All those who make a conscious choice
not to burden a crowded Earth,
those who spend months praying desperately
that this child will live until birth,
those who choose not to pass on tainted genes
or a cycle of abuse,
all those whom cruel circumstance
has robbed of functioning wombs,
and those who take vows of chastity
devoting their lives to others –
we don’t have a stake in the future
because we are not mothers.
Bank holiday travel! Always the same;
a chore – still more if you travel by train.
But we’re British, so we won’t make a fuss
as we board the rail replacement bus.
Surly rail staff in high-vis jackets
won’t give directions or help with baggage.
Pushed in so tightly, we feel like we’re trussed,
crammed into the rail replacement bus.
Along leafy lanes we wend our way,
join the traffic jam on the motorway.
Smug car drivers smirk – they’re laughing at us
poor souls on the rail replacement bus.
(Somehow coming back it’s even worse –
the route seems longer in reverse.
And if you can get a seat, that’s a plus
they’re rare, on the rail replacement bus.)
At last we wearily disembark,
over two hours late, in a damp car park.
Enough to make anyone scream and cuss –
the *expletive deleted* replacement bus!
In London’s Leicester Square a statue stands
of the immortal bard. Upon its head
a city pigeon, grimy sky-rat, lands,
prepares its load of excrement to shed.
To heaven might the statue raise its eyes:
“Dump on me, if you must, but not my words!
An easy thing it is, to criticise
when your sharp quills have never formed a verse.
Please spare the books upon which now I lean –
they prove to all that, once, a man here dwelt
who strove to know the hearts of human beings
and, in his work, to capture how they felt.”
The pigeon voideth not, but flies away.
The statue, unsoiled, smiles. Happy Birthday!
I always seem to catch the eye
of airport security
(for a woman travelling alone
is a drug mule, apparently).
They rummage through my luggage
while I try to act blasé –
once I even had to juggle
to explain some balls away,
had my scissors confiscated
(though they didn’t spot my herbs)
but I never dreamt my poetry
would leave them lost for words…
“Did you write this yourself?” he asks,
eyes moving over the page.
I don’t know what I mumble
as my mind begins to race,
for I’ve packed two poetry notebooks –
the covers both look the same,
but while one is full of nature poems
the other is – well, less tame.
Is he reading of foxes’ footprints,
an egret, still and serene –
or that innocent little haiku
which everyone thinks is obscene?
He licks a finger, turns a page –
is it mist winding round a birch?
Or that rather rude acrostic –
or something even worse?
He can’t be this keen on kestrels!
His face gives nothing away
as he hands my notebook over,
mutely waves me on my way.
As border experiences go,
this one is truly unique –
I half-expected I’d be frisked,
but I feel like I’ve been critiqued!
(with apologies to Tolkien)
All that is gold does not glitter.
Not all those unmarried will moan.
The single and strong need no pity,
Deep souls are content on their own.
No, I don’t share this coupling obsession;
I’ve got poems to write, songs to sing!
My time is my own, and it’s precious –
I won’t be enslaved by a ring.
(to the tune of The Man Who Sold The World)
A solitary star
up in the sky turns black
and something special’s gone
that never can come back.
A constant is no more.
Hearts sink that used to soar
and sadly it’s a fact –
not braced for the impact…
Crawl from the crash
with wounded wings unfurled,
take shaking steps
in a strange post-Bowie world.
Wake to a world that’s wrong,
and mourn for mismatched eyes,
brain full of fractured song,
soul screaming to the skies –
a scream of disbelief,
a desert born of grief,
and, choking on the dust,
drink tears, because you must…
Like it or not
somehow the time drags on
and so begins
post-Bowie world, day one.
BC, AD
are meaningless to me.
The years to come
will be dated post-Bowie.
It can’t be Easter already,
New Year’s barely out of the way –
but look – green shoots in my garden!
Must be spring – or else, climate change?
At least my hard work has paid off –
planting bulbs nearly finished me!
Can’t think which ones I planted where –
next week, I’ll be able to see…
And it’s not just in the garden –
on the shelves in my local shop
chocolate eggs are on display,
chocolate bunnies begin to hop.
Who buys for Easter this early?
The eggs could be addled by Lent.
The bunnies will taste quite funny,
their poor ears all broken and bent.
Old hot cross buns become tepid,
stale chocolate, spotted with white.
A symptom, like global warming,
of 21st century life.
I don’t want a lot for Christmas –
stuff the turkey, crackers, tree!
I am on the naughty list, so
Santa won’t stop here for me.
But there is one other guy
who’s got transport that can fly –
it’s a box so blue…
All I want for Christmas is Who!
Once the festive feasting’s over
(can’t eat any more – today!)
wrapping paper’s been recycled,
kitchen chaos cleared away.
Let me sit before the box
with a pile of Christmas chocs –
I’ll enjoy the view.
All I want for Christmas is Who!
On Saturday morning, I’ll be in the queue
filled with anticipation – some nervousness too.
With popcorn to munch on while watching the ads
and hoping and praying it won’t be too bad…
For Star Wars was special, it still reigns supreme
of all childhood memories of cinema screen.
But then Phantom Menace proved true to its name –
the other two prequels were more of the same.
Opening crawls about boring taxation
were only the start of the fans’ indignation.
“No more Jar Jar Binks!” you could hear them all cry –
the whole thing was ruined by bad CGI.
So this time around, I’m not asking a lot –
don’t need dazzling dialogue, intricate plot.
Just spaceships and battles – then, if we’re lucky,
a cameo from our favourite Wookiee!
Should be a safe bet that lightsabers abound –
oh, I’ll sit through a lot for that fabulous sound!
Though I guess its too much to hope that it’s packed
with actors that actually know how to act.
Now, please don’t call me Scrooge –
I know, I’m a ranter –
but I’m taking a stand
against Secret Santa.
I’ve enough plastic tat!
Like the novelty clock,
and a magic 8 ball,
and that comedy cock…
It’s stuff nobody needs,
so I fear it all will
go to charity shops –
or end up as landfill.
Choosing gifts is a chore;
your choices diminish
when the office decides
a fiver’s the limit.
I’d rather go shopping
for gifts which feel just right
for friends – not for strangers
with taste quite unlike mine.
I don’t need a repeat
of the colleague who cried
when I bought him a book
on bunny suicide…
No more Secret Santa!
It will be a relief –
it’s no better to give
than it is to receive.
Ladies Who Don't Have Time For Lunch 