Crash

Two sides

One chocka

One eerily vacant

Three lanes, the hard shoulder

No place for a pavement

At odds with each other

Permanent contraflow

Today one lies dead

And the other moves slow

At fifty below the supposed legal limit

Bumper to bumper

We curse each cruel minute

As our journey ticks by

As the miles elongate

A nuisance as opposed

To the cruel twist of fate

That occured travelling westbound

Early hours of the morn and

Cleared the carriageway

Til the following dawn.

We make our slow march

As we queue up to gawp at

The metal concertina

Then it’s gone from our thoughts

For a few, fleeting moments

We lament the poor soul

Then instantly move on

Get back to our goal

Put our foot down

Forget

Erase the entire, horrid scene

We’ll relive it, no doubt

On our home TV screens

Presently, we delete it

Take no heed or precautions

Continue to drive in a way we’re not ought to

Too fast and too close

There should be no surprise when

In just a few hours

This road

Claims a victim again

Jim

This is a personal poem written for my late father-in-law. I wasn’t sure whether to post it but Scott (my husband) said he would love the idea of being immortalised in poetry.

Jim

My father in law was one of a kind

A huge personality, interesting mind

Determined; unwielding; for years almost blind

One of a kind but mostly just kind

I wonder if, as a nipper he knew

he’d make such an impression upon me and you

He’d learn German words,  not just a few

and be canny at saving a penny or two

Stories about Jim, let’s be honest, there’s plenty

With his knack of not doing quite what he was meant to

Always bring a smile, that we can attest to

No more requests to Alexa to play 70s disco

Now our Jimmy’s up there sampling all the whiskies he pleases

Eating ethereal crackers with doorsteps of cheese, it’s

a fair bet he’s drinking the heavenly soup

with a Fibogel chaser to make sure he can poop

Now he rides the great cherry picker up in the sky

carrying his 2 by 4 and a small piece of ply

The thought of which brings a quiet tear to my eye

and a small smile of course – category wry

We’ve all said our goodbyes, shared some laughs, shed our tears

Lets all raise our glasses – whisky, wine or beers

A show without punch now we’ve laid him to rest

Cheers to you Jim Easton – simply the best!

Scratch card

It’s a holiday

No more flying economy

It’s a villa in the sun

It’s my resignation letter

The door flung open to something better

It’s always having fun

It’s the for sale sign outside this old house

It’s the keys to a country pile

It’s no more Ford fiesta

It’s not quite a private jet, but

It’s cruising down the lanes in style

It’s providing for my family

It’s helping out my mates

It’s eating from the silver spoon

and the poshest china plates

It’s adiós to humdrum

It’s sparing no expense

It’s never having to put things back

or look after the last few pence

It’s endless possibilities

It’s ‘take me to this place, driver’

Whilst it oozes promise in my hand

Once scratched…

it’s just the waste of a fiver

The yellow day

A yellow day

when all previous had been red

A door half open

awaiting a shove

Not knowing

if there would be another yellow day

the opportunity to take a gamble

and muster all my brave

On this determined and important yellow day

I pick at the fear sewn fast upon my sleeve

Loosening the stitches as I tiptoe cautiously

out into the blue

Step after uncertain step into

the glistening shallow depths I pad

Eyes darting all about me

At the age of seven

at a party

I half watched a film

from between the gaps in my fingers

Set in the seas

beside a popular beach

where a mammoth, toothy (plastic)

beast from the deep

introduced by a pulsing musical score

would pop up at intervals to feast

on oblivious holiday makers

enjoying the cool waters.

My friends all watched, enthralled

While I hid behind the sofa

Back in the now

I allow my self to float

My feet lifted from the sandy base

A sentry, scanning the flawless horizon

Alert

Prepared

Ready to get my fight on

Thanks to countless video clips

appearing daily in my Facebook feed

I have schooled myself in the art of surviving encounters with toothy beasts from the deep

I know that I definitely should not swim away

more likely to be confused for prey

So I’d position myself head on

and I’d use my arms to sway

those gaping jaws

angling the nose to pass right by

I’ll be it’s equal not it’s prey

Not here for consumption

Not today

Not any day

I stay like this a while

realise there is no threat

no teeth appear to snatch

and drag me to the gloomy depths

Reflect that the danger lived only in my mind

I float in these healing waters

and gradually unwind

On this amazing yellow day

I make peace with the whole ocean

not a morsel to be snacked on

I relax

enjoy the motion

The lift

of rolling wave

on glorious wave

A tiny bit less yellow

for all my coming days

Getting on a bit

I’ve got a moustache

If it were November

and I were of another gender

I could gain a few sponsors

I can’t see too well either

I simply cannot focus

Or read without donning

My expensive varifocals

I’ve got permanent aches

knees, back or hip

My hair is getting thinner

as my hormone levels dip

I just can’t hack the pace

My idea of staying up late

Involves a Netflix series

Some time just past eight

I’m no longer a spring chicken

Look at youngsters with such envy

Got a shocking short-term memory

If only they could send me

Back in time

to those years when I was young

I’d never once feel boredom

I’d be out there having fun

September

A cold house, all business, trousers, formal shirts

The setting summer sun draws in the cruel return to work

I set up the sad lamp to replace some of the rays

To repair the damage wrought by the shortening of our days

A shot at lifting mood in a world that’s turning dark

A mad-blood being stirred in the streets of every town

A restlessness, an anger after years of being held down

On socials we’re dividing, hurling abuse at one another

Picking out every difference , gender, wealth, colour

Name throwing – gammon, commie, loon, retard, bellend, clown

Are regularly sewn into every comment thread

Intolerance, misogyny, sometimes wishing people dead

Disharmony and discontent caused by algorhythms

A divided nation, disunited into schisms

Distorted truths and downright lies within the narrative we’re fed.

There are days I want to step away, go seek a little light

Few are those; I get sucked in and feel that I must fight

Perhaps if we all chose to make better use of our phones

To call instead of scroll, our communities would grow

Into supportive caring networks, with a clear sense of what is right.

September, the month of change, the start of a decline

I refuse to let you drag me down, I choose to start a climb

To the top of this mountain and I’m bringing you all with me

To share a loving vision of how this nation could and should be

Make your point if you have to, but BE FACTUAL AND POLITE.

Easter moods of a menopausal Hockey Mum

Light traffic on fast roads

Dazzling sunshine, a welcome fresh breeze

Touching the picture-perfect landscape

Fields, hills, brooks, trees

An Easter jaunt

For the non-religious

Worshipping sport

Not too sacrilegious

Living on nerves

I really ought not to

Racked up too many miles

And so much money gone through

So much of my life

Sat in the cold

Too invested in the outcome

If the cold, hard truth be told

Enabling a hobby

To be of too much import

It’s not life or death

It’s just my children’s sport

I can’t exactly pinpoint

When it stopped being fun

Yet I know the day’s approaching

When I’ll finally say I’m done

And I’ll mean it!

Mother

It’s impossible to put into words

the meaning of my mother

Where would I even start?

Words are so small

so insignificant

too easily ignored to merit the task

To demonstrate the importance of her

To explain the essentiality of life

guided by  the one who bore me,

raised me, formed me

into the shape

of a half-decent human being

Guiding me with an eternal love

fostered within the miracle of creation