Lucky escape, lightening reactions
The cat that got the cream.

Strolling along
It was late summer, a breeze
swept my face, brushing my lips
The leaves on the willow were still
I wondered why.
I said hello
The morning was advancing
swiftly moving were the hands on the clock
The clock at the town hall had many faces
But not as many as him I thought.
He'd get an award dressed in gold
for some of his performances I thought
shouting his head off
first thing in my morning
When I could have been peacefully strolling
Like now.  I thought for a while, like I do
I was hungry
Hungry for happiness to come my way
I was once - happy.  I shall have to define it.
Being able to smile without guilt
Relaxed not tense
Wondering if my teacup would brush my face
like the breeze.
Now I am going backwards. Not in time,
Nor am I strolling towards the beginning
of my walk.
I want to go back if the forward could be different.
Back then we were happy.
Not now  Happiness is not allowed any more.
But I am happy now, just for the walk.
My thoughts haunt me.
They cloud my head.
Throwing the blanket of misery over.
I saw him. Just.
His face was pulling the two o'clock face
which was a progressing frown.
Just like the clock in the town.

Gently rolling in clover
looking for four leaves
On the white cliffs of Dover
chalk as thick as thieves.
A blue butterfly drifts by
capturing the aroma of honey
the clouds are miles high
if you were to bet with any money.
A rainbow kisses time
bringing freckles to a dream
it rains and steam evaporates from lime
clouding the view way past the stream.
A kingfisher bold as brass
perches on a jet black stump
it takes pleasure from cool wet grass
making a bony cricket jump.
The clouds are miles high once again
the kingfisher swoops across the way
Its spitting fine spots of rain
And the rainbow is back out at play.

My world is green
breathing in clean
air among fields supreme.
trees that are evergreen
golden berries between
thorns that are obscene.
Soothe them with the jelly bean
sweet as honey, rich as they come.
My world is red
where poppies drape in flower beds
glorious sun beating down overhead.
Red as blood splashed on
my hospital bed
that squeezes out of gaps in my head.
Life that pumps through me till I am dead.
Enough said.
My world is blue
The rent is overdue
The landlord does not have a clue.
As Fred Flintstone once said
as he drank is golden brew
from prehistoric hops that he grew.
It is what you have come through
in life and gained.
Then he said yabbadabbadoo.
Way to go Fred.

Cost of food
price of fuel
Very soon it will be Oliver Twist
and living on gruel
The cost of living
is a bit sky high
the result is fits of giggles
if I didn't, I'm afraid I'd cry!

Tip toe through the shadows
Dark places with a scream
Squeaks and humming sounds
send a shiver down a spine
Things are not what they seem
In the dark green haunting grounds
where twigs and growth entwine
with the worst nightmare not dreams.
No soft music here just groans
Mum is the word around here.
No creeping in one corridor
where one is supposed to walk
None of that just run, run for your life
from the shadows and the dark.
Mark my words you will want to run.
Sun shining today, I dont think so
Forecast snow. Snow in the dark lanes
Black is the alley, dark like time does not exist
just like cinders in the fire, not glowing either.
Dark like the soot from the old wood charred
and burnt to death.  No condensation, no breath,
no droplets of steam, where life has been.
Just a dark secret.

It was a very strange day
A day, you could say of unrest.
The day Mr Pig was wed
And wore his Sunday best.

Underneath the Duck’s frustrated wings
He had hidden a gun.
He was planning to use this weapon
Once the ceremony had begun.

The Organist commenced and
The door flung open and in she marched.
In what could only be described as a mess
That had been heavily starched.

Mr Duck felt repulsed
Somebody had failed to do their job
Mr Pig had tears in his eyes as he stared
At his white overweight blob.

Mr Pig’s pride and joy called the shots
But not the one fired from the gun
The wing took aim, the trigger released
The blob fell like the setting of the sun.

She hit the deck with an almighty thud
Mr Duck pelted into his hiding place
Where he had planned to stay the rest of the week
And the guilt wiped from his troubled little face. - to be continued ...

It was the morning after the night before
Three bullet holes were embedded in the dress.
Strangely there was no blood on the floor
You don’t need to be an expert to guess the rest.

Because the event did not happen, it was all a dream
A dream produced solely inside the pig’s head.
Things were not how they planned to be or seem
The future Mrs Pig is not real and definitely not dead.

Mr Duck slithered into the room with a pipe hanging from his beak
A stuck on pair of mutton chops and a green check cape.
Mr Pig hid behind a newspaper laughing unable to speak
Hatching a cunning plan from which to escape.

“So my dear Watson, er sorry Pig, what were you dreaming last night.”
Mr Duck was puffing awkwardly on his pipe.
I suggest I heard a scream just on when it became light
And you were muttering on about a blood type.

“Murderer” shouted Mr Pig, and then slapped his hand across his lips.
Regretting his choice of word he quickly said “moody aren’t we”
Mr Duck tried to squint at him and stood with his wing on his hips
Squinting was ******* - he could hardly focus let alone see.

He now was confused, slung off the cape which was getting hotter
That was because it burst into flames from ash from the pipe
Which promptly landed on Mr Pig’s sore trotter?
Mr Pig was oblivious to this and thought he smelt tripe.

However the newspaper he was holding went up in smoke
Mr Pig heard the crash of a saucepan and its lid.
Thinking what now has Mr Duck broke
Not realising Mr Duck had fled and hid.

Now can you guess the rest?

It was a cold morning
It was the middle of June
Without notice, instant warning
The weather sung another tune.
A warmth swept across her face
She thought it appropriate to smile
She sat on the grass to admire the place
and enjoy this feeling she had for a while.
On top of the cliff, there were flowers
she had never observed before.
Nature had gifted natural powers
Seeds had embedded from being washed ashore.
She stroked petals, admired the shadows cast
There was a breeze being swept from the sea
She has read the papers, no bad weather forecast
Now the branches were swaying on the tree.
The clouds huddled together and turned grey
A violet hue appeared from nowhere above
As dark and dense as a blueberry souffle
and now as blue as a garden foxglove.
Something was happening and on the cards
Hairs on the back of her neck stood tall.
Fear set in as if she were in the darkest graveyards.
She was near the cliff edge -  she could fall
She crawled in land to be on the safe side.
She thought it better to crouch low.
She wished she had somewhere to hide
Somewhere the wind would have the chance to blow.
But there was nothing, just a flat hill top with a steep drop.
The strength of the wind picked up a pace.
She just wanted everything to stop
But the wind now slashed the skin from her face.
It whistled, it whined, it swept her here and there.
She crawled like she had never before to get from the edge
This situation now became a living nightmare
She disappeared into a ditch and clung onto a thorny hedge.
She lay there wet and cold for the best part of an hour
Clinging onto something sharp, with hope in her heart.
The wind had blown the petals from the little flower
The sky had now cleared, clouds were ready to depart.
The wind had ceased, there began a sense of calm
Her legs were ***** and covered in a wet sticky dew
But she was safe and sound and away from harm
She had a story to tell, the day the wind blew.

The day fell silent
Birds failed to fly
Waves ceased crashing
We wondered why.

The night sky became grey
Black is the new white
Stars refused to sparkle
Dark is not the new light.

Clouds parted temporarily
Like the curtains in our house.
In a trap laden with chocolate
Lay a very confused little mouse.

And so today the wind refused to blow
Whispers were heard from a mile away.
Chaos was the new word on new lips
And still the wind fell quiet today.

I saw a million butterflies
Al dressed in grey
Further up there were
Millions of birds of prey.
They had gathered
To pay their respects
On behalf of all creatures
As one would expect.
The death of a ladybird
Her spots faded now
Her redness faded to pink
And they wiped her brow.
Ants lined the route
To her burial place
Nobody would ever forget
The sadness on the magpie’s face.
He bowed his head as she went by
Surrounded by love and flowers
The ceremony expected to last
For many more hours.
The moths flew by in twos
Followed by the wasps and bees
Other birds had sad beaks
Depression had hit the trees.
Crickets stood silent for once
Their noisy knees under control
Other insects bowed in unison
as the cuckoo announced the patrol.
They laid her to rest, six spots and all
Among the roses all a rich deep red
They sauntered back home, hearts heavy
And did nothing but cry all night in bed.
That night I saw a million butterflies
Which in all is a bit extreme
What a crazy night that was
It is funny what you dream.

It was at a time when women were afraid to speak out
The time when certain avenues were not explored.
A time when upstairs was very different from downstairs
and the moans from maids were very much ignored.

He took advantage of her most nights it was true
It was a case of do as I say and speak not a word.
If only she could have, or done something sooner
but what was the point, her voice would not have been heard.

He lashed out at her with such hatred, and she knew it
she wanted to scream through her pain, her aches.
But she knew her place at that time, she knew it alright
but she also knew she would have her revenge, for what it takes.

She died on a Tuesday, a night a few did remember
but he knew about it, he knew in the back of his mind.
For each time he opened the door to the kitchen, he saw her
the blood, the suffering, which were one of a kind.

Still to this day Martha returns, at the same time, same place
hoping to take revenge on her murderer, she now not afraid.
But he does not appear, to her annoyance, she still to this day
reminds us all of her suffering, the death of Martha, the maid.

Whilst on his daily walk through the town
The dog stood and noticed something with a frown.
Where's the fur, the brown stuff, there's nothing there
He was sure he was born with some kind of hair.
He noticed other dogs had fetching fur of different styles
He knew this because of his constant treking for miles
Every flipping day and every night just walking
With his blood boiling owner, fuming and talking
Being dragged through fog, puddles and the like
Once his lead was tied to the handle bars of his bike
He worried once he would be tied to the car
Being paraded along because he would not walk that far.
And through all of this he has hat, scarf and a warm coat
What do I have, nothing but a strip of leather on my throat.
Nothing on my paws in the snow and ice and the rain
He does nothing but moan, I don't get chance to complain.
That night Rover crept into his room and began to dig
Bingo he thought that'll do, he'd found an old wig.
So he managed to fling it into the air to land on his head
The warmth it provided, oh yes, he buried it in his bed
He lay on it that night and admired it from within
Little bits or hair sticking out from his wrinkly skin.
Next time he takes me out for a stroll, I'll be a new dog
Through the pouring rain, sunshine and thick dense fog.

Its train floated like silk along a long winding river
Floating in the direction of a cool breeze.
Lace tapping on her flesh made her shiver
Memories thawing as if from a deep freeze.

Little roses sewn on by hand were on the bodice
Trailing over her shoulder and down her back
The dress made her feel like a godess
Or like a Princess on horseback.

The dress gave her confidence, made her feel brave
Feeling special whenever the dress was worn
But there is a secret which she took to her grave
And nobody knew but the dress was torn.

Its train floated like silk along a long winding river
Floating in the direction of a cool breeze.
Lace tapping on her flesh made her shiver
Memories thawing as if from a deep freeze.

Little roses sewn on by hand were on the bodice
Trailing over her shoulder and down her back
The dress made her feel like a godess
Or like a Princess on horseback.

The dress gave her confidence, made her feel brave
Feeling special whenever the dress was worn
But there is a secret which she took to her grave
Nobody knew but the dress was torn.

Go Dancing

“I’m doing the funky chicken”
Said a breathless ageing Duck.
The Pig was as white as snow
He was dumbstruck.
Feathers were flying everywhere
As the Duck felt the beat.
The Pig could not move his eyes
From the Duck’s unbelievable feet.
He was staring intently
He was now in a trance
He had not one clue
That the Duck could dance.
The Duck put up his wing
And had said to give him five.
He was well in with the groove
Spinning and now to jive.
But the Pig wasn’t agile enough
His trotters had now forgot.
They’d refused to move
Let alone tackle the fox trot.
But with practice
Maybe then he would improve.
Maybe!

A street is dusty there is grit on my feet.
Meat hanging about from a left over stew
Bony cats cling to doorsteps
Like furry door mats and there are a few
Keeping the draughts out from the valley
Blowing a disease on bated breath.
A cat dares to hope or so it seems
But with this only bring a painful death.
The street so full of filth
from shoes, the smoke, and waste
brings creepers from every angle
A broken fishing line dares
with hope hanging thinks it can dangle
into a stream, hoping for a dream fish
to bite, but it wont, it is not there
it drowned in the sea of doom
where there are trawlers and fishermen
with shiny nets and no dust in their room
Leaves, crunching underfoot of the passer by
staring at himself in windows, wiped
till they are bone dry.
The park gates, daily washed by the thankful dog
picking its leg up conveniently at this stop
through the stench, the mist and the pea-soup fog
it wanders with the peacocks where feathers drop
on the dusty lane, the ***** street where cats sleep.

He stands on a tiny stool
To reach toys off the shelf
He is only three inches tall
This cute little busy elf.

He is here, there and everywhere
fetching and carrying all of his day
With a smile, and then a whistle
and all this for one penny per day.

But he buys buttercup tea and a mint leaf
knocks it back in one big swoop
Chews the mint leaf to flavour his breath
Doesn't want his reputation to droop.

Got to attract the fairies, make them admire
This perfect little elf that he has become
He is a gentleman through and through
Rich in buttercups and very handsome.

With his curly red hair framing his green hat
His violet eyes, plus a little twinkle
His peachy cheeks and rich rosy lips
and not one sign of old age or wrinkle.

For one hundred and three, this elf is knocking on
The little fairies all have a soft spot for this elf
But most of all the elf has enormous standing
and for that he is most proud of himself.

It was back in his hey day
when elves used to be nimble
Sitting all day listening to stuff
Sat on a shiny silver thimble.

They were their bar stools at the bar
drinking dandelion beer till drunk
It was a powerful brew that blew their socks off
Revealing their toes that really stunk.

Feet washing was not their thing
Dandelion beer was more their cup of tea
They had to wait till the peas dropped
to have a nice bath in the pod of the pea.

You can imagine elves in a line at the bar
All taking their first swig of the beer
They pow, their socks would all shoot off
a picture that to you and me is most queer.

Then the stench of smelly, ***** feet
Giggling was the order then of the day.
They would see who had the smelliest toes
Sniffing and giggling along the way.

The one that won had to down a jug
of the powerful dandelion beer with froth
Then roll the victor under the table to sleep
and cover him up with the tablecloth.

The little winner with stinky feet
snoring while the others giggled.
Then with daisies stuck to the side of his face
The drunken victor wriggled.

"Roll me home, will you, my chaps, roll me home"
They did as they were told and parked him by a tree
to steady himself when asleep they thought.
On returning ten hours later, he had rolled free.

He was slumped under a mushroom, upside down
He had obviously been singing his heart out.
On went his socks up he stood sort of upright
Tottered off to see what the fuss was about.

He did not get very far, he tripped over a leaf
His eyes closed shut and off he slept till sober
Which was a day or three, this drunken elf
certainly had a day definitely to remember.

There was an elf with square ears called Sid
Who lived behind a blue baked bean tin lid
His perfectly square ears
brought more than a few tears
this was the reason why he hid.

Now the other Elves knew it was wrong to judge and frame
they knew old Square Ears had a good name.
His ability to hear
with a lovely square ear
meant they had to watch how they played the game.

It was therefore the Elves belief
the Elf with the square ear had the best leaf
and the comfort it did bring
and the chance to sing
and the lesson here is not to dwell too much on grief.

I used to stand, dreaming
I could win that brown bear
Only takes three darts, top scores
To win, at the local fair.
Or a fish, I would have liked that
An orange thing in a plastic bag
Or hook-a-duck, a chance to win
Perhaps a new toy or wave a flag.
The smell of onions frying all day
Hot crispy potato skins enticing
The unmistakable aroma of doughnuts
With different kinds of icing.
The thrill and fear of the ghost train
With dangly things in your face
Screams, sighs, a creepy hand touching
I loved that very creepy place.
The helter skelter, skimming on a mat
Winding to the bottom with a smile
Then queuing for ages once again
Strangers in a single file.
The fair, money for this and that
Oh I wanted that teddy bear.
Eventually I got him, my new friend
Sitting there with his short brown hair.
A reminder of days when fun was fun
Screeches, screams and music very loud
They’d play the number one in the charts
To a very approving fun loving crowd.
So with my short lived fish in a bag
My bear and tummy full of candy floss
My pockets with no money just tissues
Smeared with onions and tomato sauce.
I’d head back home, looking over my shoulder
The lights, the atmosphere nothing can compare
Dodgems, rides that made you feel sick
But that’s ok at the local funfair

I used to stand, dreaming
I could win that brown bear
Only takes three darts, top scores
To win, at the local fair.
Or a fish, I would have liked that
An orange thing in a plastic bag
Or hook-a-duck, a chance to win
Perhaps a new toy or wave a flag.
The smell of onions frying all day
Hot crispy potato skins enticing
The unmistakable aroma of doughnuts
With different kinds of icing.
The thrill and fear of the ghost train
With dangly things in your face
Screams, sighs, a creepy hand touching
I loved that very creepy place.
The helter skelter, skimming on a mat
Winding to the bottom with a smile
Then queuing for ages once again
Strangers in a single file.
The fair, money for this and that
Oh I wanted that teddy bear.
Eventually I got him, my new friend
Sitting there with his short brown hair.
A reminder of days when fun was fun
Screeches, screams and music very loud
They’d play the number one in the charts
To a very approving fun loving crowd.
So with my short lived fish in a bag
My bear and tummy full of candy floss
My pockets with no money just tissues
Smeared with onions and tomato sauce.
I’d head back home, looking over my shoulder
The lights, the atmosphere nothing can compare
Dodgems, rides that made you feel sick
But that’s ok at the local funfair.

This little fairy always thought that she was important
In a way that it would not to me or even you.
She thought "I bet they thought I had a respsonsible face"
as I stood in the "Name the Fairy Day Today" queue.

That day she waited all day, (she was last out of bed)
She had arrived late (of course) and was last in line.
The others had been named, (they were all proud)
and this last name they had. well it was absolutely fine.

The others giggled behind her back (she didn't know that)
and was ridiculed whereever they went that very day.
The Fairy of the Rose and Forget-Me-Not were supportive
and not spiteful like the rest in a caring sort of way.

These fairies knew the real reason for her name but kept quiet
They did not want to shatter this little fairy's dream
Besides which when it was time to meet their maker
These two fairies had the best golden tickets to redeem.

That is what you get if you are a good and kind little fairy
is a golden ticket to extra love and devotion and stuff
The last thing a fairy wants is a damp grey cloud to sit on
which has run out of nice things,  fluffy things and puff.

It is not hard to be nice they thought, takes no extra effort
So they were that to this hopeless little fairy that's always late.
The fairy of everything sharp and dangerous a name in itself.
But then to her it came with instant love from a nice playmate.

A playmate or two in fact which was more than most got.
So in her head she thought that she was well liked and respected.
In truth I suspect the rest were jealous and envied her status
But this little fairy (despite her name) always felt protected.

Sugar plum fairies
Forget that!
In the birthday suit
in which she was born
in the altogether!
I will warn
it is not a pleasant sight
Once the wings are removed
in the dead of the night
Wrinkles creep back
her skin wants ironing
Like a crumpled sack
in the morning.
Her hair like rats tails
hang like nothing on earth.
Her white skinny legs like
cloth sails.
One has seen more meat
on a butcher's pencil.
The fairy of the altogether
put her clothes back on
thank goodness.

This tiny fairy, let us say has attitude.
Most little things get on her pip!
Sitting amongst fragrant blossom
Is not nice, no pleasure trip.
She has to put up with frilly petals
Leaves and the odd red spider.
It is the constant supply of buds
That to her is the decider.
She would like to go and pray
With the other fairies at the chapel
Not sitting amongst blossom
Waiting for the inevitable apple.
But as with all other fairies
She has her work to do, her duty
To sit there all pink and frilly
Feeling fresh and very fruity.
She tirelessly waits, and she waits
For the blossom buds to flower.
Then it is another waiting game
For the apples to appear very sour.
She once considered jumping ship
And sitting with the Fairy of the Douglas fir
But after some serious and careful thought
Decided that it would not really appeal to her.
But she is happy I suppose
But still would like to alter direction
Is it little wonder then that this Fairy
Has such a rosy red complexion.

APPLE BLOSSOM

This tiny fairy, let us say has attitude.
Most little things get on her pip!
Sitting amongst fragrant blossom
Is not nice, no pleasure trip.
She has to put up with frilly petals
Leaves and the odd red spider.
It is the constant supply of buds
That to her is the decider.
She would like to go and pray
With the other fairies at the chapel
Not sitting amongst blossom
Waiting for the inevitable apple.
But as with all other fairies
She has her work to do, her duty
To sit there all pink and frilly
Feeling fresh and very fruity.
She tirelessly waits, and she waits
For the blossom buds to flower.
Then it is another waiting game
For the apples to appear very sour.
She once considered jumping ship
And sitting with the Fairy of the Douglas fir
But after some serious and careful thought
Decided that it would not really appeal to her.
But she is happy I suppose
But still would like to alter direction
Is it little wonder then that this Fairy
Has such a rosy red complexion.

Guarding the blossom
On cool summer nights
The gem of the loganberry, raspberry
And currants.
A sweet little fairy, wings as pink as fruit
Flitting between thorns, tearing her skirt
Coaxing the spider to repair her wings
With silken threads from his web.
Her lace, his face, her grace, his pace
Her terms, his place.
The fairy of the bramble,
A delicate little one.

What a funny little thing this fairy was all dressed in pink
For saying she was the Fairy of an Orchard it'd make you think.
For this little person could not stand any kind of fruit
And if it were up to her she would find a substitute.
If she could cover everything in toffee, now there is a treat
She longed for chocolate apples, how lovely and sweet.
When the little unripe pips were still in the prettiest flower
She had one word, one vision, one smell in her head - sour.
This has all been happening right as far back as a tiny youth
And she did not dare go to the Chief of Fairies and tell the truth.
Instead all of her days she would sit on her laptop and skype
From the fruit in pink flower to a full blown apple that's ripe.
She used to tell other fairies she hated the taste. the smell
Especially the pears that go squishy after they had fell.
She used to sit holding a handkerchief against her nose
and she could not stand any fruity sap sticking to her toes.
She had a prime spot, a fairy flat in an orchard is expensive
But between me and you she could find somewhere better to live.

The ladybird laughed her spots off
When the fairy of the party like never before
Approached her – she let out a false cough
Before opening her shiny red door..
“Are you coming “ asked the fairy fiddling with a wing?
“My spots are not on properly today, so I cannot”
Replied the ladybird lying through her back teeth
Why she had said that or why but then she had forgot.
“I have short term memory loss” said the ladybird
“That is it not the spots you see it’s why I cannot come”
The fairy was confused; she’d been up all night
And was not as bright and cheerful as some.
You mean that you don’t want to give it a whirl
Paint the town red and all that jazz, her hair was a mess
She picked up a bone from the floor to make her hair curl
And thought she’d visit the spider to get a new dress.
She called on the spider, her trusty dressmaker
She sat on a load of silk that had been made by the spider
She bounced on it and took a liking to it
And sweet talked the black creepy silk provider.
“When you look at me with those eyes, it sends shivers down my spine”
The spider shook a little with the inevitable quiz
“I need a dress to party through the night and more than that
I want something that stands out makes the wings whizz”.
The spider had no choice but to do as she instructed
He had fallen in love with the blue eyes that slept all day
She had began to spin out the thread like it was as easy as pie
Besides which it is much easier to give in do it to obey.
Once again the fairy of the party like never before
Was ready and raring to dance till the sun shone again
She frog marched her clan to the bright lights
The night was going to be anything but mundane.

Guarding the blossom
On cool summer nights
The gem of the loganberry, raspberry
And currants.
A sweet little fairy, wings as pink as fruit
Flitting between thorns, tearing her skirt
Coaxing the spider to repair her wings
With silken threads from his web.
Her lace, his face, her grace, his pace
Her terms, his place.
The fairy of the bramble,
A delicate little one.
Her Song, she did wrong, his legs, so long
The fairy of the bramble.

Perfect, tiny presented girls
Red petals plucked at dawn
Arranged on a broken saucer
condensing on the lawn.
Fairies making gifts to sell
To raise pennies for toys
All female fairies do it
Just to annoy little boys.
Dabbing the sweet stuff
That's turned brown in the sun
Raising a few pence for charity
But the fairies have the fun.

The Fairy of the roe petal perfume
Knew when the flowers hit full bloom
The petals did drop
and they could  not stop
as she frantically swept with her broom.

She knew instinctively and could tell
by the colour and the attractive smell
All home grown
and a lovely tone
exactly the right time to sell.

The Fairies searched their stash
They knew at once they mush dash
They did not care about price
they wanted to smell  nice
and out splashed their cash.

In its velvet skin
Hidden below
Sits the Fairy
Of the sloe.
A sprinkling of dust
Surrounds a bitter taste
The blackthorn, as it’s known
The fairies make haste
The rush of the traffic
In the Autumn haze
A steady sour drip
On sunny cool days.
As the sugar sweetens
The dark romantic skin
To enrich the tables at Christmas
With rich sloe gin.

Of all the fairy poems I have written, this has to be my favourite and I am dedicating it to Marian.  This is just for you Marian.  I hope you enjoy it.
The Fairy of the Sloe
In its velvet skin
Hidden below
Sits the Fairy
Of the sloe.
A sprinkling of dust
Surrounds a bitter taste
The blackthorn, as it’s known
The fairies make haste
The rush of the traffic
In the Autumn haze
A steady sour drip
On sunny cool days.
As the sugar sweetens
The dark romantic skin
To enrich the tables at Christmas
With rich sloe gin.

Nothing, but nothing would make her life more complete
Without something in her mouth that tasted oh so sweet
But then everything sweet that went into those rich red lips
Gathered permanently on those rather expanding fairy hips.
It did not matter how sugary, the colour of the sweet or the size
It was all eaten pleasurably and then went to her thighs.
She loved it all,  gob stoppers, fairy pips and most of all toffee
Sugar mice, dandelion heads and gums flavoured with coffee.
She always had loads of packets of creamy fake sweet eggs
they had the taste of an orange but accumulated on her legs.
The more she ate, the fatter they got, which had its good bits
They enables her to perch in the tree until the wood splits.
She had packed in her fairy store all kinds of fruit whips
every kind of chocolate bar, lollipop and candied pips.
In all flavours, apple, banana, woodland berry and plum
But it mattered not to her how sweet, like it does to some.
Every slice, every little fruit drop, each little wrapped bar
was placed in its own nicely labelled sweet jar.
Lined up at the bottom of her favourite tree, her treat booth
Her world is complete, for the fairy of the sweet tooth.

This fairy most definitely I’d call an imp
She’s out for anything to beg, steal or borrow.
She’d think nothing of actually buying stuff
Because she is the Fairy of Tomorrow.

Also known as the fairy of second hand rose
Nothing is her own, and never will be
If she can borrow it she will and sort of keep it
Notwithstanding it has no guarantee.

Second hand rose, but then again she is smart
Best fairy shoes and decent frilly lacy dress
She doesn’t have a friend so that is okay
Meaning she has no one to impress.

Which is quite sad in a way, everyone has friends
But not her she has never had one, that’s true
An assessment of her social circle, one could say
Is under scrutiny and is long overdue.

She’s not bothered, she gets by
She is happy enough and whistles all of the day
She has plenty of shiny coins in her drawer
And has plenty of treasure stashed away.

She is no fool, this Fairy of Tomorrow
Nothing wrong with being a second hand rose
She is in fact quite wealthy; the others are unaware
Even though she wears other fairies clothes

There she is again
dangling her legs
in the pouring rain
like wet coat pegs.
With knobbly knees
and sticky out hairs
A big loud sneeze
all over the stairs.
She is on the naughty step
for doing things wrong
She does not need help
It does not take long.
She opens her mouth
and says all the wrong things
Well we know what is heading south
it is her little wings.
She will be a flightless fairy
it is a fairy's way to go
She will be scared and wary.
Is that not so.
She has had her redemption
a one way ticket to her goal
Sitting is now an exemption
although she is a naughty soul.

There is a Fairy at the bottom of the garden,
She lives in the third mushroom down.
She doesn't own much, between you and me
but she has the biggest fungi in town.

She is a lucky Fairy but doesn't know it.
I dare say she has more than most.
She has a large stalk to hang her smalls on
Which is a good deal bigger than a post.

Thinking about it I ought to charge her rent
She says there is not "mushroom" to spread.
But a Fairy has such high demands
I will have to come up with another plan instead.

She told me now she wants to go to a toadstool
Whill is far too small for her box of tricks.
She has her eye on my place but that
is just too big and it is made of bricks.

She always knew fairy tales were held in a big glass jar
but they were released by just a buttercup and a big daisy
She sat staring at a new big glass screen which was bizarre
and she was warned that she would become very lazy.

The fact of the matter was the elf has installed electricity
which seemed to travel down a cord with three prongs
The other confused fairies looked upon her with pity
and thought she should not go where magic belongs.

She one day wished she could be a big glass screen star
it seemed to her that folk were jacks of all trades
she knew her dreams would come true held in her jar
and that one day she would wear proper clothes of many shades.

She positioned herself in front of the screen with her cash
and as if by magic the screen lit up and music played
and people were talking in front of her like a surprised flash
she was in her element, she was speechless, she was amazed.

The tree that held the screen confirmed there was another world
The images seemed real, they were moving, they could speak
her brain was on fire,  she listened. learned, and she uncurled
settling into her leaf, she could sit here any day of the week.

She put out her clothes each night on her tiny chair
for her day to be spent in front of the magic glass screen
it was important to her what she chose to wear
she did not want to be scruffy for the electric machine.

She watched television from morning to night fall
she made friends with new fairies and blue butterflies
she had become an expert on everything, anything at all
she was a television star, she was the fairy with square eyes.

"He talks too much
All day and every day"
He said to her.
"Got more teeth than most
much better than mine"
She said to him.
"Do you think he will stay"
He said to her.
"If he does it will cost"
She said to him.
"To what degree, that's the part
He said to her.
"It's the first bite out of the jam ****"
She smiled at him.

The anticipation, the excitement, the passion
Heart pounding like it's going out of fashion

The magic,  the memories it will bring
White dress, white pearls, golden ring.

Choirs, flower girls with a youthful smile
Archways to walk under and pose for awhile

Growing old together, till death do they part
Still the first kiss as an effect on the old heart

It still beats with a passion, but a slower pace
and the lips taste the same from the same face

The feelings, the vows that they kept are still the same
It is the look of love, the taste that ignites the flame.

The first kiss was recorded on the oak tree in the park
where they both shall lie eternally when it gets dark

Always together, forever that was written in stone
Hand in hand they lie and they will never lie alone.

Inside your body,
there is a brass band playing
Your heart is beating to the drum.
Your nerves are the guitar strings
and you have symbols in your tum.
Your knees dont need any instrument
they are knocking by themselves.
Your teeth have life of their own too.
Your hands are shaking, dont know why.
And butterflies are whirling in your brain.
There she is, dolled up to the nines
Lipstick is going to be on your shirt.
You will smell like Heaven and that is okay.
And your words have just floated down the drain.
Your cheeks have turned a rich and **** red
Just like the colour of her dress.
Is your shirt ironed properly, she will inspect it
Is it hot off the press?
Have you the right words to say, do not get this wrong
Say the right words and in the right order
Or you will pay for it all of your life long.
Then there is the kiss, oh the first kiss
Memory that will stain your lips for true.
Pucker up lad,have you washed your teeth
Do you know the right and wrong thing to do?
Then there is the love bit, oh the love thing.
Get the groove, set the pattern and hold her hand
Then when your stomach is churning like a dairy
and your juices thicken you can say "Marry Me".
Man up and dont start acting like a fairy.

Swimming around,
                                  and around,
                                                       nothing else to do
                                                                                      just wondering
                                                                                                                why he is blue.
        He saw another fish,
                                            it went around a dish,
                                                                                  on a high shelf,
                                                                                                             rather like himself.
                    That was white,
                                               de did not know what to do,
                                                                                               as he is blue.

It is enough to make any decent fairy cry
To have wings but not able to fly.
They were as white as milk
Soft and gentle as rich silk
But they would not flap and she did try.

Owning its space, living amongst freedom
Diving deep into a field of gold
Touching the fluffiness of the cloud
Keeping its beady eyes peeled.
The flight of an eagle,
Swooping, catching a mouse
The King of the birds of prey
Its path revealed.