Final Poem for June

Okay - lazy wombat that I am, I have combined three tasks - poetry and life writing for the Advanced Creative Writing warm up and the final  poem for June for the Unadvanced Creative Writing:


Letter to Sixteen Year Old Me

Dear Young Me, oh dear, dear Me,
I'm looking back and I can see
a girl who stuffs her face to hide
the gaping emptiness inside,
a hollow place that she can't fill
with food or sex, try as she will.
She crushes her emotions down,
her chosen mask, the tragic clown,
believing, as she does, the lies
that keep the sadness in her eyes.

The path that stretches through the years
was rough in parts, and soaked in tears.
The lessons she learned on the way
have made me what I am today.
So, Younger Me, it's up to you.
I've no advice to help you through.

Poetry - Week Three.

Crime of Passion


When I think what you did, my blood runs hot.
Your happiness meant all the world to me.
I thought you were my friend, it seems you're not.

Our friendship stemmed from childhood, what we'd got
was destined to last till eternity.
When I think what you did, my blood runs hot.

You saw me with my man and lost the plot.
You must have been consumed with jealousy.
I thought you were my friend, it seems you're not.

You are, however, strumpet, whore, harlot.
You sold our friendship, trampled the debris.
When I think what you did, my blood runs hot.

I looked at you with him and I forgot
how much I'd loved you. Darling, don't you see?
I thought you were my friend, it seems you're not.

Your reputation lies in tatters. What?
Did you expect you get away scot free?
When I think what you did, my blood runs hot.
I thought you were my friend. It seems you're not.

Poetry - Week Two

You may note that we have changed the rules a bit. We are doing a theme a week for the rest of the month.


Behind the Door

At ten o'clock the postman calls,
five days a week.
With breakfast done, three hours ago
and lunch three hours away,
she waits.

She hears him first, three houses up,
the squeaky gate,
the measured footsteps, rat-a-tat.
He pauses, writes a card.
She waits.

He passes by next door but one,
and then next door.
She holds her breath, the footsteps stop,
he riffles through his bag.
She waits.

And then the sound she's waiting for.
The gate-latch clicks.
She counts the steps to her front door
and, listening for her post,
she waits.

A creak, a letter sliding through
and lying there.
Receding steps, the closing gate.
The hope, the dreadful hope.
She waits.

Perhaps a postcard from her son,
so far away.
Maybe a letter asking her
to come for tea with friends.
She waits.

The longer that she leaves it there,
behind the door,
the more the pleasure she can take
from living in her dreams.
She waits.

Poetry - Day Seven Caught Up (for now)

Things That Should Be Hidden

Young girls' jiggly buttocks
that make men stop and stare,
exposed in stretched lycra.
'It's MY body.' Unaware.

The things that I am thinking
which can sometimes seem unkind.
I don't need people knowing
the dark secrets of my mind.

The details of your sex life
like how many times a day
or the number of orgasms
or the sort of games you play.

What you really think of me.
I truly do my best.
I can't help that I fail you, so
keep quiet when you're stressed.

The total sum of money
that I've spent on books this week,
but I've just finished studying
and I'm far too tired to speak.

Poetry - Day Six (losing count now!)

Fairy Tale Life

My external wolf

Outside I am the Grandma
of 'what a big mouth you've got' fame.
Disregard the teeth, worn out and wobbly.
Beware the mouth. That's cutting.
Outside I am the Grandma
but inside skips that little girl
with sugar, spice and cakes in the basket.
Beside me lopes my external wolf,
crossed eyes, big ears, arthritic knees.
We hobble down life's path, co-joined,
and, when we see you, we each silently
just lift one lip in Elvis-sneer
and carry on. The Grandma and her wolf.

Poetry - Day Five

Pyjamas


Saturday, black silk,
smoothly slithery against the skin,
coldly rubbing nipples erect,
sensuous thigh massage.
A river of promises
and memories. No sleep.

Sunday, pink snugglies.
Brushed cotton comfort
slightly stained with cocoa.
Warm, matching bedsocks
and a hockle bockle.
Dozing on the sofa.

Weekdays, stripy onesie
on a growly toddler,
bathnight damp and fragrant.
Tiger-taming bedtime story
then wrestle down to sleepy town,
your sleep a distant dream.

Poetry - Day Four

Picnic in the Sun

It should have been relaxing,
our picnic in the sun.
Instead it was a massacre,
'cos Granny brought her gun.

She tucked it in her knicker leg
where she could get at it with ease.
It helped that she wore granny pants
that ended at her knees.

She started at the traffic lights,
she wound the window down,
she fired two shots into the air
and cleared that end of town.

The car parking was easy too,
the news had quickly traveled
that today was Daly Picnic Day
and Granny had unraveled.

There were no flies on the sandwiches
'cos Granny shot one dead.
The others saw their splattered friend
and went elsewhere instead.

It ended as it always did
with cops at every corner.
They confiscated Granny's gun
and took her off to warn her.

Next year we'll search her, pat her down,
check all her nooks and crannies.
A sunny picnic's not the place
for pistol-packing grannies.