Crimson – Wears Death…

There you go loitering as per usual.
A decomposing jelly, spineless to the last.

Blobs of your gummy warm gelatine
amalgamate with the thick red
blood of your veins –
Crimson does absolutely nothing for you.
Your pallor, being way too insipid.

Autopsies – inquests no one will ever know
why you took your life tonight.
Someday gal, your death; will be the beginning of me.


Poppy September 2013 ~xx~

Practical Flowers

This winter I have something to do
Making tea for two – along with tending the flowers.

Who cares if it takes all day?
I have witnessed the malignant hands of idleness
extravagant in their torture –
between the mouthing of cold lonely air.

I like to sit perfectly still
hands wrapped around the steaming
vessel of warmth – swallowing slowly,
contentment of the moment seeping its way down.

Your tea goes cold just like it always does.
Taking the cups over to the sink, I do what
I normally do
tipping yours in a pan, to heat up for later.

Time to tend the flowers
those wretched moths got at the roses earlier this year.
So glad I chose artificial flowers – far more practical
in the long run.
Oh I know you would have much preferred fresh
but they die so quickly…!
So please forgive me when I say:
One death at a time, my love –
Is more than enough for anyone


Poppy September 2013 ~xx~

The Redundant R…

She stands listening –
Ironing faded cotton sheets;
whiff of scented spray starch.
Years of the mundane
each day the same as the last one.
Loving him; not at all anymore!

White noise from the telephone
left unanswered:
Let them think her not at home today.

Feet sway about the fake wool rug
whilst slurping her tea
from her best Paddington mug.
White with three sugars
purely for boosting her strength.

She decided to make today her Birthday
unofficial of course; bit like the Queen.
Everyone should have two days of rejoicing
their birth.
Why not – life’s a celebration.

She hears the letter drop to the floor –
suddenly a sharp intake of breath
as there it was; staring up at her.
Grabbing a slice
of Bakewell pie for added support
she scooped it up.

It had arrived
welcome ‘back’, it whispered to her
from deep within, the restraints of its envelope.
We are granting you absolute freedom –
As from today, we unceremoniously decree your liberty!

That long ago redundant R; had  been
granted Crown legal status –  to finally bury
its lonesome little head. .

Amen – to that – she said!

Poppy September 2013 ~xx~


She was mild
bordering on boring.
An uninteresting fudge like substance
festering in the mold.
She dreamed of being wild
like some dark alluring, chocolate bar,
oozing its riches of tempting sumptuous delight.
Maybe even a hot sultry mangrove swamp,
feasting daily on her prey.
Yet here, she was, hidden away
in some lonely back street cabbage patch.

She cooked, cleaned, and sowed.
The comings and goings of which nobody knew.
A flower of some unknown shade
void in all its fragrance.
Clinging firm to the wounds
of her yet; still to be worn, dress.

In her make-believe tropical oasis
she cultivates a refuge of reality.
Come morning noon or night
in the delicate sleep of poppies bright,
audacious in her colours grand,
gown of old: but worn anew.
She unveils her blushing core.

No more the washed-out she.
Single bore of long times old.
Here, in her scented garden of Eden –
she blooms, to finally rise, anew.

Poppy August 2013