Gossip
Shhh, come here
I want to tell you something.
It's about me, yes
it's really bad!
I can't look at myself
in the mirror, I'm guilt ridden.
The person I was has gone
and a stranger looks back.
I've the same face
same eyes, same voice
but on the inside, I've changed,
been messed up.
My mother would turn in her grave,
if she knew, I'm ashamed!
I've been bad, really bad
and now I've told you.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Lemon Cake
The radio plays
Sunny afternoon, it's The Kinks
She's in the kitchen, cooking.
All chaos reigns,
flour, butter, mixing bowls
her, trying to make lemon cake.
She sings loudly
as chefs do in restaurants,
cafes and bakery shops.
It's a lemon cake
like her ma' used to bake
She sings loudly
and the radio's blares,
the telephone rings
and the dog barks.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Prompt Action
I spotted her walking along the high street,
small hips, cute bum, slim, shapely legs.
I took a picture in my head,
wished that I could mail it to her
because moments like this
need prompt action,
this moment, her moment.
I could see she felt good,
it was the wiggle and her grin,
kind of smug and why not
she seemed to revel in her youth,
her energy, her strength
and tomorrow it might be gone,
over, finished, done with.
Tomorrow she may never feel the same.
Such is the short lived, fizz, buzz, burst
of that feeling you get when you know.......
you're looking good kid!
poem by Ruth Walters
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Gloss Paint
Beneath the gloss paint
that covers
the cracks in the walls
there is a sickness.
Another side to laughter,
fancy dresses,
and dinner suits
and gaiety.
Superficially there is order,
manners, grandeur
but underneath,
deceit and lies.
The priest who likes small boys,
the business man
who made his wealth
from whore houses.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A shady wine bar in Hackney
He was obviously not a la carte,
a ready meal, waiting for the tall blonde to gobble him up.
He was 'today's special' with a free cappuccino.
He sauntered over, wafting of eau de toilette,
and giving her that 'get a load of me' look, in a sumptuous way
while displaying his je ne c'est quoi.
His meat and two veg looked a bit greasy
and his plum tart was askew and rather tired
but she was desperate for it and made an attempt at the menu.
Well, what's a blonde to do when she hasn't ‘eaten' for days
and her waist band is so loose,
her strides are just about to fall to her ankles.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Afraid To Love
So seldom does she think of love
and seldom does she want to.
It isn't that she's cold or bad,
it's that she cannot hold you.
If she were to allow herself
to hunger for your kiss,
her heart would be like jelly
and many beats would miss.
So seldom she allows herself
this pleasure and this pain
for she would surely die for love
and cannot take the strain.
If you would promise faithfully
to be her true, true friend.
To comfort her and cherish her
and be there at her end.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Frustration
Frustration sits on the top of the wardrobe
blinking at me, ears twitching,
tail up.
Frustration follows my every move with her eyes,
green as emeralds, alluring
but aloof.
Frustration is my black cat, purring,
knowing that I can't reach her,
arching her back.
I make a grab for her when I can
but she leaves me breathless
gritting my teeth.
She always has the upper hand,
always rules the roost,
my cat.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Just dreaming.....
The string unsealed itself,
the little stick-on flower fell.
The paper unwrapped around the box
that hung open now…..
The shop keeper's hand fell loose
and money slipped from hers to mine
as she retrieved the gift
I'd bought.
I reversed, drifting, floating
all the way down the street
along with all the other
plebs that night.
My house lights came on
as I backed into the hallway
and my make up slid off
as I regurgitated tea
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Last Train
She was waiting for the last train,
under the lamp light.
The rain drizzled
and the lamp made shadows
on a damp grey wall and as it did
ghostly figures loomed,
spookily, highlighting
the loneliness of the night.
Passing the time, she read posters
‘drink this beer, buy that car,
holiday in Spain.
She shivered, wet, tired,
no umbrella, wearing a
thin plastic Mac.
As her train pulled away,
she snuggled up inside a carriage.
Looking out of its window,
there, against the damp wall
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Caves
It was a cold morning for Mars
and he couldn't get through to Venus
who was in the kitchen
loading the dishwasher.
He'd retreated into his cave,
put her in an appropriate box
and was chewing over the
football results of yesterday.
East Ham nil, Redbridge 1
Chelsea 2, Watford 1
She came in, just then
to collect empty mugs.
Just walked into his cave
while he was taking time out.
No by your leave or
manners.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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