Too Late
She followed at her own pace,
not really caring
and wondering at the crowd
that was ahead.
The coffin looked shiny,
in mahogany and brass
and she laughed
a little to herself.
Such a small one
and yet so smart.
You wouldn't think
a body would fit!
She drifted away then,
seemed to be transfixed
by the shoe shop
and the sales.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Lonely
There was an old man
sat on a park bench,
his trousers were baggy,
his hair was unkempt.
It flowed long and white
right down to his shoes
and children would pass by
looking bemused.
A glint in his eye
and a glow on his cheek
he sat all day long
not a word did he speak,
but should you have asked him
why he was there
he'd had given you reasons, I'm sure
with a stare.
He sat on the park bench
eating some berries,
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Confession
Some folk think I'm dotty
and I have to confess to a point
especially when I'm still yawning
I know that my thinking's not right.
But sometimes life deals me wrong'n
and quick as a flash I'm messed up
my skirt gets tucked into my knickers
and loo papers sticks to my bum.
I went to the hair dressers Friday
and asked her to dye my hair red,
of course I didn't mean bright red
a brownish red's what I meant.
She didn't think two bits about it,
and mixed up the dye in a tick,
it was purplish pink if I'm honest
and now I just look like a twit.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Hospital
Large, heavy, wooden, daunting doors
loom before my eyes as I enter.
An empty side office, reception
with old fashioned filing cabinets,
dark now, glass shutters, closed.
Another heavy door in front of me,
this one leads to a wide, cold floored corridor.
I baulk, want to turn heel, go home.
The black and white tiling, lofty ceiling,
does nothing but repulse me.
More heavy, locked doors
with tiny, peep hole windows, all barred.
Screaming, faint screaming echoes,
ghost like, as it drifts towards me
gradually getting louder.
I reach a wide, stone staircase.
Everything's locked and bolted,
no one passes and the screaming echoes.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Inside out
Each plays their part,
the unknowing heroes,
the vital cogs,
grinding, dogmatically along.
From unwilling filing clerks
to driven consultants,
from smiling receptionists
to fun loving nurses,
down in the mouth dentists
to worn out dental nurses,
from expert anesthetists
to concerned doctors.
They make a difference
every day, wittingly, unwittingly,
caring or uncaring,
it makes no odds
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The train now standing at platform 2
The train now standing at platform 2 is empty now,
its windows still fogged by smut and smog
that lapped the sides for the time of its reign.
Its seats depressed by ghostly bottoms of long ago,
that sat, expectantly on their way through.
They're essence fills the very air we breathe.
Now the train holds no one, no laughter, no chatter.
It just sits on a mocked up platform at York Museum
to amuse tourists, those eager, bright eyed, faces.
It holds tightly to memories, its past, those well kept secrets,
somehow wanting, so much, to tell all it has seen.
Its driver, with blackened fingers and grubby face
no longer steers its mighty coaches along a well used track,
but his presence is sensed by all that walk _
through the 10.15……
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poem by Ruth Walters
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The Human Condition
They're all like minded,
they dress the same,
they're in the group,
safely, together,
following the same rules,
the same beliefs,
never wavering,
never thinking
for themselves,
outside the box,
or ‘helicoptering in' from above,
no looking at the question
from a different perspective.
They're locked in
by each other
not wishing to rock the boat
they stick to their beliefs,
they stick together,
and I look at them
and I wonder.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Dimpled Cheeks
So sweet the moment of revenge,
his tender ego in my hands,
I teased it so mischievously
and watched it glow majestically.
She loves me, she loves me not,
she craves my little tushie
and more than this, she's shown remorse
and now she wants to woo me.
I held his gaze and spoke of deeds
we both knew we once shared
as friends of ours all looked amazed
and some looked somewhat scared.
Then all at once I let him drop
into a dark, deep chasm
and all it took was one small word,
my brain went into spasms.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Another August
August is upon us,
its sun beats down to melt the pavements
as we dream of rain.
Soft earth is turning hard and cracks,
grass turns to yellow.
The flowers shrivel like old tissue paper,
crinkling at the edges.
Wonderfully relaxed
folk saunter through London parks,
observing ducks,
licking ice creams.
Children play, oblivious to the passing of the year,
as the long school holidays
loom ahead as though they are endless.
These are the days
when thoughts turn to trips abroad,
plane flights, hotel rooms,
morning croissants, towels on sun beds and sea air
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poem by Ruth Walters
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After The Rain
After the rain, sunshine trickles through lighter clouds.
There is healing, nurturing as it coaxes flowers to spring back,
bobbing to and fro in a balmy breeze.
After the rain there is a golden glow bringing magic
to river banks and church spires while raindrops
glisten on fallen leaves.
Wet pavements dry as children peep from
behind closed doors, tempted by its warmth
and mothers venture out to shop.
After the rain, the stormy, thunderous nights all is calm.
There is a welcome pause before daybreak when
life continues on its merry way.
A rainbow's hues arc across the sky just after the rain
to show us all is well with the world and
lift our fallen chins from the daily grind.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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