Forgotten Church
Here stands the church
suddenly illuminated but usually ignored.
It's tucked away in the corner of the market place.
I see the spire, imagine the pews
look up at its stained glass windows
and hear the choir boys.
I relish the sound of church bells,
they calm me and the emptiness
of the market place on Sundays.
The trader's stands are packed away,
leaving bits of litter floating along
in the sunshine.
Here are the cobbles
where heels break from shoes
and women wobble.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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And The Bus Took Us Home
I saw him in the distance,
he looked so pale and old.
Of late the skin had thinned
and his eyes were not so bold.
I saw him in the distance,
and raced to catch him up
but I was far too slow
and soon ran out of puff.
He stopped just at the bus stop,
looking tired and frail.
Breathless I caught up with him
and took his arm with care.
'Hello dad', I spluttered
and kissed him on the cheek.
His skin felt paper thin,
and soft beneath my lips.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Naturist or A Neighbour
There he goes again;
he's dancing in the garden!
His arms go up in gestures to the trees.
The birds all chirp and twitter,
the cat's fur stands on end
to spy his bits
all blowing in the breeze!
There he goes again,
he's in the altogether!
He frolics and
his buttock cheeks do gleam!
The neighbours are agog
as he sits astride a log,
their noses twitch
to view the funny scene.
There he goes again!
Bizarre but very merry!
He doesn't give a damn
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Getting up
Bleep goes the alarm and I am frightened by its nagging,
for it's really very early and the birds are still asleep
but as daylight trickles in I know they'll soon be cheeping,
and my heart will soon be booming as out of bed I leap.
All I want to do is snore, getting up is such a bore
and this bed is oh so snug but they're laying down the law.
I'm supposed to take a trip and my kids will be real sore,
for I'm still horizontal, a position I adore.
Now the telephone is ringing, it's an awful sound
and the mewing at the door from my cat is really loud.
I just cannot move a limb for my willpower is down
I need something to excite me and then I'll start to rouse.
Now dreams of bacon sizzling, mouth is dribbling there's no doubt
and it's reason to get up, do some cooking and be out!
poem by Ruth Walters
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Images
I have an image in my head,
It's of my mother
in an old pinny,
her hard, broad hands
that were soft and plump on the palm,
with cigarette yellow
at the fingertips.
I have this image in my head
It's of her with a washing board,
sighing, tired
and me, small and tubby,
taking mini steps
towards the wringer,
'can I do it mummy, can I do it'
I have this image in my head
of her face, all lit up,
her excitement
at her first ‘twin tub'
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Quasimodo
The taxi slowed at the lights
and I spotted her.
Our paths crossed again,
for just a short time.
For warmth,
she'd wrap up in newspaper,
shuffling by,
rummaging through bins.
If you spoke to her,
she'd scurry off,
in short, stilted steps,
my little Quasimodo.
All bent she'd
glance, sideways,
scared, but defiant,
swearing at you, cursing
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Collective
They're all like minded,
they're in the group,
safely, together,
they dress the same,
follow the same rules,
the same beliefs,
never wavering,
never thinking
outside the box,
or ‘helicoptering in'
to look at the question
from a different perspective.
They're locked in
by each other
not rocking the boat
sticking to their rules,
together, in numbers
and I look at them
and wonder.
what would happen
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Mr Puppet Man
Mr Puppet man lived in a van,
a very, very dirty van
where he drank wine
and he did dope, ol' Mr Puppet man
He liked a bit of a smoke he did
he liked a bit of a smoke
and he blew and blew and he blew
until he was cyanosed.
Mr Puppet man was sad
for all that he had was very bad
and the bad was getting him down, it was
and so he'd frown and frown.
Mr Puppet man, he died
with nobody there, I tell no lies
and no one to pull his chords of life
and bring him back from death
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Leaving
Tears on flushed cheeks,
stomping on the floor!
Her little hands are clenched as fists
her eyes are looking sore.
Mother's making sandwiches,
adds delicious filling
little blobs of salad cream,
these are really winning.
"So your going, " mother says,
"Have you any money?
I've made a lovely lunch
there's cake with fruit and honey"
Little girl is silent
takes the sandwiches
then goes out the front way,
still with rolling tears.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A small grey box
It was a small, grey box,
seldom noticed,
with a little silver key.
There was glitter
on the outside,
very festive,
not too much.
It didn't tell you,
you'd never guess,
well unless
you studied hard,
it was a very private box.
All he'd noticed
was the glitter.
Such a feminine box,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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