Seduced
I passed it in Selfridges,
sauntered up to it,
kind of cool, kind of casual,
took two steps towards the label,
£300 was a high price to pay
and though it smelled heavenly,
made me feel rich, feel special
I couldn't bring myself to
well, not that day in that way,
on the spare of a moment,
without preparation
or forethought or time…..
So I walked away
but right up ‘til today
I've never forgotten
its soft, soft leather,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A Little Bump & Grind
He bumps and grinds persistently,
his head begins to thump.
He hopes that he can stem the pain
but, poor man, he can't refrain.
She mentally writes shopping lists
and hopes that he will soon desist
but bump and grind his need persists
although he knows he'll pay for this.
And when at last he's satisfied,
in tact his fragile manly pride
he leans upon his comfy bed,
with hand to head, a little white.
His blood soars through capillaries
quite like a vice, no pleasantries.
What a price to pay, thinks she
and makes a soothing cup of tea.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Aging
Isn't it funny,
isn't it strange,
what happens to people
as they all age.
For myself I have noticed
that on the inside
my character's better
and so is my mind.
I love to read books,
learn new ideas.
I've taken up hobbies
in my late years.
But my eyesight is failing,
my hearing is weak,
which is sad as it's now
that my need of them's peaked.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Modern Correspondence
They instant message, swiftly, easily, taking away the tension,
those days we waited for the sound of the post are over.
Tumbling envelopes, letters drifting to the floor
are no more unless junk mail counts.
Now they have laptops, iPods, mobile phones,
click and touch and we meet within the void
in cyber space, out there,
a clinically cold compartment.
You can email to end a relationship, if you choose
without a tear, or fear of retaliation,
not even an intake of breath, or a sorry word,
just a strangers voice saying 'you've got mail'
poem by Ruth Walters
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The big question
Sex is this wondrous, marvellous thing
that the young discover
and bring home to mother
Mother, of course, only ever indulged
that night that the light bulb
blew up in the lounge.
She never enjoyed anything quite so rude,
she just thought of England
or made us beef stew.
Sex is reserved for the young, so it seems,
their mothers don't do it
it's far too obscene.
What about fathers, perhaps, do you think?
Do fathers all do it?
Ask mum in a tick!
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Beneath the plaster
Beneath the plaster
that covers
the cracks in the walls
there is a sickness.
Another side to laughter,
fancy dresses,
and dinner suits.
Superficially
there is order,
grandeur,
but beneath,
deceit and lies.
The priest who
likes small boys,
The business man
who makes his wealth
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Wedding dress
The wedding dress had a royal elegance,
it beamed next to the morning suit,
shone with pride in the afternoon sun,
while the morning suit felt unsteady,
a little light headed and dizzy
at the sight of this magnificent robe.
Other suits and dresses
were dumb struck too, in its presence.
The little black number sulked,
the lounge suit sniggered
but the wedding dress just flowed across the room.
The shrug, of course, took the whole thing casually
as shrugs are prone to do, all nonchalant,
and je ne sais quoi,
as were the bride and groom.
poem by Ruth Walters
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By The Sea
See those two sitting together
under a cloudy sky.
Gently holding hands,
watching passers by.
The ocean seems to beckon
with frothy waves and surf
and the next tide coming in
may surely be their last.
Silently sitting together
under a rainy sky.
Eating chips, watching ships
comfortable in their old togs.
Having a choccy ice cream,
finishing sentences off.
Always a nod or a smile,
they never seem to be cross.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Golden Days
Honeyed baby kisses,
sweet warm baby breath,
chuckle bunny murmurs,
little frilly dress.
Roses in the garden,
Daddy mows the lawn
Baby's feeling sleepy,
we all watch her yawn.
Summer sun is shining,
holidays ahead.
Candyfloss and ice cream
running through my head.
Mother's in the kitchen
baking cakes for tea.
Chocolate cake for you,
Fresh cream scones for me.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A leggy woman
I'm black and I'm scary
I'm fast and I'm hairy,
my legs are all skinny,
my body is fat.
Most women hate me
their men folk all chase me
as then underfoot
they make me go crack!
If I take a husband
I'll have lots of babies
and then when he dies
I'll gobble him all up.
Well I'm not sentimental
my head rules my heart
and I'd rather be single
than hungry by far!
I'm a spider lets face it
and though I could lace it
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poem by Ruth Walters
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