Thought police
She plots to swindle
outwit and harm
the bank that withdrew
her overdraft.
She smashes the car
that ‘cut her up'
while she drinks tea
from a china cup.
She deeply bites
her tormentor's flesh,
letting his blood
trickle down her dress.
Her skin so flushed
with satisfaction,
her eyelids flicker,
she stirs a fraction.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Catastrophe
I may never write again,
in this wordless void
I feel helpless, hopeless,
discombobulated,
a stressed out mess.
Thoughts evaporate
into clouds of mist
high above my head.
I feel numb, dumb
and distressed.
Hot tears rain down
upon an empty page.
This is disastrous,
a bloody catastrophe,
I rage.
My fingers type
as the keyboard wobbles
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Gossipy Women
I hear them whisper
their gossip
and schemes,
half thought out
plans,
half truths and mean.
They cackle
round tea pots
eat biscuits and soon,
brew up some trouble
stirring
large spoons.
They've fanciful thoughts,
conjecture,
fact free,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Unconditional Love
Come walk with me a while,
cheer up let's see you smile.
I love the way your eyes light up
the way they always do,
the way your sweet expression
says you love me too.
Please don't look so miserable,
please don't look so sad.
No matter what the problem is
it cannot be that bad,
for I'm the one who loves you
whatever you may do.
Whatever woes this life may bring
I'll never forsake you
for I'm the one to turn to
when the sun no longer shines
I'm the one who gave you life
sweet angel child of mine.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Pea Soup
In my usual morning pea soup mist, rubbing my sleepy eyes,
I saw what I thought was a stooped old man slowly walking by.
My dreamy world cleared a bit when I realised he was bleeding
and the stoop of his back made me stop to think
just why his life had come to this.
He wheeled a shopping trolley but he wasn't near a shop.
He seemed to walk with purpose but I knew that he was lost.
Nobody seemed to notice, nobody seemed to care.
Most of them still in a pea soup mist going about their affairs.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Alien Objects Of The Second Kind
He peered into her baby blues having drunk 3 glasses of dodgy plonk
and a cascade of colours and light appeared
into his world of darkness and grey.
Her angelic features flickered in and out of focus
as his tongue traveled down a slippery slope to her tonsils
and his hands groped with the front of her blouse.
Then, within all this exquisite excitement, his trousers split.
Colours still exuded from her eyes as she leaned over him,
his head dizzy, his eyes on two enormous orbs that fell from the sky.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Trespassing
Who's there?
walking among my memories
tripping over cells of humour
falling upon old war wounds.
Who's there?
Mind where you tread old thing,
these are my nerve endings,
my memories of past events.
Shoes off,
when you step inside my brain,
reading my verses, my emotions.
This is my property, be warned.
Don't squash
the frontal lobe, old thing,
I may look passive but I bite!
Be gentle on my mind.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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February
February,
a short, dull month
always over
before its begun.
It is the middle child,
mostly ignored,
never spoilt
or fussed over
or the ghost train
we see
from the platform
where we wait.
It chugs through
real slow
but nonetheless
we miss its name.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Prissy
There was a prissy missy
with morals, oh so silly
who tripped upon a lily
and fell into a pond.
Not wishing to be spotted,
looking wet and horrid
she never screamed or hollered
for help to come along.
So there, the prissy missy
bedraggled and distressed
did die beneath the water
in her fine new dress.
And as the mere did take her
she'd solace in the thought
that not a soul did see
her bedraggled and distraught.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A plot
He will never leave me
I've put paid to that,
I know I'll not be lonely
in my London flat.
I've hidden his dentures
and his right shoe.
I've thrown his new
hearing aid down the loo.
I've buried his walking stick
and his false leg,
I've secreted right under
my old double bed
I've given his glasses
to Oxfam,
I'm using his wig
as a mop!
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poem by Ruth Walters
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