#36 egg on my

my eggs
they are
delicious

they
satisfy
my wishes

i could eat
them all
day long

but my colleagues
claim
they pong

it’s truly
such
a loss

to have
an anti-eggy
boss

i have
to eat them
in the loo

because
they ban me
while I chew

#35 to the crap nurse

the soft pad-pad
of your sensible shoes
(so reassuring at first)
as you stride quiet with purpose
to puncture veins,
cutting skin and
dripping in the least
refreshing water;
you are very tired
and I am very ill
and we wish we could be parted
(and mostly we are),
but sometimes you must
care for me
and it seems to hurt us both

Update on hiatus

All of you who read here regularly (and thank you for doing so) will have noticed that there isn’t a poem posted every day. This is because I usually write my poems at work where wordpress.com is blocked by my firewall (it’s somehow made it into the porn category). I tend to upload them in threes and fours when I get the chance.

This week however my husband was rushed into hospital. Thankfully all is now well, but in the middle of surgery and work issues and post-surgical care, the poems took a back seat. Normal service will resume shortly. I will try to fill in the poems I missed over the next few days, but I’m not gonna beat myself up about it, as I’m pretty tired.

Peace out, y’all.

#34 to the church

I would rather have five minutes
with your broken heart on view
than a lifetime of politeness
with your plastered smile askew

#33 perspective

i am a radio,
my frequency is gaunt;
please tune me
to abundance,
and drown out
the voice of want

#32 my anger is a carriage

my anger is a carriage
that transports all the pain;
it stumbles over cobblestones
and crashes through the rain.
but what’s the destination?
where does anger go?
perhaps it should retire
to the classic carriage show.

#31 to my husband (II)

you said my skin
was like fresh fruit;
glad to be your salad

#30 the tool bag

You carried it everywhere
because you had to;
black, worn and once someone else’s –
a burden, no doubt.

But to me
it was simply you,
at home.

Sitting by the front door,
it carried your smell
of soap, motor oil
and hard boiled sweets
in crinkled cellophane wrappers.

#29 become like mine

when did play
become this?
at my computer
I browse
not really
consuming nothing
sort of
resting
and I listen a little
here and there
through the open window
to the thump of your football
in the street;
the shouts to your friends
and
the little silences
for lunch,
for toilet,
for bath time.
I don’t recall, you know,
when.
when?
on which day
will your kind of play
go away?
and become
like mine?

#28 Man City -v- Limerick August 2012

Mario,
o Mario,
wherefore art thou,
Mario?
I travelled to Limerick
to see you crush locals,
and sadly was treated
to football, by yokels.