Paint
Don't paint me red,
Red is for bold women that use cheap scent
Don't paint me blue
Blue is for sadness and regret
Don't paint me green
Green is for envy and not to be seen
Don't paint me black
black is for the night and I love the light
Don't paint me white
White is for virgins and me, I love a flirtin'
Don't paint me orange
Orange is vile and I have some style
Don't paint me brown or grey or cream
these colours are boring and really not me.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Teardrops
I saw a young man crying at the bus stop
and stopped to lend a shoulder for his pain.
He tried to give me reasons for his sorrow
but I said that there was no need to explain.
A tear reflects our lives just like the sunshine,
within it lies our flavour and our worth
Water holds the magic of renewal
and saltiness a taste for life on earth.
Water brings forth life for every creature,
without salt our food would taste too weak.
If someone sheds a teardropp please don't waste it
just remember to bless the one who weeps.
poem by Ruth Walters
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A Buriel
Softly, he goes to his grave
as the big black Mercedes rolls on
and men in wigs and gowns
condemn him.
His hair, glistens, white,
in the sunlight
as they lower him in
but not one cries.
The earth spits dust
at the dark blue, moody sky
and black crows
hover, squawking.
There is no one left,
only me, with my tears dry
as salt flakes
that burn my cheeks.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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For my children.
You are like the autumn, full of colour,
and your many different colours let you glow.
You have so many parts that go to make you,
and a stream of strengths that lift you when you're low.
As children of the earth, you're independent,
but if you hurt it's me you come to first.
How I long to keep you close beside me
but I cannot for your spirits would be crushed.
Save a thought for me when you are flying
and remember that I need you too, so much.
Trust that you will hold my love forever
even when my bones have turned to dust.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Her Poetry
Her soft, warm voice soothed me
at 4 years old, as she sat knitting,
reading out loud the poetry
I so loved to hear.
Her agile fingers clicking needles,
her eyes darting from page to pattern,
reading Wordsworth or Keats,
softly with feeling.
At 4 years old she was my world,
my goddess and I was the mischief
who searched for the stitches she ‘dropped'
on our living room floor.
Only in dreams do I hear her voice now,
only in dreams do the words drift over me
and the woollens she'd knit
still sit behind the wardrobe door.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Playing with cards
The Joker was wild,
uninhibited and out of control.
He hit the deck, out did the Queen of Hearts
and all her tribe
confusing her husband the King
and kicked the Ace into touch.
The King of Spades saw him coming,
rounded up the troops, the Jack and
all the men from 2 to 10,
leaving the Ace until last
in case of something.
The Joker just smiled,
hitched up with the Queen of Clubs,
went along for the ride
to find the Diamonds and then,
threw all the cards on the table,
leading the whole pack awry
until the last man was trumped.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Sea Monster
Touched by the monster's hand,
the coastline quivered and shook,
while it's people trembled and ran.
Some say it was a monster,
others speak of the Tsunami
but both spell destruction.
Maybe it meant to play,
didn't know its own strength
couldn't control itself.
Nonetheless it touched us,
held us in its grasp
and rolled us over, crushed.
Nothing will ever be the same
and yet the earth rumbles on
while our hearts lie broken on the shore.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Temptation
Lick me said the ice cream,
swallow me right down.
I'm dying to delight your tongue
and make you nice and round.
Eat me said the cherry pies,
the big meringue, the choccy heart.
Don't ignore us cream cakes
or mince pies, or treacle tarts.
You know I'm giving you the eye
said apple pie, yes apple pie.
It hears my calls and sees my thighs
that temptress with a taste divine.
Oh I am lost all to my cost my
my waist expanding as I toss
which itsy bitsy treat to eat,
make me obese, oh help me please.
I'm on my knees, I need food police
poem by Ruth Walters
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A Companionable Love Or 'Working It Out
The difference between them was palpable,
kind of off key like a strange smell,
they didn't quite gel.
She'd go her way, smooth and easy,
thoughtful and kind, straight,
and trusting.
He was a hard, edgy man, private, not shy,
with a sharp tongue __tough,
so you see the situation.
She tried to wring his neck once,
when they'd had a fight,
you'd never believe it!
Now they're this old couple,
timeless, mild, like peas in a pod
You'd never have guessed their past
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Telling it straight.
He said he liked a clever woman
not too fat and not too slim.
She must be smart and have big bosoms,
never swear or ‘back chat' him.
He said she'd have to mind her manners,
always dress to please and then,
he told her she should never nag him,
for he couldn't stand the din.
She listened closely as he spoke
of all his dreams and all his fads,
and as she let him natter on
she sat quiet on her hands.
Then when he had finally finished
and she found her self esteem
she told him not to call or phone her
for she didn't much like him.
poem by Ruth Walters
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