Treacle

Monday Ramblings.

A good morning all round.

Met friends for coffee and catch up earlier and bought a few more new clothes for our holiday in the Scottish Highlands in April. Really looking forward to it as I've not been to Scotland.

My youngest daughter came over when I got home with Chihuahua, Treacle, commonly called "The Rat" by her partner and mine. She's a real cutie though, but inclined to nip with those exceedingly sharp little teeth!

We hope to get another dog after the holiday, probably a rescue, as our previous two were. There are so many poor dogs in rescue homes, so rather that, than buy one from an  unscrupulous breeder/puppy farm. Maybe a slightly smaller dog this time as I don't think I could control a large one with my arthritic fingers.

I've put a few more of my poems on the blog if anyone wishes to read them. I haven't written any new material for ages.

Maybe our holiday in Scotland will inspire me anew!

TTFN

REMOTE CONTROL. A dark poem

This poem is personal and shows how memories and people, even deceased ones, can still haunt us despite the passage of time,

Remote Control

After all these years
you still have control.

I'm powerless, listening
to your filthy, foul-mouthed rantings.

I dare not glance away, lest
you threaten to smash my head
to a pulp again,

your lips curl with venom
as they spit more expletives,

fists clenched,
eyes wide and staring, as you
punch the wall.

Shattered plaster drips blood
and I notice that hole in the door
needs filling.

I want to run, but you're faster

You goad me to fight back but
I'm numb - would say or do
the wrong thing.

It used to take very little.

A spilt teacup or forgotten ingredient
for lunch,

trivialities, but not to you.

How is it I still want you?
long for your weight on mine.

Still desire those looks
that first drew me to you.

then....

I am awake, steeped in sweat;
my heart exploding in my chest.

You still wield control,
even from your grave. 

(C)   Ann Wilson

Lady Rhyme R.I.P

Some people on a certain poetry site I'm on, rubbish this genre of poem, so I wrote this to annoy them!



 Lady Rhyme R.I.P

This day is sad for Lady Rhyme,
cut down so cruelly in her prime.
Free verse fiends now rule the pages,
where Rhyme had triumphed o'er the ages.

Yes, Rhyme is dead and buried here,
no longer thriving, bringing cheer.
All that's left is boring prose;
random metaphor, no one knows.

Remember how we liked to rhyme,
with metered flow, that was sublime.
So rest in peace beloved verse,
victim of non-rhymer's curse.