The Swamp
There's a swamp at the end your bed, he said,
at the end of my bed there's a swamp.
My daddy told me so, he did
whenever I wouldn't stay in bed.
There's a swamp at the end of your bed.
The swamp at the end of my bed
is filled with icky worms,
they squirm about and wriggle.
They're horrible, slippery worms, they are
They're horrible, slippery worms.
Still, I stole my daddy's boots last night,
I stole my daddy's boots
and when the hand strikes 12 O'clock
down to the end of the bed, I'll go
to the end of the bed, to the end of the bed,
down to the very edge.
Down in the quagmire's inners
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Haunting
Sleep is an enemy these days
I sleep, I wake, I sleep, I wake
I look outside the window at the night
Sometimes I have such dreams
as vivid as the day, at other times
the dreams, they stay away.
It was a night of vivid dreams
I heard a noise downstairs, someone shuffling, rustling
I called, "Is someone there? "
Footsteps coming closer, passing by my door.
I heard the bathroom being used
and I called out some more.
The bedroom door creaked open,
she moved across the room, her face was so familiar
but I screamed and off she flew.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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A Photograph of mother
A young girl poses for a photo,
soft features, plump hands, full lips,
a sweet expression, under an archway of flowers
hung in spring and blooming now.
One day, the girl in the photograph
will be my mother.
She'll grow weary, lose her youthful glow.
toil and sweat.
She'll suffer pain, great hardship
but she'll not want for love
for that I will give
all the rest of her life.
Her journey has not yet begun,
look in her eyes, see how they glisten,
they yearn for the future,
for happiness and fun.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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French Kissing.
I don't like French kissing,
it isn't that I'm frigid
but kissing with the tongue
is best left to the young.
Us old'ns all have tartar
it sticks around our teeth
Oh there is no mystique
you'll see it when we speak!
I don't like French kissing,
although on reminiscing
there was a time I snogged
a dreadful boy called Rog'
Another thing I note
is that it clogs the throat
of course I'm only guessing
I don't indulge in necking.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Full stops and commas
Life's full of punctuation if we only stop to see,
like the middle of a rain storm or a lovely cup of tea.
Some are marked as commas, some as asterisks
I bet you've had some commas, take stock and think a bit.
A colon is a long pause for something that I treasure
such as a special friend, although it's hard to measure.
Apostrophe's a hiccup for something that I've missed
and if it's you I'm sorry, for sometimes I'm remiss.
Full stops are very sad for that's when someone dies
and though we know it happens, it startles hearts and minds.
That's when my heart stops beating for just a tick or tock,
I stumble and I falter, a colon stops the clock.
Life's full of punctuation if we only stop to see,
like the pausing of the traffic or the falling of a leaf.
Without some punctuation life's meaning would be less,
you may give this some thought, (in brackets would be best)
poem by Ruth Walters
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Odd Hats, Summer Dresses
Old summer hats lie on the floor,
funeral hats, hats in hat boxes,
some still on hat stands
and one left discarded on a chair.
Her summer dresses, still fragrant
from perfumes she wore,
hang limply now, on hangers
as though they are waiting for her.
I view her dressing table, its little pots,
one for her wedding rings,
one for her broaches,
and one for her powder puff.
Her chair's empty but askew
as though she'd just gotten up.
Strange to see it like that
and look into the mirror above.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Band on the roof
Out of their offices people came running,
men in dark suits and ladies in Macs.
Some of them stumbling, some of them screaming,
some of them clapping and some holding back.
Running towards the block where it came from,
high on a rooftop, as if from the Gods.
The Beatles were playing our favourite music,
uniting the town, yes even the toffs.
Boredom faded as hearts seemed to dance
down the wet pavements where young girls all pranced.
Watching the rooftop for signs of the band
all feeling the love, yes imagine that!
Imagine the moment, all out of the blue
where stress seemed to vanish
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Two poems about separation, different themes
The separation
I put the money in a bucket,
lowered it down to him
taking care that the notes
didn't fly off.
He made a grab for the pail,
clutched it greedily
as he'd once held me
and walked away, grinning.
A bucket load of money
was all he'd ever wanted,
and now, at last,
he was sated.
Separation came as a friend
and though I'm left poorer
I feel as rich as a King
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poem by Ruth Walters
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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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