I don’t need my friends to come calling
banging on the door, bringing with them their platitudes
and childlike fairy-tales of happy ever after’s.

I enjoy my solitude – alone is me
I get along well, being by myself.
Does that make me sound ungrateful slightly the oddball
with my ladder, not altogether reaching normality’s floor?
Then to hell if it does – I can handle that, its people
who screw me up.

Sometimes I think I am a hologram lacking
of any bodily substance.
Therefore, I close my eyes
much preferring the world from behind this shuttered view
of which the solitude is so breathtakingly indescribable.

I know if I refuse to play their games, they will eventually leave.
Thankfully, I am not like them,
at least there is some sanity –

in my unending madness.


Daddies and Sweets

drizzling today – but at least it’s warm.
I sit, legs
dangling on the sandstone garden wall.
I am trying hard,
to make my final sweet
last, until tea time
yet I somehow
doubt it will.

a man in with Mama who I don’t recall
ever seeing before.
are sitting side by side eating strawberries
I really hope they
save some for me.
Their voices are low – but every now and
I can here Mama laugh.
She doesn’t laugh that
often – I guess
that’s how I notice it so, when she does.
I swallow my sweet, feeling annoyed with myself
for being so greedy.

I wish they would hurry up and finish whatever
it is, they’ve got to say.
Eventually I hear the sound of the
front door being
rattled open.
Sometimes in the really wet weather
the door sticks –
Mama hit it with a pick axe once, made
no difference other than it broke the handle.
For months afterwards we used a spoon
to turn the lock until finally an old friend
came to fix it –
‘free of charge’ Mama said!

side by side out they came  – he looked full of himself to me.
Mama acted  all surprised on seeing me.
Can’t think why – she had told me to sit
started making funny head gestures towards the house.
I jumped
down from the wall – but not before
the man  had
strolled  towards me.
I could smell
those strawberries on his thick beer laden breath.
He took some sweets from his pocket, holding them out to me.
nodded for me to accept – so I took them.
My fingers
soon expertly rummaging
in amongst the bright coloured wrappers
looking  for my favourite.
Some of Mamas words  got a
little lost as I unwrapped the sweets.
However, I think I heard
her say
‘Mary, say hello to your
new Daddy’.
I smiled – at least this one brings me sweets…

Poppy ~xx~



There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.

Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.

I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
uninviting doors.

No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!

You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her

brittle cold – buried deep as snow…


You are of two shadows, each discreet of the other
sitting alone for midnights blackest skies,
to come and block you from my view.
Allow me to decorate your grey,
placing purist calico thoughts, of scattered home effects:

Expected pauses – I can go with that
swallowed ideals –
the tundra of your mind, soaring
to their high hills, and hiding places.

I softly finger trace the outline of your life
stumbling where
pleated folds, splatter raindrops
on your life’s, convictions.
Slip to slide, your footsteps,
sown between the indemnities of my needs
and your leaving.

Undressed, we let the tinderbox ignite
hermetic fragrance swaying drunk; the
sea holds tight her unbridled ire.
She places her hands around your empty stare
permitting me to love you – just this once
with all of my copious; naked care.

Pops ~xx~ August 2014.


You bite
full mouthed, like a rattle snake in masquerade
fatalities numbers gathering, in the course of
your sobriety

Can you swallow the sound of the truth?
Or are you absorbed  in my words of respect.
I never aspired to wound you – think me not your
butcher-bird perched on high waiting to assail.
As for all who loiter in the realms of your retribution
let it stand, how roses black, dressed in shaded vale
did decompose as a child filled her time –
waiting to be your Daughter:

Whilst sanguine nasturtiums, did weaken to
recollections of distant grey – only to wake outside
the believing of my childhood, extracting nothing
beyond  the liberty of my mind…

Poppy May 2014 ~xx~


I like you – you said
over the smouldering ends of a non perfect day.
I’d marry you if you wore your doc martins
and I was the marrying kind.
However, I’m not, so we won’t
we’ll just rub along.
Be a love
pass me that last, chocolate éclair.

I think you are pretty – you said
removing your horned rimmed glasses.
Well – you might be, if not for
your hair – and your gormless blank stare.
Plus, I never do compliments –
they’re just so incredibly dumb!

I think you suit me – you said
stretching your languid limbs.
I’ve always thought
it such a sin – that you are dreadfully thin,
though nothing a good meal couldn’t solve.

I think you love me – you said
rising slowly from your eminent pose.

Yes, I expect I might – in the dead
of the night – with my faculties’
void of all sense.
However, I know we’re not meant – so
don’t take offense; just take your éclair
and go shove…


Poppy 22nd April 2014 ~xx~

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No Kissing…

She shed her glory
like a tree in autumn fall.
Painted ruby mouth – blushing
over painted sallow skin.
Was it for love – no – never.
A misconstrued secluded sin –
maybe,  but not  anymore.
She provided  they took,
let your own puritan thoughts
put to bed this ageless act.
It was hers to peddle;
though never knowingly under sold.
Always fixed by the price of the street
with her back firm against the wall.
The familiarity of urgency
sold– but always with no kissing.

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Poppy ~xx~

Beautiful Cuckoo…

They will liquidate your strength of mind
for a humble feast of trifling fortune cookies.
Trodden down those heals you wear
though little worn, for apparent show of pride.

Cuckoo in your life of average – you
strike the quarters – whether in or out.
A public box –
A secluded stage –
dance my precious minion;
contradict them all so pitilessly wrong.
For where, tell me, is it embalmed to
say, that beauty only – shall
arouse the tigers ardour; for the taste
of human flesh… –


Poppy December 2013