Being odd
They all exalt in normal
they do not like the weird,
they slander anybody
who's slightly out of gear.
They all berate the odd ball
that stands out from the crowd.
You've seen odd balls at parties
hung loose, all odd and loud.
The odd ball talks excitedly
about his odd ball ways
The things that other people fear
or find a trifle strange.
They say that he's not normal,
they snigger and they grin
but he'd rather be an odd ball
than normal, just like them.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Letting it all hang out!
They all exalt in normal
they do not like the weird,
they slander anybody
who's slightly out of gear.
They all berate the odd ball
that stands out from the crowd.
You've seen odd balls at parties
hung loose, all odd and loud.
The odd ball talks excitedly
about his odd ball ways
The things that other people fear
or find a trifle strange.
They say that he's not normal,
they snigger and they grin
but he'd rather be an odd ball
than normal, just like them.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The Frame
The frame held the ego splendidly,
with a little gold chintz around the edges.
It highlighted its excellence with flair.
Truly, I couldn't fault the fine brush work.
A splash of light here, shade there.
The ego was quite unabashed and fabulous,
it spoke, in its way, about the artist's life,
his death and all his earthly quests.
Of course the frame had a long face
and felt quite let down with all this adoration.
Like a bridesmaid at a wedding; second best.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Chemistry
He couldn't resist Claire,
they met upon the stairs,
her hair was brightest yellow,
her skin so soft and fair.
He couldn't resist Jane,
sweet Jane he'd longed to tame,
she was a sixth form ‘hottie'
and he loved Jane a ‘lottie'.
He couldn't resist Alex,
her bosom, so fantastic,
her eyes gave off that sparkle,
that he found so attractive.
He dreamed all day of loving,
it made him feel ecstatic
but the scientists would say
it's just chemicals reacting.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Valentines Day
St Valentines came
with no single rose
no declaration
of affection.
No bouquets,
no serenades
or scented letters,
large or small.
And when evening fell
I ate dinner for one
from a plastic pot,
cold.
The pudding was
vanilla ice,
no cake or cream
or chocolate slice
[...] Read more
poem by Ruth Walters
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Promises
I promised myself, in the morning to be good until the night
but my willpower, it was lacking and the cake was in my sight.
I promised myself in the evening, I'd abstain from typing texts
when lying on the sofa while he was looking vexed.
I promised myself to stop swearing but much to my disgust
I blurted out the naughty words when I was feeling rough.
I promised to keep my promises but all too soon I failed
so I'm promising never to promise, to promise myself again.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Blame
While I was in bed
someone stole my morning.
Me, I was still yawning
but now the thought is dawning
it must have been those
big boys from next door.
While I was at play
someone stole my day,
by golly, they will pay.
Now it's time for work
my day off has been took!
Don't think you're off the hook.
While I was in the bath
these naughty girls came calling.
Me, I was still soaking,
I tell you I'm not joking!
How did the time just go?
They took it don't you know.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Pick me
Oh my goodness gracious me!
I am an apple on a tree
I'm ripe and red and swinging free
all on a sunny Sunday.
Here I am just right for pickin'
and there you are all far away
dreaming of a fair young maiden
while I dangle and I sway.
Don't you hear me swaying gently?
Don't you smell my fine perfume?
Dare I call you, beg you pick me,
all on a sunny day in June.
Daffodils and honey suckle
Birdies singin' in the trees
I am but a little apple,
pretty apple in a tree.
poem by Ruth Walters
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A sign of the times
She knew from the start he was bad news.
There he was across that crowded room,
no roses, no manners;
a lazy croc' waiting for dinner.
She knew this! She always knew,
but still she lingered by the swamp.
Even his suit couldn't disguise the fact he was vile.
'Fancy a ‘Spritzer'? ' He'd a toothy smile.
She sipped her drink. His hand slipped round her waist.
'How's about it love' he whispered.
No style, no grace.
Well, it's a sign of the times with the human race.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The Right Word
The right word is so annoying,
it always arrives late,
then sits in my head singing,
'I'm what you should have said'
The right word is smug.
Its an 'up its own arse' kind of word,
an absurdly elusive word
that crows its conceited contempt.
The right word is a child,
it never obeys me,
never comes when its called
or when I demand it.
But just tonight, it turned up
right on time, kind of smug, kind of cool,
and made me smile, as I slid it
straight into my next line.
poem by Ruth Walters
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