The muscles, which I knew I had, I now can see with ease;
it makes a change from lower legs like logs below the knees.
It seems I need more time in bed, a boring proposition;
without a man about the place it's quite an imposition!
However, all that blood that pooled below my knees of yore
should now enrich my brain again and get me thinking more.
I guess this is desirable, though I'll let you decide.
I'm not too sure, with things like this, I'm really qualified.
© 2010
A Little Luxury
Looking up at an azure sky
as the smallest of fluffy white clouds drift by
foam tipped wavelets lap lazily.
A cooling breeze wafts over me
as sounds of traffic assail my ears.
You might suppose an idyllic scene,
a beach perhaps, but no, not so;
the sky I watch is just as blue
seen through an open window
from whence comes the cooling breeze.
The wavelets I generate myself
as I wallow in my bath.
© 2010
A Life of Sorts
I wake, I sleep, I eat, I breath,
it's life - but only just.
Hope, as the morning mist, is gone;
dreams all turned to dust.
© 2010
Incarceration
To never see a starry sky
feel wind or rain upon one's skin,
hear birdsong or a seagull's cry
or watch the blessed day begin,
perhaps it isn't obvious
to those who lead a normal life
how loss of freedom lessens us
and leads to inner stress and strife.
To yearn to hear a human voice
or know a touch upon one's face,
to meet with company of choice
or feel anothers fond embrace,
such things as make one feel alive
and often taken as a right
are, for some, unreachable,
and turn our days to darkest night.
© 2010
The Blue Ribbon : A Lyric
I have a pink ribbon, you've seen them I'm sure,
they speak of breast cancer and the quest for a cure,
But have you seen this one, my ribbon of blue
which tells of an illness much hidden from view.
ME, ME, ME, ME, it tells of an illness much hidden from view.
A mind that's befuddled, a body that's weak.
too tired to think, too exhausted to speak,
with aches and with pains and with fainting and chills,
it's really the most mystifying of ills,
ME, ME, ME, ME, it's really the most mystifying of ills.
There are many more symptoms by day and by night,
things that are worsened by noise and by light,
Some folk are so bad they are stuck in their beds,
Yet doctors still tell them it's all in their heads.
ME, ME, ME, ME, doctors still them them it's all in their heads.
So if you meet someone who's looking quite well
but wears a blue ribbon and says they're in hell
their illness is one largely hidden from view,
Their suffering just can't be guessed at by you.
ME, ME, ME, ME, their suffering just can't be guessed at by you.
© 2013
How quickly now my brain-fogged mind
reaches saturation point
decides it’s had enough
and goes on strike.
Too soon, too soon it closes down,
too soon the eyes begin to ache
struggle briefly,
then give up the fight.
Sept 2001
Frustration
I used to have a life.
I never was a sprinter, not even as a child,
but yet I had a life.
I trained as a dancer, and worked to pay my way;
and later on I left home and danced upon the stage.
Then I got married, and had a bunch of children,
One, two, three; and, still only 21,
I did the things that mothers do, cleaned the house,
the school run, helped my husband with his work,
went to church, taught sunday School, camping with the kids.
Life was very busy.
I took my dogs for long walks up into the hills,
and life was hard but, nonetheless,
I coped as much as anyone and maybe more than some,
and never did I guess, not even for a minute,
that one day soon my life would end,
well, life as I knew it.
Who could have known a bout of flu, or something very like it,
would lay me so low? Would take away my freedom,
and leave me a prisoner of this all too solid flesh?
To be reduced to this! A dessicated vegetable
too weak to hold a cup of tea, too tired to even think.
I went to the doctor, and he of course looked cynical,
Well, I was a woman. And middle aged at that!
I must be depressed. Or better yet, neurotic.
And ever since then, I’ve done the rounds of blood tests,
and “Are you depressed?”
“No”, I try to tell them.
I went to University and got a good degree.
Does this sound like depression?
I rather think not. And only exhaustion
made me give up on my longed for PhD.
But still and yet they ask me boringly, repeatedly,
“Are you depressed?”
No, I’m frustrated, I need to get a life!
My body won’t allow me to do the things I want to do,
to walk and dance and sing, oh how I long to sing!
I want to dance the night away just like I used to do,
or even go out walking, or have a holiday.
Instead I watch TV, and chat to people on the net
and, quietly and unobserved, go out of my mind.
© 2001
On living with ME
Why don't I get angry?
Rant and rave?
Why this?
Why me?
And why so long?
Truth is, I can't afford it,
the energy required.
Just getting through each day...
I've none to spare for anger.
An unstrung marionette
lying deserted, abandoned.
But no, not that,
for then I'd never move at all,
and move I must.
A beanbag, yes, but filled -
not with light and fluffy stuff -
much heavier than that.
Lead shot, that's it.
Or better yet,
lead jello.
Yep, that's me.
Lead jello.
With brainfog.
And tiresome sensitivity
to noise and light
and chemicals
and eyes that ache
and muscles too
and coughing, sneezing,
laughing, wheezing...
Oh yes, I still laugh.
What else is there to do
When life's a joke?
© 2002
Sentence Without Reprieve
On days like this I wonder why,
why I crawled put of the slime,
simply sleeping my life away
seems such a waste of time,
such a pointless existence
such a futile attempt.
There's no-one here to know or care
whether the place is unkempt
whether I bother to dress myself
whether I eat or drink
if I have energy enough
to rouse myself to think.
It wasn't always this way
once I had a life
those days were filled with doing,
with laughter or with strife.
Now that energy is scarce
life often seems too hard
it's a rare and precious commodity
something I jealously guard
but on days like this when sleep is all,
all that I can achieve
I wonder how I'll ever survive
this sentence without reprieve.
© 2002
Brain Fog.
I forget to pay my bills, I forget to take my pills,
I forget to clean my teeth and brush my hair;
Most mornings I get changed into clothes however strange,
Though some days I'm too tired to even care.
I forget to clean or dust, though who's to say I must
When there's no-one here to notice anything?
And last month I forgot to arrange my bulbs in pots,
So I won't have any flowers in the spring.
I forget to make a drink, leave my dishes in the sink;
I forget about the toast under the grill;
And although it may seem crazy, my brain is just so hazy
I forget to ring the doctor when I'm ill!
I struggle through the days, my thoughts a misty haze,
Trying to make sense of why I'm here.
My children rarely call, one never does at all,
And yet I feel I ought to persevere.
I rarely leave the house, I'm as quiet as a mouse,
So people rarely notice me at all;
The postman calls of course; the aggravating source
Of piles and piles of junk mail in the hall.
No-one bothers me, so I read or watch TV,
I write to penfriends, paint; and stuff like that;
And sometimes when I'm sad, or the pain is really bad,
I go to bed and snuggle with my cat.
And now it's mid November, and I hope I can remember
To send a birthday card that's almost due.
It's for my grandson, Kain; I can't forget again,
He'll think I just don't care - and that's not true.
It's just that I forget. I wish that I could get
A brain that functions normally, you know.
And while I'm asking, please - some brand new batteries;
So I won't be such a sad old so-and-so.
© 2003
Climbing Everest With Shakespeare.
As I lie here on my bed
I wonder what the future holds;
resting gets so boring
when even reading wears you out.
I have a radio of course though
interference ruins it.
When sorrows come they come not
single spies but in battalions.
Just getting up to feed the cat
is something of a challenge.
That it should come to this...
Imagine climbing Everest,
that should give you some idea.
A horse! A horse! My Kingdom for a horse!
Then back upstairs to bed
and back to boring nothingness;
to die, to sleep;
to sleep, perchance to dream...
Later on I'll go online and chat or write a bit.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
This world wide web is such a boon.
I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.
© 2003
Pollyanna Would Be Proud.
Walking at snail's pace, as I do,
gives one a new perspective;
it has made me even more observant,
giving me time to stop and stare.
I see what the scurrying masses miss
as they go about their business:
the eternal fight for survival,
nature overcoming all.
Wobbling my way past the churchyard,
delicate daisies smile at me;
a golden profusion of dandelions
glows in the light of a warm spring sun.
Wild flowers force themselves
through hard dry city dirt
while tiny mosses on old stone walls
struggle against the odds.
Cherry trees have lined the road
with pink confetti, so pretty,
while others flutter their fresh green leaves
to greet me as I pass.
Signs of rebirth, though tiny,
speak of the will to survive.
I identify with these little things.
Pollyanna would be proud.
© 2003
Like Gold
How could you imagine
there wouldn't be a price?
Happiness beyond compare,
unutterable joy like this
was bound to cost you something.
Who are you to think you should
receive such things as gifts?
So now you pay, and find yourself
bankrupt for the moment;
somewhat embarrassed
in the energy department.
Energy's like gold you know
to people with M E,
it's money in the bank to us,
and you have been impetuous
and overspent yourself.
Sleep again, you sleepy head,
it's back to bed for you,
back to sleeping your life away
back to watching the world go by
till your day comes again.
© 2003
Old Folk's Home
(Very tongue in cheek)
I laugh at my condition,
it's the only thing to do;
there's no point getting morbid.
I've spent enough time blue.
But sometimes - only sometimes -
it gets a little scary;
I wonder what the future holds,
what traps for the unwary.
Will it get so bad that I
can't manage all alone
and end up vegetating in some
dreadful old folk's home?
I guess it has some perks though:
all those lonely men!
Just think of the fun I'd have
attracting lovers then.
Can you just imagine them
fighting lovers duels
(on canes d'you think or zimmer frames?)
and showering me with jewels?
Of course it could be single sex
Oh God! please spare me that!
I wouldn't last a week surrounded
by the endless chat.
I'd have to have some visitors
and sneak them in to this:
the only red light old folks home.
Just knock and ask for Chris.
© 2003
The Outing
I've managed a minor outing
the first in many a day.
The dandelions and daisies
were mostly mown away
but here and there a flowering shrub
enjoyed the summer sun
while I attempted to lose the hue
of an unbaked currant bun.
The prison pallor I sport these days
enthralls me less and less,
though calling it "pale and interesting"
helps a little I guess.
Resting a while on the churchyard wall
I was asked if I was all right
by a woman older than me by far;
I must have looked a sight.
Still, I made it there and back
which is something I suppose,
- thanks to the thick, black, hot as hell,
elastic, knee high hose.
© 2003
A Virtual Life
I love my life on the internet.
It's all so easy you see.
If only real life were as simple.
How wonderful living would be!
[click] and rubbish would be removed
[click] and dirt disappears
[click] and the walls are covered with paint
[click] and the window clears.
No wonder I hang around online;
I pretend that I'm healthy and fit.
It's taking my mind off my problems
and often that helps quite a bit.
© 2003
Getting Horizontal
My need to get horizontal
is occasioned by different things;
it isn't always what men suppose
in their wildest imaginings.
Sometimes, it's true, I like to indulge
in the kind of thing I do best,
but sometimes I'm merely exhausted
and need to lie down and rest.
But try explaining that to a man!
Whether he's bright or dim
"I need to get horizontal" I fear
means only one thing to him.
Don't tell me that not all men are the same
you don't have to make excuses;
I know what goes on in the masculine mind;
the visions that phrase unlooses.
Whatever a man's convictions
always, for good or ill,
his thoughts are controlled by a primal urge
to procreate at will.
Survival of the species
is an instinct really rife.
Why do we make such a song and dance
about something so basic to life?
But next time I use the expression
don't assume that you are desired.
Ask and I'll say if I want to mate
or whether I'm simply tired.
© 2003
In Love
I'm sixty now and, even worse,
this illness takes its toll.
I stumble 'n' fumble these days
instead of rock 'n' roll.
Weak and wobbly, worn out,
I stagger through the days
body aching, eyes dim,
my mind a misty haze.
Yet still my spirit struggles on;
I'll not lay down and die,
not while I have breath in me,
even just a sigh.
Depression lurks at every turn,
threatening and bleak,
but lately it doesn't last as long:
a day instead of a week.
In love and not for the first time,
though possibly the last,
this one surpasses anything
I've experienced in the past.
This darling man who loves me
for my body and my brain
makes me forget how old I am
and whether I'm in pain.
He's shown me much about myself,
fulfilled forgotten dreams,
taught the old dog some fancy tricks -
it's never too late it seems.
So, sixty now and counting;
roll on sixty one!
Far from being over now,
life's only just begun!
© 2004
Character Building
Character building they call it:
the struggle to survive,
when every day you're battling
just to stay alive.
When you really need that cuppa
and your body won't respond
and you've nobody to lend a hand
and you've lost your magic wand
what character does it take to cope
that you haven't already got?
Do I really need it building up
or should I just be shot?
Put me out of my misery;
you'd do it for a horse,
but human life is sanctified
and dignified. Of course!
When my legs decline to function
and I've stairs to navigate
I'm reduced to going on all fours.
It works, but isn't great.
I was made to be bipedal,
the arms are just too short;
it's ok going up I guess
but down is rather fraught.
So then I lurch from step to step
hoping as I go
that I won't fall headlong down the lot,
for nobody would know.
Character? Who needs it?
I've character enough.
What I need is a slave or two.
Not PC? Well, tough!
© 2004
When
When your legs behave like jelly and your body feels like lead;
when your hands won't do things properly and fog infests your head;
when you want to go out dancing but you have to sleep instead
and your life consists of getting up and going back to bed;
When your home is like a prison and you're under house arrest,
when you rarely see your family or any other guest
then it's really not surprising if you sometimes get depressed
and it's too much of an effort eating, washing, getting dressed.
And when you get a visitor it's quite a big event,
like celebrating Easter after fasting all of Lent;
you give it all you've got until your energy is spent
then it's back to being boring to a very large extent.
So spare a thought for folk like us who slog it out alone,
who only contact others or the web or on the phone;
our lives can be quite difficult though we don't like to moan,
and occasionally tears will fall though mostly unbeknown.
Like a cactus in the desert, life has forced us to be tough;
the strength that keeps us going comes from having it quite rough
but underneath the prickles or what seems to others gruff
lies a soft and tender heart that often feels it's had enough.
© Aug 2004
Down and Out
Up too long
should have known
I'm overdue
a down time
shaky, nauseous
weak as water
weepy, drained
emotional
burnt out
exhausted
snail-like
I retreat
forget the arms
of Morpheus
more comatose
than dreaming
motionless
beyond relaxed
leaden limbs
refuse to move
breathing in
breathing out
fleeting thoughts
in disarray
unbidden feelings
loom large
hopeless, helpless
woe is me
no energy
to even pray
god knows my needs
are basic
simply getting
through each day
eat and drink
a little fun
someone to care
to be there
share life's burdens
and delights
but just for now
sleep is all
isolation
restoration
taking time
to heal.
© 2004
Laid Low
I used to run round on a big wooden ball
when I was much younger and fit
but now I can barely stay standing at all.
I've enough trouble trying to sit!
I stagger and stumble all over the place
and my hands do whatever they please.
My words come out slowly, forced out of my face,
as if they're determined to tease.
I lie on my bed while the universe tilts;
a beached whale in t-shirt and skirt.
What just walked across me, a man wearing stilts?
No, only the cat, but it hurt.
So what's brought about this unfortunate state?
What happened to make me this way?
Did a witch cast a spell? Was it something I ate?
No, 'twas something I did yesterday.
I went to the doctor, he gave me some pills,
he said they could help me, the creep.
I took just the one and it gave me the chills,
made me nauseous and sent me to sleep.
For more than a day now I've slept on and off;
it's been twenty eight hours so far.
I haven't the energy even to cough
and I've rarely felt quite so bizarre.
Never again will I take his advice!
I'll stick with the stuff that I know.
The herbs that I take may not work in a trice
but they've never yet laid me so low.
I think I should add that this state of affairs
made me stagger for over a week.
But now I've recovered - just one of life's scares -
and my future's no longer so bleak.
© 2004
M.E. and ME
I'm living with an illness
of uncertain etymology,
a fancy way of saying
that they don't know what it is.
It's known by many names
but it's a Cinderella thing,
hidden from the gaze
of the public at large.
Thousands live this way but
they're often overlooked;
too ill to leave the house
how can they be seen?
Doctors, in their ignorance,
fail to recognise
that our quality of life
is phenomenally low.
No drugs exist to help us,
no research makes the headlines,
there's little money spent
and the findings are diverse
but then they have the gall
to suggest that we're depressed!
I'd like to see them live this way
and stay on top of things.
We sit or we lie while
the world moves on without us,
watching from the sidelines
instead of taking part
Year after weary year,
waiting for an answer.
When will Prince Charming
come to our aid?
© 2004
Overdrawn
Overdrawn at the energy bank,
a weekend away cost me dear;
in the red, resting up,
awaiting further funds.
© 2004
A Good Day All in All
I needed to go out today
car was dead as a dodo, so
decided I would take a stroll
more of a wobble really.
Weather was warm and sunny
a few buds on the trees
funny, some of the things you see
the old church that isn't now
but still used for lecturing
a young oriental woman
well dressed, immaculate
walking along
laughing and chatting
to herself
the kind of thing I associate
with older folk or inebriates,
people living on the street.
Found a closing down sale
bought myself some bargains
and I was almost home before
the pain made walking difficult
Wrote this to pass the time
walking through the streets
maybe I was muttering too
making others wonder.
Though not ideal it proved
to be a good day
all in all.
© 2004
Swiss Cheese and Twisted Genes
They say that my brain is turning to mush
metaphorically, swiss cheese,
with gaps appearing all over the place
and scarring too, if you please.
And now they're discovering something else,
my genes misbehave as well.
Maybe they went though the washing machine
on the hot wash cycle from hell.
Neurologically speaking I'm all messed up,
immunologically too,
and my poor old mitochondria -
don't ask - I haven't a clue.
This morning I found that, while I could write,
my speech had taken a dive;
I had to keep stopping as words disappeared
and I went into overdrive.
Right now I'm forgetting the alphabet,
it's crazy, but there it is;
my hands are working ok for once
but my mind is all in a tizz.
So how can I make up poems at all
in such a dreadful mess?
I'm beginning to think they write themselves.
And they do it with such finesse!
© 2004
Heroics
Watching Olympians exhausting themselves,
struck by the differences and similarities.
Familiar symptoms,
the time to recover,
but often all I've had to do
is get out of bed.
© 2004
Afternoon Delight
What a wonderful day it's been
I finally got some sun!
I had to go for a mammogram,
not my idea of fun.
Some nice new clothes and a bit of "slap"
gave me the lift I sought
with some earrings and a necklace
that I'd recently, proudly, wrought.
I took a cab. It wasn't far
but all of it uphill
and went through the procedure,
uncomfortable, but still
it's not that bad, I've been through worse
and often do each day.
What can't be cured must be endured,
or that's what people say.
The journey back being easier
I decided to walk a ways.
The sun on my skin felt wonderful
and I revelled in its rays.
The snail's pace I accomplish
means many pass me by
and a friendly smile may be returned
if you catch another's eye.
While welcoming the summer heat
I enjoyed each cooling breeze
and dappled shade that beckoned me
beneath the city's trees.
I stopped to gaze in pure bliss
at flowers along the way;
my journey through the city streets
was like a holiday.
Ignoring the traffic's rush and roar
I sat for a while to rest.
Almost home, but I needed it;
I've come to know what's best.
I was only out for an hour or so
though it seemed a great deal more
but I couldn't have liked it better
on some far flung ocean shore.
It's been so long since I was out
- I'm a deathly shade of white -
that I treasure the simple pleasure of
my afternoon delight.
© Aug 2004
Little Fruit
Springtime proudly promised much
but summer brought its shadows;
undeveloped fruit now falls
to lie in winter meadows.
© 2005
Endless Night
Written during a time of deep depression.
For nigh on twenty years now
I've watched this awful thing
whittling my life away,
draining me of zing.
I lie, limp and languishing,
upon my bed each day
as time, once abundant,
slips seamlessly away.
Perhaps I should capitulate
with a modicum of grace,
give up this pointless struggle,
take up my allotted place.
Dreams will be unfulfilled,
fears realised
but, cursed from the very first,
I can't say I'm surprised.
Grey skies glower down,
bare trees brood,
all is dark and sombre,
echoing my mood.
Fate, have your way with me,
I've no more strength to fight;
I'll follow unresisting
into endless night.
© 2005
Arrhythmia
I think I need
a metronome.
Me - who lives
for rhythm!
It's a heart thing:
arrhythmia.
Krupa
on an off day.
Irregular and
pretty weak
it keeps me
ticking over.
Just as long,
I have to say,
as I stay
horizontal.
©2006
Cinderella
It's called a Cinderella thing
and is it any wonder?
This illness means my social life
is all but rent assunder.
No energy to go outdoors,
to wash the dishes, sweep the floors,
to cook a meal - but that's all right;
I've very little appetite.
The heart, it seems, is compromised,
the brain fares little better;
muscles, nerves, capillaries
pursue their own vendetta.
It's difficult to climb the stairs,
to wash or dress or do my hair,
to sit or stand or try to walk;
I've barely energy to talk!
My fingerprints are vanishing
so gripping is quite tricky.
I tend to drop things quite a lot
unless, of course, they're sticky.
No grip to do the smallest deeds,
like threading needles, stringing beads.
Paper, too, escapes my paw
and floats, serenely, to the floor.
They say that I should pace myself
but really, that's a joke.
I do so little anyway,
compared to other folk.
How can I make them understand?
Their world is like a foreign land -
a land I once inhabited
but now I might as well be dead.
Reliant on deliveries
I get what others choose.
Robbed of independence
it's more than pride we lose.
© 2006
Against The Odds
Is it, really, worth it:
struggling against the odds,
putting off the awful day
for some unfathomable cause?
What doesn't kill you
makes you strong, but
what price strength?
And strength for what?
Years run their course,
one upon another;
pointless days of unfulfilled
subsistence, while life,
which never was a friend,
laughs its mocking laugh
and hurries by.
© 2006
Waking
Waking as a beached whale
I slowly, imperceptibly,
transform myself into a seal
but still barely move at all,
battling with gravity.
Every inch of me pulsates,
harmonising with my heart
as, dry-mouthed, I
think my thoughts
and wait
for the tide.
©2006
Last Night
Last night was the worst I ever had.
I've had some nights, but this was Bad.
Hot and sticky, I lay awake
aware of every pain and ache.
Pains in fingers, pains in toes,
a bad sore throat and a stuffed up nose.
On top of that this crazy eye
that's either weeping or far too dry.
Heartburn, that's a constant curse
to add to the list and make things worse
plus indigestion, gas on tap,
enough to make anyone feel like crap.
Limbs that twitched and jumped around,
a heartbeat equally unsound,
swollen feet and ankles too -
what on earth was I to do?
Honey helped to ease the throat
and mastic left a sweeter note
but there was nothing to be done
about the heat. Turn off the sun!
I did sleep briefly, twice, last night
but woke up both times in a fright:
nightmares, something rare with me;
making up for it, obviously.
Finally I slept, and how,
and do feel somewhat better now
but if that's all old age has in store
it's not worth waiting round here for.
© 2006
A Prayer
Lord of the universe, powers that be,
send some energy, please, to me.
Give me the strength to leave my bed,
to realise whats in my head.
It's so very hard to cope this way,
with less and less stamina every day.
So, please, if someone is listening there,
have a heart, please, hear my prayer.
But if that's not part of the grand design
then show me another way to shine;
some help perhaps, some kindly soul
who'll enable me to reach my goal
of simply being what I should be,
before you set my spirit free.
© 2007
The Grey Ones
We cling to shreds of self respect
as all we were just slips away;
watch, with fading intellect,
our lives and loves as they decay.
Like members of some strange new sect
we close our eyes and seem to pray,
bow our heads and genuflect
as energy just ebbs away.
Nothing works as we expect;
limbs and fingers disobey.
People now and then suspect
we're drunk, regard us with dismay.
We do attempt to sit erect
and stay awake throughout the day
but, slowly, as our powers defect
we slump, with faces white as whey.
So if you think that you detect
a lack of willingness to play
you'd almost - almost - be correct
but it's not apathy, per se.
We have to jealously protect
the little strength we have each day;
eke out the energy, reject
activities that make us pay.
We try to hide that we neglect
ourselves and let things go astray;
our conversation circumspect
as life gets harder every day.
Life is lived in retrospect;
betraying us, our bodies sway.
Please think about what you expect
of such as we, whose lives are grey.
© 2007
Bad To Worse.
Things just go from bad to worse;
this illness, like some awful curse,
has robbed me of the will to live.
My brain's as leaky as a sieve
despite the fish oil - recommended -
with the evening primrose blended
swallowed umpteen times a day.
(How do you keep the taste away?)
Pills and capsules by the score
make each meal a dreadful bore,
keep me ticking over, just,
help to stop encroaching rust.
Somehow though it hardly matters.
Long held dreams are all in tatters.
Hope, a cold unfaithful lover,
left me, naked 'neath the cover.
Far too old before my time,
all reason gone, though I still rhyme.
When that deserts me - well, what then?
Breathe a sigh and count to ten?
Shuffle through another day,
life is in such disarray.
What's the point of living such
endless days of nothing much?
Wait! What's this? A quick e-note.
A man in Dorset - with a boat -
wants to write and be my friend.
Wonder where this one will end.
Plus a former lover sent
an instant message, passion-bent.
Men arrive like buses do:
none at all or else there's two!
No I will not meet with either
I'm not really in a fever.
Sadly I'll accept my fate.
It's just fun to contemplate.
© 2007
Life? What Life?
Things are going from bad to worse;
perhaps I'm under some sort of curse.
I find it increasingly hard to walk
and now I croak instead of talk.
My batteries are almost flat
and that is all there is to that.
Who will bring me a bit of cheer?
No-one, for there's no-one here.
I stumble and fumble like some old drunk,
my house is increasingly full of junk,
if something doesn't change round here
I'm simply going to disappear.
Constantly swooning, light in the head
even when lying in my bed!
It's a poor excuse for a life I suppose;
though some have worse ones, goodness knows.
When they handed out lives I must have misheard:
the thought of a wife would have seemed absurd
but now that's the very thing I need!
If they let me start over I'll pay more heed.
© 2010
A Study in Monochrome
Today my little patch of sky
is uniformly white. Dirty white
not starched and pressed;
no hint of colour cheers it.
Veiled by greying net and lace
which dips diagonally down
to a tangle of treetops
still dark in their winter garb
which, in turn, partly mask
the deep grey of
a building in silhouette
it presents a dreary view,
a study in monochrome.
© 2010
Always The Same
Today I woke as dawn broke,
the barely lightened sky appearing
grey through the window net
while, below, the other
now green network
allowed glimpses of
yellow lights, some still,
some moving,
even this early.
My window on the world,
always the same yet
always different.
© 2010
Another New Day
Another day, another view,
no flash of gold, no hint of blue.
The sky is low, a dirty white,
in no way an inspiring sight
yet nature triumphs once again
for, on my window, spots of rain
become as jewels, diamond bright,
as passing cars bestow their light.
© 2010
Another Day, Another View
Today I slept for many hours and woke to a surprise:
my legs were looking normal - that is in terms of size.
Swollen for the longest time, with ankles well obscured,
I now see ankle bones again and feel quite reassured.
The muscles, which I knew I had, I now can see with ease;
it makes a change from lower legs like logs below the knees.
It seems I need more time in bed, a boring proposition;
without a man about the place it's quite an imposition!
However, all that blood that pooled below my knees of yore
should now enrich my brain again and get me thinking more.
I guess this is desirable, though I'll let you decide.
I'm not too sure, with things like this, I'm really qualified.
© 2010
A Little Luxury
Looking up at an azure sky
as the smallest of fluffy white clouds drift by
foam tipped wavelets lap lazily.
A cooling breeze wafts over me
as sounds of traffic assail my ears.
You might suppose an idyllic scene,
a beach perhaps, but no, not so;
the sky I watch is just as blue
seen through an open window
from whence comes the cooling breeze.
The wavelets I generate myself
as I wallow in my bath.
© 2010
A Life of Sorts
I wake, I sleep, I eat, I breath,
it's life - but only just.
Hope, as the morning mist, is gone;
dreams all turned to dust.
© 2010
Incarceration
To never see a starry sky
feel wind or rain upon one's skin,
hear birdsong or a seagull's cry
or watch the blessed day begin,
perhaps it isn't obvious
to those who lead a normal life
how loss of freedom lessens us
and leads to inner stress and strife.
To yearn to hear a human voice
or know a touch upon one's face,
to meet with company of choice
or feel anothers fond embrace,
such things as make one feel alive
and often taken as a right
are, for some, unreachable,
and turn our days to darkest night.
© 2010
The Blue Ribbon : A Lyric
I have a pink ribbon, you've seen them I'm sure,
they speak of breast cancer and the quest for a cure,
But have you seen this one, my ribbon of blue
which tells of an illness much hidden from view.
ME, ME, ME, ME, it tells of an illness much hidden from view.
A mind that's befuddled, a body that's weak.
too tired to think, too exhausted to speak,
with aches and with pains and with fainting and chills,
it's really the most mystifying of ills,
ME, ME, ME, ME, it's really the most mystifying of ills.
There are many more symptoms by day and by night,
things that are worsened by noise and by light,
Some folk are so bad they are stuck in their beds,
Yet doctors still tell them it's all in their heads.
ME, ME, ME, ME, doctors still them them it's all in their heads.
So if you meet someone who's looking quite well
but wears a blue ribbon and says they're in hell
their illness is one largely hidden from view,
Their suffering just can't be guessed at by you.
ME, ME, ME, ME, their suffering just can't be guessed at by you.
© 2013
Sunday 19 May 2013
Matters Matrimonial, a lyric in the style of Gilbert and Sullivan.
Matters Matrimonial: A Lyric
(With more than a nod in the direction of Gilbert & Sullivan.)
For a soloist with chorus.
Recently when contemplating matters matrimonial
I found that I'd a hankering for premises baronial;
I think perhaps I'll set my cap at someone ex-colonial
who still enjoys the splendour of occasions ceremonial.
Occasions ceremonial!
It's not as if I don't fit in with folk ambassadorial;
I'm certainly dependable in things conspiritorial.
When writing formal letters I'm expertly editorial
and excellently dressed in any circumstance sartorial.
Sartorial, sartorial, in circumstance sartorial
sartorial, sartorial, she's perfectly uxorial.
My level of intelligence is high, it's undeniable,
though sometimes I'm considered to be somewhat certifiable;
and though my wretched memory is often unreliable
I think that overall my mind is eminently pliable.
It's pliable, it's pliable, her mind is very pliable;
it's pliable, it's pliable, occasionally friable.
So if you know a gentleman in need of someone suitable
who isn't unequivocal but neither too inscrutable
please let him know my attributes are simply indisputable.
I swear I'll make a marriage absolutely incommutable.
She swears she'll make a marriage absolutely incommutable!
© 2004
(With more than a nod in the direction of Gilbert & Sullivan.)
For a soloist with chorus.
Recently when contemplating matters matrimonial
I found that I'd a hankering for premises baronial;
I think perhaps I'll set my cap at someone ex-colonial
who still enjoys the splendour of occasions ceremonial.
Occasions ceremonial!
It's not as if I don't fit in with folk ambassadorial;
I'm certainly dependable in things conspiritorial.
When writing formal letters I'm expertly editorial
and excellently dressed in any circumstance sartorial.
Sartorial, sartorial, in circumstance sartorial
sartorial, sartorial, she's perfectly uxorial.
My level of intelligence is high, it's undeniable,
though sometimes I'm considered to be somewhat certifiable;
and though my wretched memory is often unreliable
I think that overall my mind is eminently pliable.
It's pliable, it's pliable, her mind is very pliable;
it's pliable, it's pliable, occasionally friable.
So if you know a gentleman in need of someone suitable
who isn't unequivocal but neither too inscrutable
please let him know my attributes are simply indisputable.
I swear I'll make a marriage absolutely incommutable.
She swears she'll make a marriage absolutely incommutable!
© 2004
Monday 13 May 2013
Aspects of love - a selection from an old diary.
Kisses so Tender
Kisses so tender they blew my mind
this was lust of a different kind
Just when I thought I had nothing to learn
I discovered a slow fuse kind of burn
Ignition was quick but the blaze was slow
and didn't rage but smouldered low
It appeared to be over but woe betide
the heart with a hidden fire inside
Like something unholy it creeps and lurks
it's the way this kind of passion works
you think you're safe till the moment when
spontaneous combustion strikes again
A thought, a word, and the fire returns
your soul ignites and your body burns
there's no escape for, hidden deep,
it isn't quenched by the tears you weep
Tender love gives off gentle heat
but still it knocks you off your feet
and all the time you await the bliss
you know can come only from his kiss.
© Nov 2002
A Journey of Discovery
To this unfamiliar land
he came intent on exploration
eager and expectant
he sought her secret heart.
Wonderingly he wandered freely
scaled her mountains
roamed her valleys
strolled her fragrant pastures
searched every crevice, high and low
photographed each scenic view.
Sadly, time was not his friend
and all too soon ran out on him
so, though exultant, still he felt
an overwhelming hunger;
he knew that there was much much more
yet to be discovered here
so, heart aglow, he left her
vowing to return.
© Dec 2002
Cosmos
Love so new
yet timeless
hooked up to infinity
we scintillate
we glow
merging with the cosmos
we are starstuff
we know.
© Dec 2002
Seasons of Love
What does your love mean to me?
More than I can say.
What does hours of sunshine
mean to a Summer's day?
What would Autumn be without
the leaves of red and gold?
That's what I would be, my love,
without your hand to hold.
Winter without snow and ice
wouldn't be the same
but then they melt; as I do
at the mention of your name
And just as Spring needs gentle rain
to make the flowers grow
that's how much I need your love
to keep my heart aglow
What does your love mean to me?
More than you can guess.
Is it really so important?
Yes, my love. Oh yes.
© Dec 2002
One Perfect Moment.
Caught up in the moment
a moment so exquisite
so infinitely tender
words were quite inadequate
when, suddenly, tears of joy
emerging all unbidden
hesitantly trickled down
to mingle with my hair
Hastily I wiped them
the more to reassure you
but there, in your eyes
I saw the misty moistness
echoing my own
and knew that in that moment
- that one perfect moment -
we two had touched heaven
and survived.
© Dec 2002
Bewildered
Bewildered, I wander
like someone blind from birth
now made to see
or as one who had no hearing
and is now assailed from every side
that's how it feels to me
to meet someone so kind
who speaks to me in words unknown
words not heard by the abused
language so foreign to my ears
it seems incomprehensible
and leaves me stunned, confused
what is this thing called love?
is it merely gratitude
knowing someone cares
or something deeper, more profound
resounding in the heart of me
in answer to my prayers?
And he - what does he feel?
sympathy for someone lost?
What is it that he sees?
An injured orphaned creature
needing someone's gentle touch
her spirit to unfreeze?
And so am I bewildered
not knowing what the future holds
but learning fast
knowing only that I must go on
to live today and through this new found life
forget the past.
© Nov 2002
I Love Him But...
I love the guy but sometimes,
sometimes - what to say?
When he goes off into one;
when he's having a rant.
"A storm in a teacup - soon over."
Over, that is, till next time.
He says he doesn't even know.
Strange, but apparently true.
Says that I should tell him,
tell him to "shut the fuck up"
but how would that help, really?
Besides it's not my way.
I'd rather try to make him think,
think about what he's saying,
how ridiculous it sounds.
How it makes me feel.
I love the guy but sometimes,
sometimes all I can say
is a quick: Hey! I love you.
That usually does the trick.
© 2003
Falling Apart
It hurts so much
when he has to go;
the highs are so high
the lows, so low.
He leaves each time
with a piece of my heart;
little by little
I'm falling apart.
© March 2003
Bitter Sweet
A bitter sweet affair
honey and lemon
in equal measure
growing pleasure
when together
time apart
more tart.
© 2003
An Air of Discretion
Last night I did the unthinkable
my first time, as you can tell.
I didn't know really what to expect
but in fact it went down quite well.
No, it wasn't his birthday,
it wasn't like that at all;
it was just a natural progression,
like a door leading off of a hall.
So if one of the kids ever asks me
"Did you ever do that, gran?"
I'll just say, with an air of discretion,
"Oh indeed!" and flutter my fan.
© 2003
Moments To Treasure.
Lost my love? Oh no.
He isn't lost at all.
It's me who's lost
lost in his kiss
lost in his arms
lost in bliss
lost in these feelings
of absolute pleasure
utter contentment
moments to treasure
lost for the hours
we have together
lost as we hurtle
hell for leather
into a future all unknown
to reap what comes from
the seeds we've sown.
Lost my love? Oh no.
He isn't lost but found.
I found him and he found me
now we're lovers
don't you see?
with a love as strong
as a big oak tree
growing on fertile ground.
© Jan 2003
Intoxication
'Tis heady wine, this love of mine;
an intoxicating potion.
My brain aborts all saner thoughts
and runs on raw emotion.
Without a doubt my mind can flout
all semblance of convention
though now and then I count to ten
with wisdom's intervention.
It seems to me where'er I be
I ought to act more shrewdly
but still I find my foolish mind
behaving rather crudely.
The kind of things that passion brings
to bear upon proceedings
are not the sort that I was taught
in all those bible readings!
Love's potent charm can quite disarm
and leave one most unwary.
The mind is closed, the heart exposed,
which seems somehow contrary,
as if the pair, all unaware
were two opposing factions
whereas I find my heart and mind
desire the same attractions.
And so I live and take and give,
and suffer all this madness
for one who knows and comes and goes
to share with me this gladness.
We two are blessed but careful lest
it all should end in sorrow;
drunk on the wine we're feeling fine
but what about tomorrow?
© 2003
Nothing Succeeds Like a Bird
Pushed from pillow to post, in fashion,
round the house
as we espouse
love, or precisely, passion.
Situations I'd once despise
now excite
through or despite
taking me by surprise.
Taking up a position of thrust,
making hay
night or day
before I turn to rust.
Bit by bit I love and learn;
grow, it seems,
fulfilling dreams
and fantasies by turn.
Whether I am dressed to thrill,
dishabillé
whatever way,
I'm out to get my fill.
I've always liked to get my kicks
with a man
but yes, you can
teach an old dog new tricks.
Words and phrases, modern, strange -
It's a biggie,
Gettin' jiggy -
modify my range.
Just because there may be snow
on the roof
I'm not aloof;
inside I am aglow.
Deep in me, the fervent blaze
your every stroke,
your kisses, stoke
and leave me in a daze.
You pander to the beast in me,
the primitive
who longs to live
fierce and wild and free.
Come now, fill my every need;
take me higher,
douse the fire,
and maybe I'll succeed.
© Oct 2003
What Lies Between
A monochrome existence,
a technicolor dream;
a million miles and the thickness of
a street door lie between.
© 2003
His Take on Things
Love can be so many things and his was adoration,
a grand obsession, reverence, veneration, awe.
Humble in her presence, afraid to break the silence,
bowled over by the beauty, the splendour that he saw,
he thought her a lady, never lacking, never stupid;
for him she could do no wrong and never, ever, bore.
He loved her with a passion, and could not explain
how he felt he was trespassing in touching her at all,
like a dirt poor down and out dining at the Ritz
or a kid adding colour to the sketches on her wall;
like guzzling a vintage wine or rare Napoleon brandy
yet unable to resist her and her power to enthrall.
To penetrate such hallowed ground, even though invited,
made him feel privileged but something was wrong:
it seemed to be sacrilege, a kind of desecration,
crude and insensitive; he didn't quite belong
though, feeling unworthy, he nonetheless enjoyed her;
the purely primordial attraction was strong.
All this was in his heart; he claimed he had no words
for the very special feelings that overwhelmed his soul.
Happy just to stand in the shadow of her greatness,
- his mentor, his heroine, her happiness his goal -
he wanted just to love her, even from a distance,
and never understood the importance of his role.
© 2004
And Mine.
I wish he wouldn't worry so, I don't know how to be;
it's hard to just act natural when he's so staid with me.
Standing on a pedestal is difficult at best,
a thing I'm not accustomed to, it has to be confessed.
It's lovely that he sees me so but really hard for me,
tricky not to laugh at times; to take it seriously.
This is me, remember? The stupid little kid.
The one nobody wanted, the one who flipped her lid;
a crazy aging nympho who loves the guy to bits.
I'm no-one special, honestly! Sometimes I'm the pits!
And yet I love him for it, the way he makes me feel:
suddenly I'm beautiful; it's something quite unreal.
For those few stolen precious hours it isn't me at all
but someone else, someone better, feeling ten foot tall,
with charms I didn't know I had, attributes galore;
someone who can fascinate and make his senses soar.
He never says I'm shocking, or selfish, or a pain,
he doesn't think me stupid, ridiculous, insane.
I wonder sometimes what it is that makes him see me thus
when all my life I seemed to make most people sigh and cuss.
But something else has happened since he's treated me this way;
I'm learning to appreciate that really I'm ok,
to see myself a whole new way, as gold instead of dross;
the ones who couldn't see it, well, maybe it's their loss.
I've grown so much because of him, he makes me come alive;
the feelings and the thoughts I have not only live but thrive.
It's wonderful to see how much I like myself at last;
because of him I finally can overcome my past.
So do I mind the way he is? I did at first, I think.
He'd look at me that way he has, my heart would start to sink;
I felt it couldn't last too long, he'd see the truth one day
but after all this time I guess there's not much I can say.
© 2004
Drowning
Where does it start to go wrong?
When does it stop being fun any more?
Falling from grace, from unreachable heights,
to confusion and doubt and a mournful song.
Floundering now in a sea of unease,
not trusting the lifelines you throw.
What brings about this decline?
Just misunderstanding or something worse?
Some sinister motive, insidious and dark
or simply confusion, as overworked minds
and fertile imaginings go to town,
leaving discernment at home?
As we sink beneath waves of despair
we try to remember the way it was,
the day we met and the many days since,
the joy and the ecstasy, feelings we've shared,
overwhelmed now by a turn of events
that threatens to end all we know.
© 2004
Left?
It looks like my love is leaving me -
it's hard to believe, I know -
with everything we had going for us
why would he want to go?
I'm sure he hasn't tired of the fun -
he was anything but bored -
but lately he doesn't contact me.
I'm feeling very ignored.
Perhaps I'm being paranoid -
possibly being unfair,
maybe he isn't leaving but
he simply isn't there.
No sign of him on messenger
no reassuring word,
no call or text on the mobile phone;
it's getting quite absurd.
I sit and wonder what's going on:
has his pc simply died?
Is his cell phone out of order?
Has he tried and tried and tried?
Maybe he's lying ill in bed
unable to get to a phone,
or laid up in the hospital
with a horribly broken bone.
But, whatever the reason,
he isn't getting in touch
you'd think that he could find a way
if he cared for me that much.
The only thing I'll excuse him for -
and I don't think I'm being mean -
is if he's in a coma,
wired up to a machine.
If it carries on much longer
there's only one thing to do:
I'll find me another lover,
or possibly even two.
It's not as if I couldn't;
there are plenty of men out there
and it's not as if I wouldn't -
I have plenty of love to share!
I wish my lover would contact me -
I really miss him, you know -
but if that's the way he wants it,
I'll have to let him go.
© 2004
Perplexed.
Don't write me off just yet, you said,
before you went away
and so I settled down to wait,
day by lonely day.
I don't think I'm impatient
although it seemed so bleak
when still I had no word from you
as week succeeded week
but now the weeks turn into months
and really I'm perplexed.
I knew I wouldn't see you but -
an email or a text?
I'm feeling rather foolish
and feel inclined to scoff.
So - how long do I give it then,
before I write you off?
© Oct 2004
Neverland.
My hair's forgotten how to curl;
I've had no love in ages.
Not for me the social whirl;
my diary's all blank pages.
Since my lover disappeared
I've searched for a successor.
Sadly, though, it's as I feared;
there's none that isn't lesser.
No other man can take his place
but why should any try it?
Who else has his loving face?
The richest couldn't buy it.
It seems I'm stuck in Neverland,
a heart without a dwelling.
Must I remain fore'er unmanned?
There's just no way of telling.
© Dec 2004
I Still Love You.
Each day I seem to see your face
most everywhere I look
'cause I still love you babe,
I still love you
and yours is still the only name
written in my book
'cause I still love you baby,
I still love you.
Through an inch of whiskey
things get a little blurred
though nothing really helps much
and it's probably absurd
but I can't help feeling lost somehow,
bereft of you, you turd,
but I still love you babe,
I still love you.
© 2004
Beanie Bear
Perched upon my bedhead is a little beanie bear;
one who has a secret, so he says.
His beady eyes regard me with a concentrated stare
yet bring to mind another's loving gaze.
Now you may think I'm far too old for things so infantile,
but that seems somewhat ageist and unfair;
this scarlet, soft plush teddy has more value, by a mile,
than any fancy diamond solitaire.
This small romantic token watches over me at night;
he tells me that my lover loves me still,
never out of mind, although he may be out of sight,
the memories continuing to thrill.
I treasure Secret Bear for he reminds me every day
that for a while, at least, such joy was mine.
The future is uncertain but I know that, come what may,
I have known love, and loved, and it was fine.
© 2005
Old Flames
An old flame flickered once again,
a flame I'd thought was dead.
It flared up briefly in the night:
Look, I'm still here, it said.
I watched and waited then to see
if it would reappear
but all around was cold and dark
and desolate and drear.
There's closure in a funeral pyre:
all hope is gone for good.
Old flames are better left to die
completely, as they should.
© 2006
Kisses so tender they blew my mind
this was lust of a different kind
Just when I thought I had nothing to learn
I discovered a slow fuse kind of burn
Ignition was quick but the blaze was slow
and didn't rage but smouldered low
It appeared to be over but woe betide
the heart with a hidden fire inside
Like something unholy it creeps and lurks
it's the way this kind of passion works
you think you're safe till the moment when
spontaneous combustion strikes again
A thought, a word, and the fire returns
your soul ignites and your body burns
there's no escape for, hidden deep,
it isn't quenched by the tears you weep
Tender love gives off gentle heat
but still it knocks you off your feet
and all the time you await the bliss
you know can come only from his kiss.
© Nov 2002
A Journey of Discovery
To this unfamiliar land
he came intent on exploration
eager and expectant
he sought her secret heart.
Wonderingly he wandered freely
scaled her mountains
roamed her valleys
strolled her fragrant pastures
searched every crevice, high and low
photographed each scenic view.
Sadly, time was not his friend
and all too soon ran out on him
so, though exultant, still he felt
an overwhelming hunger;
he knew that there was much much more
yet to be discovered here
so, heart aglow, he left her
vowing to return.
© Dec 2002
Cosmos
Love so new
yet timeless
hooked up to infinity
we scintillate
we glow
merging with the cosmos
we are starstuff
we know.
© Dec 2002
Seasons of Love
What does your love mean to me?
More than I can say.
What does hours of sunshine
mean to a Summer's day?
What would Autumn be without
the leaves of red and gold?
That's what I would be, my love,
without your hand to hold.
Winter without snow and ice
wouldn't be the same
but then they melt; as I do
at the mention of your name
And just as Spring needs gentle rain
to make the flowers grow
that's how much I need your love
to keep my heart aglow
What does your love mean to me?
More than you can guess.
Is it really so important?
Yes, my love. Oh yes.
© Dec 2002
One Perfect Moment.
Caught up in the moment
a moment so exquisite
so infinitely tender
words were quite inadequate
when, suddenly, tears of joy
emerging all unbidden
hesitantly trickled down
to mingle with my hair
Hastily I wiped them
the more to reassure you
but there, in your eyes
I saw the misty moistness
echoing my own
and knew that in that moment
- that one perfect moment -
we two had touched heaven
and survived.
© Dec 2002
Bewildered
Bewildered, I wander
like someone blind from birth
now made to see
or as one who had no hearing
and is now assailed from every side
that's how it feels to me
to meet someone so kind
who speaks to me in words unknown
words not heard by the abused
language so foreign to my ears
it seems incomprehensible
and leaves me stunned, confused
what is this thing called love?
is it merely gratitude
knowing someone cares
or something deeper, more profound
resounding in the heart of me
in answer to my prayers?
And he - what does he feel?
sympathy for someone lost?
What is it that he sees?
An injured orphaned creature
needing someone's gentle touch
her spirit to unfreeze?
And so am I bewildered
not knowing what the future holds
but learning fast
knowing only that I must go on
to live today and through this new found life
forget the past.
© Nov 2002
I Love Him But...
I love the guy but sometimes,
sometimes - what to say?
When he goes off into one;
when he's having a rant.
"A storm in a teacup - soon over."
Over, that is, till next time.
He says he doesn't even know.
Strange, but apparently true.
Says that I should tell him,
tell him to "shut the fuck up"
but how would that help, really?
Besides it's not my way.
I'd rather try to make him think,
think about what he's saying,
how ridiculous it sounds.
How it makes me feel.
I love the guy but sometimes,
sometimes all I can say
is a quick: Hey! I love you.
That usually does the trick.
© 2003
Falling Apart
It hurts so much
when he has to go;
the highs are so high
the lows, so low.
He leaves each time
with a piece of my heart;
little by little
I'm falling apart.
© March 2003
Bitter Sweet
A bitter sweet affair
honey and lemon
in equal measure
growing pleasure
when together
time apart
more tart.
© 2003
An Air of Discretion
Last night I did the unthinkable
my first time, as you can tell.
I didn't know really what to expect
but in fact it went down quite well.
No, it wasn't his birthday,
it wasn't like that at all;
it was just a natural progression,
like a door leading off of a hall.
So if one of the kids ever asks me
"Did you ever do that, gran?"
I'll just say, with an air of discretion,
"Oh indeed!" and flutter my fan.
© 2003
Moments To Treasure.
Lost my love? Oh no.
He isn't lost at all.
It's me who's lost
lost in his kiss
lost in his arms
lost in bliss
lost in these feelings
of absolute pleasure
utter contentment
moments to treasure
lost for the hours
we have together
lost as we hurtle
hell for leather
into a future all unknown
to reap what comes from
the seeds we've sown.
Lost my love? Oh no.
He isn't lost but found.
I found him and he found me
now we're lovers
don't you see?
with a love as strong
as a big oak tree
growing on fertile ground.
© Jan 2003
Intoxication
'Tis heady wine, this love of mine;
an intoxicating potion.
My brain aborts all saner thoughts
and runs on raw emotion.
Without a doubt my mind can flout
all semblance of convention
though now and then I count to ten
with wisdom's intervention.
It seems to me where'er I be
I ought to act more shrewdly
but still I find my foolish mind
behaving rather crudely.
The kind of things that passion brings
to bear upon proceedings
are not the sort that I was taught
in all those bible readings!
Love's potent charm can quite disarm
and leave one most unwary.
The mind is closed, the heart exposed,
which seems somehow contrary,
as if the pair, all unaware
were two opposing factions
whereas I find my heart and mind
desire the same attractions.
And so I live and take and give,
and suffer all this madness
for one who knows and comes and goes
to share with me this gladness.
We two are blessed but careful lest
it all should end in sorrow;
drunk on the wine we're feeling fine
but what about tomorrow?
© 2003
Nothing Succeeds Like a Bird
Pushed from pillow to post, in fashion,
round the house
as we espouse
love, or precisely, passion.
Situations I'd once despise
now excite
through or despite
taking me by surprise.
Taking up a position of thrust,
making hay
night or day
before I turn to rust.
Bit by bit I love and learn;
grow, it seems,
fulfilling dreams
and fantasies by turn.
Whether I am dressed to thrill,
dishabillé
whatever way,
I'm out to get my fill.
I've always liked to get my kicks
with a man
but yes, you can
teach an old dog new tricks.
Words and phrases, modern, strange -
It's a biggie,
Gettin' jiggy -
modify my range.
Just because there may be snow
on the roof
I'm not aloof;
inside I am aglow.
Deep in me, the fervent blaze
your every stroke,
your kisses, stoke
and leave me in a daze.
You pander to the beast in me,
the primitive
who longs to live
fierce and wild and free.
Come now, fill my every need;
take me higher,
douse the fire,
and maybe I'll succeed.
© Oct 2003
What Lies Between
A monochrome existence,
a technicolor dream;
a million miles and the thickness of
a street door lie between.
© 2003
His Take on Things
Love can be so many things and his was adoration,
a grand obsession, reverence, veneration, awe.
Humble in her presence, afraid to break the silence,
bowled over by the beauty, the splendour that he saw,
he thought her a lady, never lacking, never stupid;
for him she could do no wrong and never, ever, bore.
He loved her with a passion, and could not explain
how he felt he was trespassing in touching her at all,
like a dirt poor down and out dining at the Ritz
or a kid adding colour to the sketches on her wall;
like guzzling a vintage wine or rare Napoleon brandy
yet unable to resist her and her power to enthrall.
To penetrate such hallowed ground, even though invited,
made him feel privileged but something was wrong:
it seemed to be sacrilege, a kind of desecration,
crude and insensitive; he didn't quite belong
though, feeling unworthy, he nonetheless enjoyed her;
the purely primordial attraction was strong.
All this was in his heart; he claimed he had no words
for the very special feelings that overwhelmed his soul.
Happy just to stand in the shadow of her greatness,
- his mentor, his heroine, her happiness his goal -
he wanted just to love her, even from a distance,
and never understood the importance of his role.
© 2004
And Mine.
I wish he wouldn't worry so, I don't know how to be;
it's hard to just act natural when he's so staid with me.
Standing on a pedestal is difficult at best,
a thing I'm not accustomed to, it has to be confessed.
It's lovely that he sees me so but really hard for me,
tricky not to laugh at times; to take it seriously.
This is me, remember? The stupid little kid.
The one nobody wanted, the one who flipped her lid;
a crazy aging nympho who loves the guy to bits.
I'm no-one special, honestly! Sometimes I'm the pits!
And yet I love him for it, the way he makes me feel:
suddenly I'm beautiful; it's something quite unreal.
For those few stolen precious hours it isn't me at all
but someone else, someone better, feeling ten foot tall,
with charms I didn't know I had, attributes galore;
someone who can fascinate and make his senses soar.
He never says I'm shocking, or selfish, or a pain,
he doesn't think me stupid, ridiculous, insane.
I wonder sometimes what it is that makes him see me thus
when all my life I seemed to make most people sigh and cuss.
But something else has happened since he's treated me this way;
I'm learning to appreciate that really I'm ok,
to see myself a whole new way, as gold instead of dross;
the ones who couldn't see it, well, maybe it's their loss.
I've grown so much because of him, he makes me come alive;
the feelings and the thoughts I have not only live but thrive.
It's wonderful to see how much I like myself at last;
because of him I finally can overcome my past.
So do I mind the way he is? I did at first, I think.
He'd look at me that way he has, my heart would start to sink;
I felt it couldn't last too long, he'd see the truth one day
but after all this time I guess there's not much I can say.
© 2004
Drowning
Where does it start to go wrong?
When does it stop being fun any more?
Falling from grace, from unreachable heights,
to confusion and doubt and a mournful song.
Floundering now in a sea of unease,
not trusting the lifelines you throw.
What brings about this decline?
Just misunderstanding or something worse?
Some sinister motive, insidious and dark
or simply confusion, as overworked minds
and fertile imaginings go to town,
leaving discernment at home?
As we sink beneath waves of despair
we try to remember the way it was,
the day we met and the many days since,
the joy and the ecstasy, feelings we've shared,
overwhelmed now by a turn of events
that threatens to end all we know.
© 2004
Left?
It looks like my love is leaving me -
it's hard to believe, I know -
with everything we had going for us
why would he want to go?
I'm sure he hasn't tired of the fun -
he was anything but bored -
but lately he doesn't contact me.
I'm feeling very ignored.
Perhaps I'm being paranoid -
possibly being unfair,
maybe he isn't leaving but
he simply isn't there.
No sign of him on messenger
no reassuring word,
no call or text on the mobile phone;
it's getting quite absurd.
I sit and wonder what's going on:
has his pc simply died?
Is his cell phone out of order?
Has he tried and tried and tried?
Maybe he's lying ill in bed
unable to get to a phone,
or laid up in the hospital
with a horribly broken bone.
But, whatever the reason,
he isn't getting in touch
you'd think that he could find a way
if he cared for me that much.
The only thing I'll excuse him for -
and I don't think I'm being mean -
is if he's in a coma,
wired up to a machine.
If it carries on much longer
there's only one thing to do:
I'll find me another lover,
or possibly even two.
It's not as if I couldn't;
there are plenty of men out there
and it's not as if I wouldn't -
I have plenty of love to share!
I wish my lover would contact me -
I really miss him, you know -
but if that's the way he wants it,
I'll have to let him go.
© 2004
Perplexed.
Don't write me off just yet, you said,
before you went away
and so I settled down to wait,
day by lonely day.
I don't think I'm impatient
although it seemed so bleak
when still I had no word from you
as week succeeded week
but now the weeks turn into months
and really I'm perplexed.
I knew I wouldn't see you but -
an email or a text?
I'm feeling rather foolish
and feel inclined to scoff.
So - how long do I give it then,
before I write you off?
© Oct 2004
Neverland.
My hair's forgotten how to curl;
I've had no love in ages.
Not for me the social whirl;
my diary's all blank pages.
Since my lover disappeared
I've searched for a successor.
Sadly, though, it's as I feared;
there's none that isn't lesser.
No other man can take his place
but why should any try it?
Who else has his loving face?
The richest couldn't buy it.
It seems I'm stuck in Neverland,
a heart without a dwelling.
Must I remain fore'er unmanned?
There's just no way of telling.
© Dec 2004
I Still Love You.
Each day I seem to see your face
most everywhere I look
'cause I still love you babe,
I still love you
and yours is still the only name
written in my book
'cause I still love you baby,
I still love you.
Through an inch of whiskey
things get a little blurred
though nothing really helps much
and it's probably absurd
but I can't help feeling lost somehow,
bereft of you, you turd,
but I still love you babe,
I still love you.
© 2004
Beanie Bear
Perched upon my bedhead is a little beanie bear;
one who has a secret, so he says.
His beady eyes regard me with a concentrated stare
yet bring to mind another's loving gaze.
Now you may think I'm far too old for things so infantile,
but that seems somewhat ageist and unfair;
this scarlet, soft plush teddy has more value, by a mile,
than any fancy diamond solitaire.
This small romantic token watches over me at night;
he tells me that my lover loves me still,
never out of mind, although he may be out of sight,
the memories continuing to thrill.
I treasure Secret Bear for he reminds me every day
that for a while, at least, such joy was mine.
The future is uncertain but I know that, come what may,
I have known love, and loved, and it was fine.
© 2005
Old Flames
An old flame flickered once again,
a flame I'd thought was dead.
It flared up briefly in the night:
Look, I'm still here, it said.
I watched and waited then to see
if it would reappear
but all around was cold and dark
and desolate and drear.
There's closure in a funeral pyre:
all hope is gone for good.
Old flames are better left to die
completely, as they should.
© 2006
Thursday 9 May 2013
My first ever poem: Our House
Our House
(not sure of the year I wrote it, sometime in the late 70s or early 80s)
The way of life in our house is terrible and strange.
The way my menfolk treat it is enough to quite derange
the most strong-willed of mortals, of whom I am not one.
Sometimes I think that there's no way that I can carry on.
For instance, take the bathroom; the things they do in there!
How can it take an hour or more to shower and wash your hair?
I never have to count the hours spent showering, not me,
I just look at the bills for gas and electricity!
And daily, so it seems to me, the cry goes up: "More soap"
or "toilet rolls" or "toothpaste" . A millionaire might cope
but I'm no millionaire I'm just a housewife, middle aged,
some days are good, some not so bad, some days I just feel caged.
A home? I tell you, not this place, it's just a boarding house.
I feed three dogs, two cats, myself, three teenagers, one spouse.
They come in, wash and change, go out; the humans do I mean -
at least the animals don't use the bathroom to get clean.
They want to eat at such unearthly hours; I go to bed
at midnight so they help themselves in order to be fed
at two or three o clock (am). What would they do without
the deep freeze and the microwave? Starve without a doubt.
And what about the washing-up they leave me day by day?
Stacks of it and not just in the kitchen I might say.
The latest thing is towels; there's never one around
but no-one's ever had them, they simply can't be found.
It started with the boxing - they need a towel to shower -
and now they've joined the sports club to give them yet more power!
Power to dance the night away, or whatever else they do
when they go out, all spruced up, and in my t-shirts too!
They run out in my jogging suit, they walk out in my jeans
I'm glad I take size five in shoes, not tens, twelves or thirteens!
And while I'm on the subject has anybody had
my hairbrush, plastic, white, no? It really is too bad.
I must admit my husband isn't like the other three.
He works quite hard throughout the day and spends most nights with me.
Oh no, what he does to the house is quite a different matter;
he calls it home improvement. His dreams I hate to shatter
But all he does just seems to me to make a bigger mess.
Is this the way, I ask myself, to wedded happiness?
A room without a ceiling, and one without a door
and two more rooms, I have to add, without a proper floor!
The kitchen sink has lost its tap, we have to use a wrench,
and damp rot in the cupboards gives the place a musty stench.
We've a roof that lets in water when it should chance to rain,
a garden full of rubble - it's a wonder I'm still sane.
The fruit trees are all gone now, cut down to make more space
to build on an extension lacking any charm or grace.
To add to the confusion, like sad metallic scars
there stand the rusting relics of abandoned bikes and cars.
I wouldn't want a servant to help me make it through;
just co-operation from the family would do.
Well, I've got it off my chest, I've had a little grouse
And now it's time to go and try to do things with our house.
(not sure of the year I wrote it, sometime in the late 70s or early 80s)
The way of life in our house is terrible and strange.
The way my menfolk treat it is enough to quite derange
the most strong-willed of mortals, of whom I am not one.
Sometimes I think that there's no way that I can carry on.
For instance, take the bathroom; the things they do in there!
How can it take an hour or more to shower and wash your hair?
I never have to count the hours spent showering, not me,
I just look at the bills for gas and electricity!
And daily, so it seems to me, the cry goes up: "More soap"
or "toilet rolls" or "toothpaste" . A millionaire might cope
but I'm no millionaire I'm just a housewife, middle aged,
some days are good, some not so bad, some days I just feel caged.
A home? I tell you, not this place, it's just a boarding house.
I feed three dogs, two cats, myself, three teenagers, one spouse.
They come in, wash and change, go out; the humans do I mean -
at least the animals don't use the bathroom to get clean.
They want to eat at such unearthly hours; I go to bed
at midnight so they help themselves in order to be fed
at two or three o clock (am). What would they do without
the deep freeze and the microwave? Starve without a doubt.
And what about the washing-up they leave me day by day?
Stacks of it and not just in the kitchen I might say.
The latest thing is towels; there's never one around
but no-one's ever had them, they simply can't be found.
It started with the boxing - they need a towel to shower -
and now they've joined the sports club to give them yet more power!
Power to dance the night away, or whatever else they do
when they go out, all spruced up, and in my t-shirts too!
They run out in my jogging suit, they walk out in my jeans
I'm glad I take size five in shoes, not tens, twelves or thirteens!
And while I'm on the subject has anybody had
my hairbrush, plastic, white, no? It really is too bad.
I must admit my husband isn't like the other three.
He works quite hard throughout the day and spends most nights with me.
Oh no, what he does to the house is quite a different matter;
he calls it home improvement. His dreams I hate to shatter
But all he does just seems to me to make a bigger mess.
Is this the way, I ask myself, to wedded happiness?
A room without a ceiling, and one without a door
and two more rooms, I have to add, without a proper floor!
The kitchen sink has lost its tap, we have to use a wrench,
and damp rot in the cupboards gives the place a musty stench.
We've a roof that lets in water when it should chance to rain,
a garden full of rubble - it's a wonder I'm still sane.
The fruit trees are all gone now, cut down to make more space
to build on an extension lacking any charm or grace.
To add to the confusion, like sad metallic scars
there stand the rusting relics of abandoned bikes and cars.
I wouldn't want a servant to help me make it through;
just co-operation from the family would do.
Well, I've got it off my chest, I've had a little grouse
And now it's time to go and try to do things with our house.
Thursday 2 May 2013
Seven poems on growing older. Humour.
Aging
I'm aging now, or so I'm told
but they're selling me a pup!
How can I be growing old
when I haven't yet grown up?
I refuse to be a "wrinkly",
a boring sad old fart.
Age is just a state of mind;
I'm still a kid at heart:
Open minded, curious,
shy but keen to learn,
impatient to see what lies
round every twist and turn.
And what about maturity?
Is it to do with years
or dealing with relationships,
handling hopes and fears?
I am happy to mature then
if that's what it's about,
as long as they let me have some fun
and run around and shout,
make fervent love in the afternoon
and dance to the radio.
I'm quite prepared to be old one day
but I've still a long way to go.
© 2004
Aging Dancers
Aging dancers don't retire
they simply dance much slower.
I haven't lost that inner fire
it's there, but burning lower.
I don't "do" frantic any more
I'm best at slow and sensual;
just clear a space there on the floor,
I'll show you I'm accentual.
Rock for me has had it's day
along with twist and shout;
I'll show you in a different way
just what it's all about.
Put on a mean and moody song
a beat that's slow and steady
then lead me out where I belong
and just make sure you're ready!
© 2002
Aging? Me?
No-one escapes the results of old age
though it helps, I assume, if you're rich.
I have no desire to go under the knife
but there are a few things I would switch.
My underarm hair is, at last, in decline
which somewhat makes up for the face
for my eyelids are crinkled, the laughter lines show
and the moustache is growing apace!
The hairs on my legs aren't as strong as before
- finer but not going grey -
you'd think that by now they would give up the ghost
but no, I still shave them away.
I'm thankful to say that my body still works
though some is a little bit worn.
Arthritis from hyper-mobility hurts
and Ive had this thing since I was born.
But hyper-mobility has benefits too:
some joints are amazingly pliant
and I've very few wrinkles or stretch marks or such
which makes me feel rather defiant.
So, do your worst, aging, I'll keep ploughing on;
I could be an awful lot worse.
I still have my marbles and that's all that counts.
I'm not ready yet for the hearse !
© June 2010
Decrepit
When the skin round the eyes is crêpey
and the years have remodelled one's face
and one's neck becomes droopy and drapey
and the moustache is growing apace;
When the backs of one's hands are crinkled
and embroidered with blue weathered trees
and the lips, once plump, are now wrinkled
and time's playing hell with one's knees;
When every damn thing is painful
and each journey seems all uphill
and nothing in life seems gainful
due to being so tired and ill;
When one's hands and one's feet are puffy
with ankles now twice the size
and the hair that was lush is now scruffy
and the sparkle has left one's eyes;
When one's balance has left the building
and one's strength is that of a gnat
and the lily that needed no gilding
seems remarkably old and fat;
When crouching occasions farting
and sad unintentional grunts
and days never seem worth starting
and nights are devoid of stunts,
When confusion defines one's thinking
and the memory goes to pot
and it's all about standing blinking
and "Did I? Or did I not?"
When one can't rely on one's plumbing
and eating is just a chore
then life has become unbecoming.
It's all such a terrible bore.
© Sept 2006
What to do?
Too old now to strut my stuff in
slinky clothes and fuck-me shoes
or flash come-hither glances from
mascara'd kohl-black eyes;
arthritis and increasing size,
the pitiless effects of time,
are things I can't refute.
What to do, what to do,
when teenage passion
persecutes a body
past its prime?
© 2007
Old Hands
Why do these old hands ache so much
to reach, to stroke, to hold, to touch?
Why must they make my needs so plain?
My hands are driving me insane.
Though now adorned with jewelled rings
they long for old familiar things:
for flesh and muscle, firm and hard,
across which, once, they'd promenade.
I can, of course, caress the cat
although there's not much fun in that.
She isn't keen on being squeezed;
my hands just wind up feeling teased.
They yearn to feel again the thrill
of using, once again, their skill
to make a lover so inflamed
that one might almost feel ashamed.
Such skills I've had and have them yet
though currently they pose no threat;
and so I dream as here I nap,
my hands, frustrated, in my lap.
© 2005
Learning To Read
Im having to learn to read again:
at my age, a vision of hell.
It's all this texting kids do now;
they've forgotten how to spell.
To be addressed as m8 is bad enough.
or be asked "y r u here? "
At least I can make out how that works,
the meaning is pretty clear.
"Whats ur name", I understand,
"itd be nice", well enough,
though a total lack of apostrophes
can sometimes make things tough.
But when someone asked for my ASL
- that took me a while to decode,
I had to ask someone in the end -
I thought my brain would implode!
My what? My who? Speak English please!
I'm far too old for all this.
I know a few languages, just a bit,
but this is taking the piss.
© 2010
Wednesday 1 May 2013
4 Poems on the subject of Food. (Humour).
Sitophobia
It's something I have no experience of:
a morbid aversion to food,
although I don't pig it, my nose in the trough,
unless of course I'm in the mood,
I do enjoy eating, though not til I bust,
and my tastes are exceedingly wide
but so far I haven't succumbed to my lust;
my cravings I've mostly denied.
With chocolate, sadly, I've had to be strict
so as not to expand any more
and if given my head with ice cream, I predict
that I'd never get through my own door.
I've kept within limits - I look ok nude -
although I could lose a few pounds,
but just think! A morbid aversion to food
would be even worse than it sounds.
I don't want to be skinny, much less in my grave,
but that's how I'd end up you see.
No, I'll stay slightly plumpish, to food I'm a slave.
Sitophobia isn't for me.
© 2005
Addiction
Pity me, Oh! pity me,
for one who's sustenance I crave,
who always gave so bounteously,
has now become my enemy
and causes me such grief.
Where will I now find succour when
the one I need illtreats me so
and causes such vexation.
Why now this irritation?
How often have I turned to you
in times of need and sorrowing,
your friendly comfort borrowing.
That it should come to this!
Where now will I find bliss?
Oh, woe is me, alas, alack,
can no-one stop this cruel attack?
Pill and potion fails me when the
violence of it ails me and I
sneeze for all I'm worth.
Oh, chocolate, my love, my sweet,
your cruelty's beyond belief.
That I should have to suffer
such ferocity offends me much.
I fear our friendship's at an end.
Until I find relief.
© 2004
The Hai Phat Diet.
I belong to a physical fatness club,
that's right, you heard what I said.
It's a club for people of generous size
with generous hips and generous thighs
who enjoy their cakes and puddings and pies
while you eat salads instead.
I belong to a physical fatness club,
there's plenty of members you know.
We don't obsess about how we look
or counting calories when we cook.
It's not the cover that makes the book,
that's only an outward show.
I belong to a physical fatness club,
we really appreciate food.
There's nothing wrong with a double chin
and a bit of padding is not a sin
so if you'll excuse me I'll get stuck in -
I'm in sort of a gateau-y mood.
© Jan 2002
Low Fat Lament
Ice cream and chocolate,
fish and chips, and pies
fried bread and fried eggs
and fried onion (sighs)
All the stuff I really like:
warm toast with butter
cheesecake with cream on
(mutter, mutter, mutter)
I'm meant to cut them out now
it's more than I can take!
I've got these blasted gall stones
what next for goodness' sake?
I don't smoke, I rarely drink
I don't use drugs for pleasure
and now it's fat-free everything
so how to enjoy my leisure?
Oh I know what you're thinking...
but I don't get much of that!
Still, at least there's one good thing
it's certainly low fat!
© 07/2002
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