Cakes, Boots and Merry-go-rounds

Violet's art cakes were fake, some say
but Violet's boots were a hoot!
She'd bought them down in Carnaby Street
and they came right up to her knees!

Now what in the heck d'ya suspect
they came right up to her knees.
She wore them into town she did
she wore them to go into town

and when she got there
there was a fair and the
merry-go-round went round and round
the merry-go-round went round.

Violet was an artiste, a very merry artiste
and when she got merry on her daddy's sherry
the cakes she made were a feast they were
the cakes she made were a feast!

poem by Ruth Walters
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A cold bed

That feeling of cold insecurity
now slept on, feels even more sharp
in the morning's light.

She holds her hand to her head,
her eyes deep and dark, worried.
Her face serious.

The sheets are her only protection
from a hostile world and she delays
getting up.

She ponders, worries and frets,
but cannot put a stopper in her troubles,
they're too large

The sound of an opening letterbox
is like nails across a blackboard
or the squeak of chalk

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poem by Ruth Walters
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I should have known.......

You weren't my type,
to begin with,
well, until I got to know you
and even then I wouldn't have,
couldn't have
but, well I thought maybe
but then again maybe not
and even though we didn't
and we never would
there's still a place in my heart
that misses you, needs you,
your face, your expressions,
your naughtiness, your humour,
your ways, your voice.
You always had a sadness,
a look about you
that said you were,
kind of, maybe,
vulnerable
but I should have known

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poem by Ruth Walters
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October

Golden leaves decay on wet pavements,
trodden in by heavy footed, men
as they travel to work each day in the City.

Parks are covered in red and gold,
the jewels of the Autumn but we are strong
and rush on by.

Memories of warm vacations flit
through my head as I hum summer melodies,
lost in my thoughts.

The rain soaks my hair, drenches me
as I remember past Octobers
those pale blue skies on crisp, chilly mornings.

October's leaves are our flowers now,
their beauty, natures way of colouring dull times
until the ground is blanketed by snow in Mid Winter.

poem by Ruth Walters
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Weeds and Buttercups

It was overgrown, full of weeds and Buttercups,
like a neglected old woman, time had taken its toll.
I walked along its verges, avoiding stinging nettles,
my toes sunk into wet grass where worms heads turned.
A huge Buddleia leaned on a dirty wall, aloof,
like silence when silence scorns.

Old cans of pop, no bubble, no fizz
lay discarded amongst the brambles beside a child's ball.
There was the fork, the spade, an old rake
ignoring each other, never used, going rusty,
but as I looked up, I saw the Magnolia, a queen, of queens
rising, majestically, above it all.

poem by Ruth Walters
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New Bag

It moulded to my shoulder
comfortable, but worn
a little ragged really,
but a friend.

I would stuff it with spare knickers,
tissues, lipstick too,
some pain killers, in case
and a small picture of you.

There was sticky tape and tweezers,
cleansing cream for face
and just in case my breath smelled foul
a toothbrush and toothpaste.

So what was I to do, or say
I swallowed hard and sighed
when you sang Happy birthday,
it was so hard not to cry

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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Framing Shop

I walked into the framing shop
to browse some pictures idly
and suddenly I saw you there
whispering come buy me.

Lying in a little boat,
so quietly and woebegone
there you were, my lady fair,
drifting down to Camelot.

My mother used to read to me
about the mirror and the curse
and I remember every word
of every single, tragic verse.

I have no mirror or a curse,
no handsome knight to love
and yet my sweet and gentle maid
I mirror you in many ways.

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poem by Ruth Walters
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What Is It About The Night

What is it about the night
that makes the youth play,
they make hay in the moonshine,
entwine and mingle if they're single
booze and groove an' sway to jingles.

What is it about the night
that makes their eyes shine,
makes them drink wine,
makes their hearts dance,
makes them chill to the beat.

What is it about the night
that fills my frame with fear,
makes me shed salt tears,
gives me shivers, quivers,
leaves me low and cold.

I am a creature of the day,
morning dew and sunlight,

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poem by Ruth Walters
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Out of this world

I flew to you
from the deepest
point in the Universe,

through galaxies, dark suns,
saw six moons rise
on the Planet of Confession

sailed through Nebulas
breathed their gases,
rode on the back of Comets.

I saw the Diamond Planet,
escaped black holes,
and scorching Suns

landed on your world,
fought off commuters
on the underground.

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poem by Ruth Walters
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A Recipe

I found the best joint of beef, put him on ice,
just until I was hungry,
warmed the pot with a little spice...nice,
I do like some spice
and then, put the oven on to heat.
Took the big, fresh man out of the cooler
let him simmer for about a month
while I teased, prodded and skewered
with my wit and charms,
to see if he were done, yum, yum
Then when he was very hot and tender,
cooked right through to the bone,
I served him up with all the trimmings.
He looked so juicy sitting by the fireplace
I just couldn't help myself,
I gorged on his flesh until he was all gone.

poem by Ruth Walters
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