Fling me please:

Tiny morsels of hope spreading,

Through her entire being,

And Psychics weren’t wrong,

Were they?

Two more weeks,

Only two more weeks of this misery!

And then she would meet him,

The man of her dreams,

And, oh, if only,

She had a dollar for,

Every time she’d believed them!

Where else was hope to come from?

If she could fling herself through time!

But alas, that was how her life had vanished thus far.

she wishes to turn back the hands of time to when he was hers - loving her, making love to her, writing poetry to her mona

 

That’s what men do …

“I give myself to you

In this moment,

No strings attached,

No promises to keep.”

So he kissed her,

With a hunger unsated for a decade.

Not because he loved her,

Not because she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

But because that’s what men do.

She’d missed that.

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A quandary, a quandary:

Hermits would rather write,

Far into the night,

And watch their words take flight.

And pickled men will lose the fight,

When they see that she won’t bite,

She wants their sex, But that’s not right!

Unless she slaves for them in the daylight,

Dragging up their brats,

With all of her might,

So stick to writing on this night!

she reads his words again before saying yes to herself and then falling to sleep

 

A Poetic Journey – Let us hurry to love people

It’s so lovely to go to a Poetry afternoon and have the entertainers recognise you and ask if you would like a photo for your blog. A Poetic Journey by Exit Theatre and John Wood 🙂
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Feeling a bit chuffed :)

I just googled my name (I do it when I get bored) and realised that my books can be bought in ten countries now around the world:

Sweden, U.K., Slovenia, Estonia, Ireland, Japan, Norway, Lithuania, Denmark, Malaysia.

It can also be borrowed from the Essex County Library in Canada 🙂

Oracle in the Mist_front cover_smallerblue seal cover2-page-001 (1)

Did you ever really love me?

What chance did I have?

. . . and there they go,

There goes all of the people,

Like soldiers in the snow.

 

Down they go,

Straight into hell,

Gone forever from me,

(And yet still within),

Stinking up the place with their smell.

 

Little scars inside of me,

That probably won’t ever heal,

And now I’ve got writer’s cramp,

A numbness, an ambivalence,

But am peaceful in the Still.

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Of ponies, saxaphones and pretty ballerinas:

“I want a pony, mummy!”

Six years to go,

Twelve down,

And six more years to go!

Mummy disappears into herself,

With pen and paper of course,

Invisible Mummy,

Uncaring Mummy,

Hard to get along with Mummy,

The circumstances of,

The girl’s conception,

Are blasted through the saxaphone,

As her Ballerina twirls in front of her,

. . . And she sees her,

Really sees her,

For the first time ever,

A product of him,

(the Monster),

And her,

Numb Mummy,

Running away Mummy,

Mummy, Mummy, please don’t go!

ballerina

 

The Gelatinous Toad:

Watch out for Mr Stingy,

You’ll not notice it at first,

But watch the smirk spread,

Across his face when,

You’re always going for your purse.

 

He always has excuses,

To not be able to pay,

No gifts, no flowers,

No words of love,

Ha, that means he won’t get laid!! 🙂

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