London nights
Fresh summer evenings, shop windows, fancy dresses,
theatres buzzing with crowds,
coffee aroma from cafe doorways.
It could be the middle of the day in London,
it's a city of magic, a city of the night
as the West End awakes.
Lovers walk hand in hand in brightly lit streets.
bars harbour young dudes bubbling
to find romance or just sex.
I slow the car to watch a crowd gather as they
spot a street performer do his thing
and then I speed away.
If you look into the shadows you'll see tramps,
working girls, wayward teens with knives
and empty eyes.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Post Box
Dear friends,
The post box holds our dreams,
our hopes, our ambitions, our worries,
It take messages to far off places,
pays bills, consoles loved ones
in foreign parts.
Once inside, that little envelope
cannot be withdrawn or cancelled,
it will fly off in the arms of the
Royal Mail to its destination,
quickly, efficiently.
Thousands like it,
little white envelopes,
little brown envelopes,
small and large and buff
envelopes
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Glass Slipper
She flounced into his private rooms
without a 'by your leave' to woo
and fluttering long eyelashes
had him by her side: News Flashes!
Hot young damsel woos the prince,
she with honeycombed plump lips
sweeter than most sugar candy
dressed in 'Tantalizing Pink'
Roll up, roll up read all about it,
hot young damsel and the Prince,
going out for a late supper.
It's the latest off the press.
They were spotted in a restaurant
small glass slipper in his hand
as he lent across the table
really, do I need expand?
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Wonky Spoon Cafe
She makes a decent apple pie
at the Wonky Spoon Cafe
where eggs are easy over
and chips all deep fat fried.
Full English breakfast every day,
the bacon is real good
but how she scowls is scary
and turns folk off their food.
She makes the cream turn sour
and customers all cringe
as they slurp their mugs of tea
and eat their mushy peas.
Her face can scare most patrons
but worse, far worse than this
her husbands manic chortles
can cause their bums to hiss.
So if you'd like a pasty,
don't try the Wonky Spoon
for though the food is passable
the atmosphere is cruel.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Expression
Back in the sixties we used to indulge
in letting our toddler play in the lounge.
When he did drawings over our walls
we gave him free reign, hey man it's all cool.
As he went on to pursue this art form
we both encouraged, we thought it top draw
After all, in due course it would all have to end
so we thought, as he went on enjoying this bent.
But when he was ten, he persisted to scrawl
over our armchairs, the tables and floors,
and on reaching sixteen, yes, all to our cost
he still persevered in his drawings - a lot.
Now he has grown, he lives on his own
and expresses himself in his own little home.
He paints and he writes on the ceilings and walls
he'll let the phone ring, he's not in to take calls.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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London
London, a silhouette of old and new buildings,
some, still with winding staircases,
dark dismal cellars and dusty attics.
Sky scrapers, office blocks,
chic cottages and town houses
in, tiny, back street lanes
where I seldom wander
The London Eye revolves in the sky line,
spying on us, ogling the City,
that old river Thames,
with its river boats, old ships,
odd ships and the Houses of Parliament,
offices, where we, the peasants
may only look through the glass.
As a child I truly believed
that one day, I'd go into every building,
curiosity my forte, but of course,
there are too many, mostly private,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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My Cupboard
Behind the Welsh Dresser,
fine china,
dinner plates
and an old vase
is a cupboard.
It is a place I store
dark secrets,
shame,
hidden love
and
old memories.
Its walls are shelved
where books
turn towards me
so as to hide their titles.
My jewels
are housed in
cardboard boxes
so as to hide
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A dolls eye view
Dolls sit among the cushions in her bedroom
as though they are all waiting for her.
Their porcelain faces in fixed smiles,
their eyes wide, cobalt blue
and their pretty dresses have lace collars.
Little tea cups, all in miniature are on saucers,
arranged on a small table.
There is a pot with yellow flowers,
it holds centre place and is surrounded
by plastic cakes and pastries.
On her bed is a huge rag doll,
it's flopped over and lies there helpless.
Her nightie is on the floor
covering her slippers but the toes peep out.
Soon she will return.
She will run into her bedroom, daintily,
go straight to the corner where I sit,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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All in the game
At 3 she'd practice curtseying,
in the garden, by the tree.
At 5 she'd dance so daintily
like a fairy, all carefree.
At 7 she'd sing loud and clear
and didn't care if people jeered.
At 12 she'd do the ‘cha cha cha '
and try to act like her mama.
At 14 she'd try on old clothes
she'd find in mama's fine wardrobe.
At 15 she'd wear nylon stockings
and prance about to be so shocking!
At 19 she'd buy high heeled shoes
and lipstick too for man appeal.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Seasons
She leant against an archway where roses fell like a waterfall.
Her delicate hands, her rosebud lips to make a young man blush.
Such is the Spring with its exhilarating essences of budding flowers,
trickling streams, birdsong to make the air zing.
Summer came and she toiled in the garden, digging out weeds,
trimming hedgerows as her skin glowed with colour.
The young man visited her everyday and was even more love struck.
Summer, a time of warmth, fulfilment and happy pleasures.
Autumn crept upon them and before they had a chance to see
love, so hot and lustful mellowed and as it died so did the leaves.
The leaves turned red and golden brown
and then came winter's frosty crown.
Winter frosts and winter snow, winter chills makes fingers glow.
The shortest days, the longest nights suddenly lit with Christmas lights.
Does a lover remember a lustful night
or the touch of her hand in the morning light?
poem by Ruth Walters
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