A little hot gossip

"She brushed her lips by his
so gently for a thrill,
and when he didn't flinch
it spurred her on.

She wore a low cut dress
to show a glimpse of breast
and we saw a bead of sweat
run down his brow.

Then she lifted up her hem
to show her stocking top
and when his fever grew
she called him shocking! "

"Well you know she's just a cow!
She ignores the fellow now,
I saw her out with Fred
when we went shopping."

poem by Ruth Walters
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Full of excuses

I didn't telephone a.m.
as you'd be having breakfast then.

I didn't telephone at noon
for fear you might be lunching soon.

I didn't telephone p.m.
I thought you might be sleeping and

I didn't telephone at 8
for dinner in your house is late.

I didn't telephone at 9
for fear this may be T.V. time.

I didn't telephone today
as time just seemed to slip away.

No wonder that we never speak,
perhaps I'll try sometime next week?

poem by Ruth Walters
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Red Nails

She paints her nails red
slowly, methodically, with purpose.
I pretend to read my newspaper
watching her closely over the top of the pages.
Her features are refined;
no lines and big azure blue eyes.
Traffic rolls by outside and children play
relishing the sun in the middle of the day.
I pretend today is just an ordinary day
but in an hour or two I'll be on my way
and she, with painted nails
will walk the streets from whence she came.

poem by Ruth Walters
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When I am dead....

When I am dead,
six feet below
and rain softens the ground
I will scrape the earth away
with cold, stiff hands
and wave at passers by.

I will take pleasure in the torment,
laugh zanily and call to them.
My bones will rattle with delight
as they run and scream.
What mischief, what fun
I will have when I die.

I'll not let the living
forget me, no!
I'll prop myself up
to be a nuisance
and cackle and creek
to reap my revenge on life.

poem by Ruth Walters
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High Cholesterol

I've got high cholesterol,
my doctor diagnosed it.
According to the doctor
my bad fats overflowing.

I was a tad perplexed
and thought that I'd been hexed
'I'm on a low fat diet,
that's fruit and veg, ' I said.

'Ah', said he, 'that's ‘cause,
your mum and dad designed ya.
It's in the genes you know
but don't let science blind ya'

I took my jeans right off
and looked right down each leg.
Well I'm not dumb I tell ya,
now I wear skirts instead.

poem by Ruth Walters
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A lump of old metal

It was a lump of old metal,
a car with no heart
cocooning him, purring
through back lanes,
down dark, cold streets,
warming him through
and he felt safe inside,
so that when, in December,
the car 'died' his body
shook with tears,
bitter, unrestrained tears
and I ached, to see him like that
on our last ride, so sad.
My sweet little boy
with his shirt hanging out
and his eyes, red and swollen
for a lump of old metal
that was our chariot of gold.

poem by Ruth Walters
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The Brooklyn Bridge

The East River flows below it,
wistful, deep and wide
looking up at Brooklyn Bridge
that reaches side to side.

And in my mind I think about
each man that gave his life
to build this giant frame,
majestic in design.

I think of them in wonderment
as I walk its full length
and marvel at their bravery
and all their work has meant.

At night its lights bring magic
but magic really sits
inside the hearts of all the men
that built the Brooklyn Bridge

poem by Ruth Walters
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Identity theft

Slipping into your shoes
I rummaged through your litter
I found your name and postal code
and had a little titter.

Your credit card had almost dried.
Oh! No need to apologise,
the bank was eager to oblige,
and raised your credit to the skies.

Shredders are so popular,
they're going cheap at Curry's.
Go and buy one soon I say
you'll make it if you hurry.

I bought a TV there today
a laptop just for fun!
Pity, such a pity that
you couldn't come.

poem by Ruth Walters
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Death

Death whispered to me
warned me, informed me,
let me know I was mortal
and yet____

it seems, my life's a dream
and dreams, they come and go,
drift in and out,
morph into other realms.

Death touched me yesterday,
took you in its clutches,
whisked you away
to an afterworld

but your photo still smiles
your essence still glows
and I saw you in my dreams
so now I know,

[...] Read more

poem by Ruth Walters
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More on March

March, that in-between month,
like a woman turning hot and cold,
not wanting to commit.
March is a b.itch.

Can't say I'm impressed by March
but prefer it to February,
that non month, best ignored,
or gotten over with real quick.

March is a better month than that,
nearer to Spring
as evenings grow warm
and girls do their thing.

Kicking and screaming
I step back from a December dawn.
Time marches on
as old age beckons.
Damn it, I will not wrinkle.

poem by Ruth Walters
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