Nobody Spoke (for Karen)
Nobody spoke to Lucy,
nobody spoke at all,
ain't no joke
nobody spoke.
nobody spoke
for five long years
ain't no joke
nobody spoke.
Lucy withdrew
without a clue
why nobody spoke,
nobody spoke
for five long years,
nobody spoke
Ain't no joke
nobody spoke!
Lucy went mad
she went crazy!
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Picnic in the rain
The rain was pouring down,
we set out for the park,
children in the back seat,
mothers in the front.
Picnic baskets packed,
tasty treats for all
we took a big umbrella
we'd need before nightfall.
A bottle of red for Al',
a can of beer for Jan
some Pepsi for young Josie
and a flask of tea for Anne.
Our French students came with us
spitting out French words,
oh la la and non, non, non
was plainly what we heard.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Vote for the Hippy Party
Are you sitting in the shadow of doom,
the depths of despair the pit of anxiety?
Do you feel lost in the wake of the days to come
with the ballot box awaiting your cross.
Vote for the Hippy party, the party of hope
and embrace our manifesto, our vision for the U.K.
Make love, not war. We won't put fluoride in the water.
Forget your molars and think, free love.
Yes folks, we'll put contraception down your pipes.
Stem the tide of population overflow.
With free love you'll want to switch off facebook and
twitter and start to get up close and personal.
People will touch again instead of viewing each other
on web cams or watching reality TV
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Dead Folk Don't Talk
On the day she died they all came,
though I was shocked they recalled her name
but they drank our booze and ate our cake
yeah they ate our cake alright.
Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.
Nobody came and nobody called
when she was ill and dying.
Nobody seemed to care at all
and now they're all here crying.
Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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An Old Chiming Clock
There's a clock on the shelf in the old lady's house
and I have a bad feeling inside,
for it ticks and tocks and it chimes every hour
and I fear it marks time till she dies.
She sits all day long by the fire in a shawl,
knitting in rhythm to its beat.
and she seems quite oblivious to time passing by
as she stops now and then to make tea.
It's dark in her house and the furniture is old
the curtains are brown where they've aged.
I'd really like to stay but it's getting very cold
and the clock on the shelf says it's late.
She rocks in her chair, by the fire, most days,
knitting and watching the TV
Sometimes she will hum a funny little song,
then she'll talk to the cat or to me.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Morning Streets
Muddied pools soak shoes
on grey pavements
as men in suits walk by
and children's voices squeak.
I sit inside a metal box,
a small car (Eco friendly)
reliving last night's sexy treats
a saucy smile on my lips.
Mothers run their kids to school,
workmen whistle, loud and rude
but all I muster is
a sleepy stare.
Traffic roars as rain cascades,
fashion trends float by,
as mindless plebs dropp litter
on the streets.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Crystal Was The Night
The evening air was crisp and clear
we walked the streets, we had no fear.
We were so small and full of cheer
and Christmas soon was coming.
With laughter and with glee, we pranced
glancing at the holly.
Looking at the pretty lights
and feeling oh so jolly.
We knocked on every door we could
sang carols sweet as honey,
Merry Xmas, Silent Night
collecting lots of money!
Coins jangled in our pockets,
we skipped along the streets.
We didn't notice the cold air
we'd wings upon our feet.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Now I Am Old
Seems I have grown old and my belly pops out
although I'm strangely at ease
and find comfort in its wobbling.
Seems I've grown old and my body aches
in places that I never knew
and still I take pleasure in the aching.
To be this age and moan is what I fancy
and I moan a lot, to annoy my children
and my grandchildren and some.
What good is it to be old and silent,
to sit in a chair, rocking to and fro
without a gripe or a fart or both!
No, I like to let the world know I'm here,
and after all these years of staying quiet,
to argue my point and snarl a little.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Once upon a summer's day......
Sweet voices, sound like little bells
as children frolic on the dells
picking yellow buttercups
and four leaf clovers for good luck.
With chubby, tiny hands they forage,
in the grassy lush green woods
ferreting out treasures
within the sunlit lands.
A melody of summer sounds
hums peacefully and sweet.
Blackberries and fruits are plenty
for a happy tea time treat.
Dogs are romping in the meadows,
fetching sticks and licking hands
giving such delightful pleasures
now, here comes the ice cream van.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Village
The village once had a tiny railway station at one end
and a little pub where old men would drink.
No food was served, no canned lager
only good old fashioned ale.
Buses came each hour, never sooner
and the postman would pop by for a cup of tea.
I'd run errands for old ladies
and bring them flowers I'd picked from the fields.
Nowadays there are high rise flats replacing cottages,
a pub on every corner and supermarkets.
Boys walk round in gangs and hoods
and old ladies stay inside.
They shiver by cold radiators, too afraid of bills,
that used to be log fires and no one pops by.
They say they're too busy with their own lives,
their own problems.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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