Ruby: Poems

Ruby Nov 2024

I write this on the toilet.
My partner stands there patiently chatting to me about his day as I melt into the disturbingly warm plastic of the seat.
It's my own toilet thankfully.
Not some grimey public one where the ***** lay in the shadows of the man-made whirlpool.
I am kidding; there are no *****. Scientists state.
This is a communal area for lost hair bobbles, bleach and the drowsy words of my partner's mouth as we commute here in the late hours of the night.
I like my toilet.

#toilets

Advert

Ruby Oct 2024

Advert

The appreciation of others lives is interrupted by an advert.
Their online presence which plays like a sequence of a dream
A constant flow of images and words. A film of poetry.

I think. What if everything was interrupted by an advert? A non-stop of unnecessary and unwanted reminders to snap out of whatever we focus and rely on to get us through our day.

It's hurtful. I want to live through the videos of beautiful people , I don't want to be prevented from being comforted by capitalistic crap.

A Response to Gendered Grief

Ruby Nov 2024

A Response to Gendered Grief

I will bring the flowers
You bring the shovel.
Let us justify our genders in the response towards death.
You use your arms
and
I will use my tears.
I will receive help
but
you may not.
I think you should go back to work
tomorrow.
But I will stay.
I think you will be okay.

I was inspired by the two separate ways genders are pressured to grieve.

The Green Man

Ruby Mar 5

The Green Man

I sigh in relief as the Green Man comes
His leafy mane rustled to the song of the wind.
What was dead here is no more.
Replaced with mother nature's spawn.
Re-birth activated by his presence.
The Nights are now lighter
and
Nature is now brighter.
Why thank you Green man
for you have come
and saved us from Winter Slum.

Inspired by the folklore tale of the Greenman, my professor provoked this poem out of me.

#folklore

The Warmth of Wool

Ruby Mar 5

The Warmth of Wool

My fingers are fluttering, and I am slipping the needle out of possession.
It has run away from my touch.
My mind waves goodbye, pursued with a guilty feeling of jealousy.
Clink
Clink
Clink
within the sensual folds of the old sheep’s skin.
Its new existence.
The bubbles of wool smoothed.
Smoothed from the stench of **** and blood
and bruised with vibrant colours.
Finally.
I can travel in which the needle did so.
Reaching into the intense warmth of the powerless skein.
I slip my hands.
I don't want to leave the irritable sensation
which tends to my wounds.
Wounds of a victim
inflicted by the violence of the cold.
My breath is as vivid as the colours I grace my hands with.
I hope to never find my needle.
She must stay.
Stay so I may stay warm and safe within the sheep’s forgotten skin.

#knitting #winter #goodbyewinter

— The End —