Giggles in the corner
conversations at the bar
stolen glance, not a chance
like a swipe, the curt reply
Merging in the shadows
innuendo from the first
inner sense as she discovers
a power beneath the skirt
Fashion loves to mingle
with the curious and the fresh
a chance to dance, his fingertips
ever eager, they impress
Watching as the glasses
line empty by the bar, stools
their lives turned upside down
time that you weren’t there
Angry hits the random,
his princess got away
mates all laugh while cramming
greasy chicken chips on trays
Sophie’s sweet, Tanya’ll tease
girls who know their top and tail
star in screens where all is free
and nothing as it seems
Impassioned by the motion
, paused pleasure by the bed
reliant on connections
wired around his head
Now sleepy dreams of Sophie
and the girl who slipped away
another night got wasted, Sunday
, just another day…
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Every intimate touch
each sensitive word
, loving intention
strangled at birth
the cold comfort
, an empty bed
room to wander, echoes
from hollowed corridors,
silent in her mind
fingertips , shunned by pleasure
drum quiet rhythms
without conscious thought
flies to the darkness
waiting in vain
for endless nights to wake
she is , and will be
a shadow , cruelly defined, true
but a vague truth
Debris from the years
cracks as floats away
watching small details
wallpaper
without emotion
drifting off , naked,
still, almost numb, aside
the faint drum , waiting
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Crisp.
Clean.
White,
like your mind.
no dark places
pillars to hide behind
no shades of grey
silver tongued
our lives on your lips
as you read, cool and calm
the latest North to South
Ours a street cafe
with the volume drowned
a squabble of traders
, hubbub of hats
from time to time
masking your face
just your eyes, always
talking to me,
beauty untouched
without the sound
Are we foreign again ?
a death measured
by how many Brits
were sadly on board
a careless coach
, going straight on a curve
or a famous face
in a glamorous pose
a leading light
lost to the world
sadly and suddenly
a miss missed
tho’ slipped for years
perhaps it’s a panda
last years news
, papa at last , doing, finally
what pandas should …
Whatever you trade,
whoever you hold,
wherever you look,
I’ll be there, my love, silent too
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Tabby got bored , clearly
but not soon enough
as the feathers attest
, left me with you
a sorry looking bird
no art in flight
no sheen or shine
or rare seen Kite
but boring, common ,
pigeon grey
looks up at me
all sideways askew
a strange look
a bob or two
towards a bush
then bob away,
maybe just
without a wing,
not a prayer to fly
So wobble a bit, try
to unload or confuse
the two , maybe three
fat black flies, alive, still
their patient hanging on
waiting for Nature’s curse to kick
…superior like a lord
over all I survey
until the words from Early
and Dementia , pretty soon
I’ll look as stupid
and dead , as you
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Just when you’ve squeezed
the last tiny bit back,
then sat on it, stood on it,
pleaded then kneed it, over-
-bursting the seams until belted and bound,
the time for no more, surely
a long push passed, then,
only then,
a vital cog, finally found
with odd shaped sides, the sterilising kit,
for the latest child
I sigh, with a hopeful look
Other child, yawns, resigned,
his job, he states, “is just to drive’
and then, “remember?”
as if I could forget.
A row to rue.
Eyes to the ceiling,
a silent protest, ( ignored )
as start the unwrap
of cheapest, his purchase,
stuck sticky brown tape
an ever reluctant prise, (for a woman)
frenetically freed, and finally
ex-mummified case, ready
to refill again.
After hands and knees,
a numbing derrière
we’re packed again,
minus heels and a skirt
thoughtfully lined
with bits of a shirt,
his, he won’t miss
bursting through holes,
here and there, thinking,
please don’t drop this,
or leave in a puddle,
my sunny vacation,
spent on a rack, or balcony, drying
And just for a second, was there
staring at endless shores, and perhaps
( close your ears, little one )
enjoying an Italian?
Not sat on a floor
in rain soaked here,
with a grumpy Greek.
If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!
If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!
Tammy was no twiglet And Patricia, pretty plump Rotund, Rebecca’s nickname Harsh, but true, she was a lump
Every Tuesday they would meet At Debbie’s Donuts, for a chat perhaps a Cappuccino With a healthy little snack
One day ‘two ton’ Terry Nearly true, but also cruel Chomping Debbie’s bargain butty Eyed this small but weighty crew
Announced himself, with a belch His humour knew no bounds handed each, a simple card “Magic Diets” could be found
‘Reduction by Seduction” Was the one that caught the eye As Terry quickly pointed out “’Twas one to one, that diet”
Patricia’s hand was first to raise The teeny tiny flaw Why, if magic diets worked so well, did Terry’s weight not fall?
“The point you raise is true of course None such has worked for me These plans are just for ladies Not a man, like I, you see?”
Tammy, brave, was first to try And followed Terry back A little gap between the terrace Almost hid the simple shack
They squeezed in both, just through the door And settled down to Tea Then later on the bed they sat His hand upon her knee,
His chant, eyes closed, “O God of Lard I ask, look on my lover And as we bounce upon this bed Please remove her blubber “
Eight hours had passed, and all was quiet Apart from Terry’s snores When Tammy woke, a skinny lass With sweat from every pore
From Terry’s doze, the question clear My dear, how can this be? “While you’re a little dove, my love I’ve gained a stone or three
The fat you lose, it seems to go on me, I know not why A kind of magic spell I sell That only femmes can buy”
Terry’s fame grew quickly As did his mighty frame His doctor said “you’ve got to stop” But still he loved again
At fifty stone, was trapped “in house “ Our curvy Casanova, Still the belles, would waddle in And trade to trot out thinner
As all good things, it had to end One day and sad to say The biggest heart had too much fun And gave out as he lay
Because deceased was twice most men His corpse became a curse No coffin fit, so custom built A lowly truck the hearse
They tried to dig the grave with men But as this grave got bigger ‘twas clear mere spades would take too long So had to fetch the digger
His funeral was a sad affair Though feast for flower sellers The mourners, girls all very slim beneath their black umbrellas
The weeping women watched and wailed As lowered down his chest No men could lift this mighty box So’d hired a crane instead
Halfway through, the rope was frayed Gave a sigh and snapped The coffin wedged, his feet stuck out The vicar screamed as trapped
The little digger saved the day On caterpillar tracks Put body back and chained the chest With cables now attached
As people tried to say their piece, Machines were much too loud And all they got was bits and bobs As winched him to the ground
The vicar said a few more words, His arm all in a sling And finally, a little late They got poor Terry in
The moral of the story, Eat! Drink lots and don’t be slimming, Not the digest does the damage Just don’t date with dieting women
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Paul Horne 