It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
   I was small then
   She had a parakeet that landed on my head
   and a bathtub too
   with water so deep!
   and legs and claws!
   **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!

She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
   where bugs hung-out in the haze
   of teenage August
   I played in the tall weeds
   with a shoeless Italian boy
   who ate tomatoes like apples
   and cucumbers right off the vine!
   He was ***** free and foreign!
   We played— reckless, abandoned
   behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn   
   and through the endless fields
   I didn’t know....
   His name was Tony
   I ate pizza with him—the first time

At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
   but I could watch night flowers
   bloom on wallpaper
   She came in to say good night
   slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
   and I peeped her *******!
   like Tony’s cucumbers!
   I had never seen my mother’s wonders....

Night spread its wings from the old fan—
   a bird of tireless exhaustion
   whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
   tireless exhaustion
   tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
   stretched out on the whine
   of the overland trucks
   Route Five through the night of an open window

In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
   crickets    crickets    crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
   a summer child
   not yet ready for the fall of answers

Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
   I followed her everywhere I could
   I was small then--    
   do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
   of being sixteen
   and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
   while she tied her sneakers
   against the mattress by my head

I followed Maureen (in my mind)
   tanned and bandanned
   to work in the fields of shade tobacco
   with all those Puerto Rican boys!
   She knew where she was going!

I was small then
...do anything for a stick of  gum

“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
   ...through the goldenrod of roadside
   through the smell of oil that damped the dust    
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
   and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
   the way the screen door slammed
   on her bright behind
   the way her lips taunted and took
   the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen

I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!

Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”

Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)

…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’

“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”

It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
   I was small then
   She had a parakeet that landed on my head
   and a bathtub too
   with water so deep!
   and legs and claws!
   **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!

She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
   where bugs hung-out in the haze
   of teenage August
   I played in the tall weeds
   with a shoeless Italian boy
   who ate tomatoes like apples
   and cucumbers right off the vine!
   He was ***** free and foreign!
   We played— reckless, abandoned
   behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn  
   and through the endless fields
   I didn’t know....
   His name was Tony
   I ate pizza with him—the first time

At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
   but I could watch night flowers
   bloom on wallpaper
   She came in to say good night
   slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
   and I peeped her *******!
   like Tony’s cucumbers!
   I had never seen my mother’s wonders....

Night spread its wings from the old fan—
   a bird of tireless exhaustion
   whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
   tireless exhaustion
   tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
   stretched out on the whine
   of the overland trucks
   Route Five through the night of an open window

In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
   crickets    crickets    crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
   a summer child
   not yet ready for the fall of answers

Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
   I followed her everywhere I could
   I was small then--    
   do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
   of being sixteen
   and woke to Peggy Lee’s “Fever”
   while she tied her sneakers
   against the mattress by my head

I followed Maureen (in my mind)
   tanned and bandanned
   to work in the fields of shade tobacco
   with all those Puerto Rican boys!
   She knew where she was going!

I was small then
...do anything for a stick of  gum

“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
   ...through the goldenrod of roadside
   through the smell of oil that damped the dust    
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
   and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
   the way the screen door slammed
   on her bright behind
   the way her lips taunted and took
   the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen

I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!

Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”

Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)

…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, be-boppin’

“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
_


Peggy Lee's Fever:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4hXyALR9vI
I was seven years old, but I somehow got this.

Perhaps the greatest tennis player the World has ever seen
She had won nine Grand Slam tournaments before she was nineteen
Till her marvellous tennis career was prematurely ended in such a tragic way
Thrown from her horse her foot was crushed that's life as some might say.

The marvellous Maureen Connolly the greatest tennis player of her time
Her great career had ended long before she had reached her prime
Nine grand slams as a teenager her record may never be beat
She won every grand slam tournament in which she did compete.

The greats of present day tennis we hear so much about
Though 'tis not on their greatness we ever cast a doubt
But of nine Grand Slams as a teenager none of them can boast
To the late Maureen Connolly we ought to drink a toast.

Great tennis players like the Seasons they come and then they go
But there was only one Maureen Connolly the legendary 'Little Mo'
Nine Grand Slams as a teenager believe it if you may
The champion amongst champions her record stands today.

TEACHING TIMOTHY TO READ
( for Maureen )

She is teaching Timothy
to read

even though she
can't read herself.

Tongue firmly in cheek
she traces the words

with a tiny fingertip
that knows the story

off by heart she
could read it in the dark.

She is "pretending reading."
She has my every nuance and pause

by rote
making great efforts

to teach Timothy
the puppy

but Timothy the puppy
is more interested in

the un-thrown stick.

Timothy the puppy thinks this reading lark is
strictly for the humans.

"Once..." she begins
in a Fairy Tale-ish voice.

Timothy the puppy
barks in acknowledgement.

"Throwthestickthrowthestick!"
Timothy the Puppy's mind thinks.

"...upon a time
a long long time

...ago!"

Timothy the puppy looks
adoringly at his little mistress

with such an immensity of love and
licks her finger as it

travels over the words
the story's journey.

"Oh you..!" she scolds
"...are not even paying attention!"

"It's no good...I give up!"
she frowns at the unhappy creature

throwing the book away
in a prissy hissy fit.

Timothy the puppy
full of the joys of

a dog's life
( it's the only life he knows )

chases the fluttering pages
that fly like an exotic bird

brings Hans Christian Anderson back
his mouth full of words.

rossy cheeks and pretty eyes,
pointed nose and lovely smiles.
humbly speaks in every way,
gets more beautiful day by day.

she walks as if her soul is on fire,
that many people really admire.
she can barely make my heart flutter,
even by just standing right in the corner.

many people tried to bring her down,
but she didn’t let them take her crown.
though haters hate her even more,
her kindness remains, that’s what I really adore.

confidently proud of what she is,
she’s just really such a masterpiece.
appeared to be soft but defeats blunt with keen,
how can you not love a girl like Maureen?

TEACHING TIMOTHY TO READ
( for Maureen )

She is teaching Timothy
to read

even though she
can't read herself.

Tongue firmly in cheek
she traces the words

with a tiny fingertip
that knows the story

off by heart she
could read it in the dark.

She is "pretending reading."
She has my every nuance and pause

by rote
making great efforts

to teach Timothy
the puppy

but Timothy the puppy
is more interested in

the un-thrown stick.

Timothy the puppy thinks this reading lark is
strictly for the humans.

"Once..." she begins
in a Fairy Tale-ish voice.

Timothy the puppy
barks in acknowledgement.

"Throwthestickthrowthestick!"
Timothy the Puppy's mind thinks.

"...upon a time
a long long time

...ago!"

Timothy the puppy looks
adoringly at his little mistress

with such an immensity of love and
licks her finger as it

travels over the words
the story's journey.

"Oh you..!" she scolds
"...are not even paying attention!"

"It's no good...I give up!"
she frowns at the unhappy creature

throwing the book away
in a prissy hissy fit.

Timothy the puppy
full of the joys of

a dog's life
( it's the only life he knows )

chases the fluttering pages
that fly like an exotic bird

brings Hans Christian Anderson back
his mouth full of words.

Maureen the mean lottery playing machine
when I see her  I mutter something obsene.
sometimes it's seven am on a Saturday morning
and she shows up with no warning.
"ill take a three number on the daily,
I could call her a loser and she can just pay me
behind her there is always a line
and when she buys donuts that's a bad sign
because she's always camping out in her car
And she never goes very far
when she comes back in I can feel my heart sinking
she's my reason to maybe start drinking
"I really have to go shopping"
but not before dropping
more money on tickets  then I make all week
because fortune is what she seeks
she smokes basics but only the hard packs
when she hits the million I hope she doesn't have a heart attack
"these tickets are terrible." she keeps playing
There's a disconnect between what she's saying
and what she does
but that's because
she has a terrible affliction
a gambling addiction
"two brown cash two silver sevens and one golden spin
the odds are stacked against her so she can't win
maybe she can't see
what it looks like to me
she's blinded by a tiny prospect of glory
but sadly this is just one telling of a popular story

!WAKEY WAKEY!
( for Maureen )

Every morning I
delighted in her

jumping into her skin
eager to begin

being her
all over again.

New to her self
as if she had only been

minted that very minute
her own self invented.

Touching the world
with her sense of self

chasing after dust motes
trying to clutch sunlight

creeping up on a honeysuckle's
scent

snatching at music
in the air

begging the world
to come out to play.

awkward is a promiscuous word. it flirts unintentionally. it seduces mentally. but most of all it's so disruptionally absurd even the first-come-first-serve basis comes 15 feet behind the typical quota. but it really isn't that serious. it would be awkward plus if i wasn't active right now. does that sound appealing to anyone? well it better. i'm no vanguard when it comes to distribution of emotions. they'll be distributed equally, thank you, and don't worry about getting more 'cause they'll be pieced out safe and fair. lord jesus, we need some sorrow-getter-overs in here! i'm always telling those who ask me for advice to relinquish the suffering and let the good times roll. not that it'll save their hides, i snicker mimically and divert the attention to something inappropriately interesting, like a ***** bumper sticker or a animal corpse on the side of the road. and you are gonna turn into one if you don't stop that crying! man i need some fresh air and i'm not talking about the innocent kind. it's more of the obvious, over-cynical cyanide-soaked air that formaldehyde would blush over. there are two r's in sorrow because the s and the o and w need to be capsized into one rowboat. i never thought i would compromise intimacy with loudspeaker attention-grabbers and then the sailboat does a belly-flop and lands head first in the witches' cauldron. which is like Hamlet's, but a lot less systematic and bunches more pagan. it's synthetically miserable but enigmatically moral. dance of the morals is another program i like. it has to do with the regard of selfish hope and loose pragmatism. pagan! ****** i know it's pagan but it's pigheaded trash like that which gets stuck in the garbage disposal ever so often and we don't have no time to clean it out. i use a fish net that once occupied a corner near the stove which had the net chewed through by ***** rats that inhabit the lower quarters of the bathhaus. it's nothing significant really but more or less a principle in not making leftovers from the unknown trashpile near the barn. attention: entrance alert. "too bad for" who cares. i'm sick of this. "too bad for". that's all said? "let's chat a lot" what? i thought maureen was coming over at 7? who left the cat out again--the dog's gonna have a field day playing cops and robbers, and there are always reallive guns. and i'm stuck back at square/ground one/zero figuring out how i'm gonna get the next day's meal without having to cut off my head or make the microsoft paper clip icon appear with those embarrassing clips telling you how you should appear to your boss on your first interview. and find out that he's a man after all. and ultimately regret what you said every two minutes. wish i had contributed crescents more to the goodness, and not brush over like a stuckist's paintbrush. he's actually using blood instead of acrylics- that's when i get running. wish i hadn't have done that. wish i hadn't. we "hadn't" too much, you know? i wish we had to have "hadn't" before it hadn't have been created. still my emotions are sold and i've cast a mold far too ugly to be a stupid cupid. can we get on with the show, please? no thank i've had enough cranberry pie for right now, maybe buttercup the parrot can have the rest? the cat hates water. then why is he swimming in the dog dish? i'm not complaining, just hesitating to say how i feel when i want it. yeah, i know you're looking at me make a sucker outta myself on your camera. all those poses weren't hard to accomplish but you aggrandize the bad and disregard that i actually have good talent after all. crazy 8s. thought i'd never compromise. thought i'd never make a sport out of tantalizing the shopkeeper's parakeet. yeah, they're playing that game everyone calls a bore cuz it is one. why not roast a marshmallow then find a salamander caught between the chocolate and the *******. and we can't have them crackers anyways cuz there's got gluten in them. can we take a walk, i have something to tell you? i have to tell you about my personal life. i don't care if you're bored. darwin was never bored, fyi. i don't want to hear your juvenile complaints anymore. you're always telling me your problems but you never let me talk. but why would you care? and no way am i gonna share? not there. still. you're still not coming around cuz you're crying and i can't take it anymore. stop the tears, i already told you just take another pill and you'll relax. your life can stop in a heartbeat because some freak told you to stop ******* with the power outlet and make an attempt on making it right. how am i gonna make it right? seems good to me to get up and go and never return. seems right to let it all hang lose and think of excuses as a way to win some money. i'm not the principle breadwinner around here, but i'd bake enough bread to feed an army if i had to. a whole cohort of emotional bigots who don't care anything about their stupid, money-******* societies. it's leveled to the drain again, yeah i know you don't understand. i'm done asking. please? do it for me? don't you know i'm hurting myself because... i'm not listening. don't you want to know i'm cutting my flesh because... i have to water the garden. oh dear what was that? whew! almost another collision with a bee. whew--another close one. what about the spiders in the cabbage bed? what why didn't you tell me? yeah, the cabbage patch has produced more memories than heads, and no not those types of heads. a mashup of what i hate most and what i hate least scourged outta me in a whirl. she's going to take a walk. the radio's on and it's hot in here. those maudy days of summer, but i love every shred of them like i do a coat in the winter. the radio's playing my song: doomsday magnificat! i like leather and metal combinations that are sold in a 60s oz town. you can tie and whip me if you conscience can, but not now. it's another adage gone to the birds. oh no the shopkeeper's parrot is out again and i didn't do it! how come i'm blamed for things i don't do? get over it. another fact of life. another testimonial head my way. dodge! that was a flying saucer that almost razed your head. you wouldn't care though because enough has happened today to make your head spin even faster than it already is. and they're real-live which makes me keeping fumbling my too-short curls disintegrated by sheer chauvinism and belated princeness. that's alright. i know how you feel. i know how the world feels because i am the world. and the world is my canvas. and i may dictate what you are allowed and i may waver onto what laws of principalities are shooting up everywhere, but it's okay 'cause there's a lot more to shoot than good time. and those wacked people can form an alliance and take down the stronghold because in reality, you know that you are wacked yourself to say that. i'm sorry you did. the world will keep spinning, snipers will keep killing, conservatives will keep protesting, parents will keep levitating, children will keep withholding, the days will keep heating, the pool will be more refreshing, and yeah mrs. renttib is still coming over. the world is new. and i am young. but we will all stay safe and good in this empyrean. because and i created it. and i established the surveillance cameras, which are everywhere, but don't feel pressed. yes, i'll forever watch your every move, and even though you've done good, i'll still send you to hell. because you belong there. you may begin now. make your tread strong yet gentle. it's not my expense, the water is cooler out here,
                                                                ­                             anyways.

‘There were noises up in the attic
When I arose today, Maureen,
Have you been storing your batik
Up on the shelves, for the shelves aren’t clean!
I said you shouldn’t go prying there,
There is nothing up there to see,
Just things I cast from a hazy past
Before your marriage to me.’

‘I keep all my art and craft downstairs
In the cupboard, next to the door,
You’ve watched me folding my batik there
So what would you ask me for?’
‘I only wondered,’ her husband said,
‘Those scrabbles, they could have been rats,
More reason never to venture there…’
‘I’ll bring in the neighbours cats!’

She smiled, and blew him a kiss just then,
They hadn’t been married long,
They’d worked together for six long months
When she only knew him as John.
But after the office party, and
That cupboard, under the stairs,
A half a jug of Bacardi, and
They knew, the future was theirs.

She heard the scrabbling overhead
On a Sunday, lying in,
And what seemed like a rattle of chains
Though she thought, it couldn’t have been.
John Dean was out at the supermart
So she scrambled out of bed,
Pulled down the ladder and mounted it
To the attic, overhead.

The hatch slid back from a faulty catch
And she peered, up into the gloom,
There were spiders webs and rusty beds,
And dust, in that grim old room,
She saw what looked like a cabin trunk,
Padlocked, and covered in chain,
And another trunk with an open lid…
She climbed down the ladder again.

At lunch, she mentioned the sounds she’d heard
And she watched her husband’s face,
He seemed quite distant, then perturbed,
Got up and began to pace.
‘You haven’t been up in the loft, Maureen,
That attic is out of bounds!’
‘Well listen to you, the stern John Dean!
How do you think that sounds?’

They didn’t talk for another day
But her anger was aroused,
While he went up to the attic twice,
Mad at the scene he’d caused.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said,
It’s just that it’s full of dirt.’
But she shrugged off his excuses, she
Was playing at being hurt.

She searched the house for the padlock key
That had locked the trunk in chain,
Then finally found it on his ring,
And slipped it off again.
She waited until the coast was clear
With John Dean not around,
Climbed the ladder and opened the trunk
With the key that she had found.

Just as she went to raise the lid
His head appeared in the hatch,
‘Sorry it’s come to this, our kid,
You’re about to meet your match.’
The lid went up and she looked aghast
At the woman, speared with a knife,
‘Maureen, please meet Deborah Dean,
She was my former wife.’

She pulled the knife from the woman’s throat
And she pointed the blade at him,
‘Don’t think you’ll ever do that to me,’
Her voice was dour and grim.
‘That open trunk is your future home,’
He said as he locked the hatch,
‘You’ll jump right in and you’ll close the lid
When you hear the giant rats!’

David Lewis Paget

You caught me in a dangerous moment
When my heart was in a deep torment
You've given me hope, you've given me a chance
To continue this wonderful romance

I don't know how can I possibly start
To thank you for healing my ached heart
What I know is that I'm falling for you
And this wonderful feeling is true

Now it's in yours, where my heart belongs
Come with me and I'll sing this song
A love like this, I've never ever seen
Oh how I love you my baby Maureen

I hope this moment shall never ever end
With you, baby, my most important friend
I'll go with you wherever it would take me
And my love will stay forever it will be

Shucking peas on the back steps
Maureen and I watch her Mum,
My Aunt Grace,
Arguing with Aunt Edna
In the kitchen
The narrow kitchen
Of number 84 Truro Road
As they whip a Sunday lunch into shape
A test match drones on the radio
The aroma of mint on new spuds teases.
It’s a modest roast
Served in the tiny parlor
To nine of us!
Eating elbow to elbow
With yellow handled knives and forks
Down to the bare porcelain
Waiting for the apple pie
with Libby’s.
That crust, with sugar sprinkles
Is a lifetime goal for me!

A midnight ship with silver sails
And hoisted flags with scarlet tails
Is whisked by winds of golden gales
                    Descending from the skies above.

And though the decks are wet and soaken,
Still the hull is swift and oaken
So the course remains unbroken,
                    Trailing wakes of turtledoves.

With storm departed, then no sooner
Comes, unseen, a pirate schooner
Neath the nighttime, light and lunar,
                    Pouncing with a push and shove.

Though hope seems lost, a cyclone saves
Dispersing foes and other knaves
With frothy foamy ****** waves
                    Which strike like leaden leather gloves.

Secured, the ship has safely landed
- Left behind, the pirates stranded -
Passers-by are smiling candid,
                    Knowing not the worth thereof.

For hidden in the wooden hold
Is treasure bursting unforetold
- Far more than diamonds, thyme and gold -
                    It brings unbound a brother’s Love.

I cried for three days, when Maureen O´Hara died
>
> her Hazel brown eyes, drove me insane,
>
> those flaming Red curls of Auburn hair,
>
> legs as slender as the falling rain.
>
>
> Treasured memories of herself and Wayne ,
>
> The Quiet Man, will never be the same.
>
> a twinkle in her eye, a sparkle in her teeth,
>
> The star played the ball, had the world at her feet.
>
>
> As the years rolled on, Maureen's flame began to wane,
>
> Arthritis set in, she was in a lot of pain.
>
> when the final curtain fell, we swore in Vain,
>
> We´d never , ever get an Irish Red Setter again.

TEACHING TIMOTHY TO READ
( for Maureen )

She is teaching Timothy
to read

even though she
can't read herself.

Tongue firmly in cheek
she traces the words

with a tiny fingertip
that knows the story

off by heart she
could read it in the dark.

She is "pretending reading."
She has my every nuance and pause

by rote
making great efforts

to teach Timothy
the puppy

but Timothy the puppy
is more interested in

the un-thrown stick.

Timothy the puppy thinks this reading lark is
strictly for the humans.

"Once..." she begins
in a Fairy Tale-ish voice.

Timothy the puppy
barks in acknowledgement.

"Throwthestickthrowthestick!"
Timothy the Puppy's mind thinks.

"...upon a time
a long long time

...ago!"

Timothy the puppy looks
adoringly at his little mistress

with such an immensity of love and
licks her finger as it

travels over the words
the story's journey.

"Oh you..!" she scolds
"...are not even paying attention!"

"It's no good...I give up!"
she frowns at the unhappy creature

throwing the book away
in a prissy hissy fit.

Timothy the puppy
full of the joys of

a dog's life
( it's the only life he knows )

chases the fluttering pages
that fly like an exotic bird

brings Hans Christian Anderson back
his mouth full of words.

!WAKEY WAKEY!
( for Maureen )

Every morning I
delighted in her

jumping into her skin
eager to begin

being her
all over again.

New to her self
as if she had only been

minted that very minute
her own self invented.

Touching the world
with here sense of self

chasing after dust motes
trying to clutch sunlight

creeping up on a honeysuckle's
scent

snatching at music
in the air

begging the world
to come out to play.

The words I wrote before
were mean spirited
vile
and yet completely true.

Someone once told me,
"There are no wrong emotions,"
one fo the many lessons I've taken
to my spirit.

I never thanked you,
you're the one who
       turned my life on a more spiritual path
       taught me that there are others like me in the world
       & loved me for being me, something few folks do.

Being part of the gasoline
that fueled the burning of our bridges
is one of two things I shall regret
in this lifetime.
Though I am hopeful other lives
in the future smoke
will give us a chance to reconnect.

I'm proud of our times together,
saddened our hang ups hung us.

There's always going to be a place
you occupy in my brain
whether you want to be there or not.
Your poetry still moves me.

I can't forget you.
But, that doesn't mean
you don't have to.

HOW TO COUNT TO OVER FOUR...HUNDRED BILLION!
( for Maureen )

She makes a nest
in my lap.

Teddy, her blue blanket and
a twig and a stone she adopts.

The twig is
her newest bestest friend.

She watches THE KING AND I
from this eyrie.

Thumb in mouth she
soaks it all up.

The world decanted
into music.

Later as I kiss her
goodnight

stars cluster about her
bedroom window.

"How many stars are
there?"

"Oh, I don't know...over
400 billion I suppose!"

She starts to count
what she can see

reaches ten and then
begins again.

Ten is all
she can count.

Then sleepy she
whispers

"etc., etc., etc.!"

She's been enjoying her time while living and working in London.

And Nicole Kidman was clearly thrilled to be one of the star guests at The 60th Women Of The Year Luncheon & Awards in the British capital on Monday afternoon.

The 48-year-old actress - who is currently starring in West End play Photograph 51 - cut a beautiful figure in a multi-tonal lace dress as she arrived at the prestigious event, held at the InterContinental London Park Lane.

The willowy beauty covered her slim figure in the mid-length dress, made up of several different lace panels in pale lilac, purple, yellow, black and white.

Cinching in at her slender waistline, the dress billowed out into a full A-line skirt, and also included long sleeves.

A Victoriana-style high-necked black lace section finished off the gorgeous garment, giving her a serene, ladylike air.

The Australia actress teamed the eye-catching dress with a pair of strappy black heels with pointed toes, and a tiny black box clutch.

Her pale red locks were swept back into a chic updo, her mid-length fringe framing her face.

The actress' bright blue eyes were highlighted with just a touch of mascara, and her beauty look was pulled together with a pretty pink shade on her lips.

Nicole was one of many star guests at the annual central London event, held to honour amazing women across all industries.

The famous event, which paid special tributes to six remarkable women from all fields, saw plenty of other star guests in attendance, with 400 in total at the luncheon.

After rising to fame as the winner of this year's The Great British Bake Off, Nadiya Hussain was one of the star attendees at the highly-significant ceremony.

The talented baker and busy mum, 30, rocked a simple and chic ensemble of slim-fitting black trousers and a crisp blue blazer, and bright turquoise heels.

Another familiar face was singer/songwriter Katie Melua, who opted for a cool androgynous ensemble.

The Call Off The Search hitmaker showed off her lovely long legs in a pair of black leather trousers, teamed with a sheer white blouse, a blazer and a cute black ribbon ******* around the collar.

Writer-comedian-actress Meera Syal rocked a typically unconventional ensemble as she arrived, cutting a striking figure in a bold patterned shirt dress with a lovely long black scarf and a jacket thrown over the top.

Princess Diana's glamorous niece Lady Kitty Spencer channelled a power-dressing 1980s vibe in a standout black shirt dress with bright, colourful buttons donw the front.

The pretty blonde finished her luncheon look with a chunky white clutch bag and perspex heels.

Choreographer and former Strictly Come Dancing star Arlene Phillips was a chic addition to the guest list in a figure-hugging red dress, and TV presenter and journalist Julie Etchingham wowed in an understated taupe dress with an origami-folded skirt and matching cropped jacket.

Also in attendance were the likes of Dame Esther Rantzen, TV's Lorraine Kelly - who was glorious in a gold lace frock - Maureen Lipman, Mary Nightingale, Jo Brand and

The Women of the Year winners were whittled down and chosen by a panel of notable, accomplished women: Sandi Toksvig CBE, Sue MacGregor CBE, Dame Tessa Jowell MP, Baroness Doreen Lawrence OBE, Jane Luca, Ronke Phillips, Eve Pollard OBE, Lisa Markwell, Gill Carrick and Sue Walton.

And viewers of popular morning programme, ITV's Lorraine, were also able to vote for their Inspirational Woman of the Year via a phone poll.

Sandi, President of the Women of the Year Awards, said: 'Women of the Year has celebrated the wonderful achievements of women since 1955.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

!WAKEY WAKEY!
( for Maureen )

Every morning I
delighted in her

jumping into her skin
eager to begin

being her
all over again.

New to her self
as if she had only been

minted that very minute
her own self invented.

Touching the world
with here sense of self

chasing after dust motes
trying to clutch sunlight

creeping up on a honeysuckle's
scent

snatching at music
in the air

begging the world
to come out to play.

Lost your *** and spent your gold
Drunk all night and you were told
The Murphy girls have brothers ninefold...
So, have you an inkling this mornin'?
Don't say you had no warnin'!

Gee those Murphy girls sure are pretty
But now your listening to this "told ya so" ditty
Got a bit fresh and way too giddy...
So now your hurting this mornin'
At least last night wasn't boring!

So next year's the same when put'n on the green
Remember the date it's March Seventeen
Kathleen, Maureen, Colleen do preen...
Just to count your gold in the mornin'
So don't be a leprechaun hornin'

A polemic:
— noun
a controversial argument, as one against some opinion, doctrine, etc.; a person who argues in opposition to another; controversialist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


our principals have principles.
principles as long and as shallow as a
tv sound bite.

give me ten careful good persons who have the courage to say,
I am unsure.

men and women who can acknowledge that
doubt never changes never ends.

who do not lie with sweet surety
for the cameras to salve their self-knowledge of
prideful lies, yet ashamed of their piece prizes.

when you cannot pay back that student loan,
email them asking for the ten bucks back
you once sent them.

liking the sound of their voice filled
with hackney trite, and give us tripe,
not once but over and over again,
with greater ease of the groove,
then oops, a single apology,
now that they have taken away your choices.

doctors who do not plagiarize
with reckless abandon,
whose credentials are self-certified

mislead so ease.

Bill gets $700,000 to make a speech.
He charges only $500,000 for old friends.
Poor Hillary, she gets a trifling $200,000

Ask Maureen of the New York Times
tells the truth between the
news that is filtered then called
fit to print.

But when they say,
see me and believe,
then send
me ten bucks, once more into the breech,
go and register to vote instead.

we have sacrificed our ability of hard reflection
on an altar of mushy easy cheap construction,
accepting polemics as political philosophy.

we chose this.
we yearn for crumbs of certainty
in these uncertain times.

how we long for a man who can say
unhesitatingly:
let us try this
and if not perfect,
edit and change,
even start over again.

doubt never changes never ends.
seek out these men.
s  elect them.

Tell me something you know
with utter confidence that
men have constructed
that cannot be improved.

when I gaze upon the poems
of my early days,
see the typos
and the hackneyed,
I amend, even delete.

doubt never changes never ends.

outside the fortress walls
behind that you hide,
your enemies are
constructing new technologies
capable of going under over through
the old concrete
of yesterday's stale minds, worse,
molding the lazy ones.

Those who are certain
never confess that
their actions can have
evil consequences,
until you put them in the docket.

then they say,
I did not know.
they knew.

they say
I was only following orders of the
principals.

The worst is yet to come.
The tv is on and the soundbite lies
unceasing.

Those who get played,
are the ones who did not play,
but watched tv.

The owl and the ***** cat
went to sea in a boat
without an oar
When the boat sailed home
the cat was alone
and the owl was no more

Hey ****** ******
I’ll tell you a riddle
and I bet you’ll never guess
That Jack B. Nimble
was Jack B. Quick
beneath Miss Muffet’s
dress

Little Sol Hornstein
sat next to Maureen
eating his Christmas
pie
He stuck in his fork
and pulled out some pork
And said ‘what a bad
Jew am I’.

Wee Willie Winkie
Tiptoes through the house,
Upstairs, downstairs
Quiet as a mouse.
Closing every window,
Locking every door,
Drinking all his daddy’s beer
And barfing on the floor

The hippy dippy spider
went uptown to score
He got a bag of ****
from the hippy dippy
store
He smoked up all that
**** with his hippy
dippy friends
So the hippy dippy spider
went uptown again

There was a crooked man
Who walked a crooked mile
He met a crooked woman
Who wore a crooked smile
He brought her to his crooked house
And upon his crooked bed
He had his crooked way with her
(And now the ***** is dead)

(And from an old restroom wall)

Georgie Porgie, puddin' and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry
When the boys came out to play
(He kissed them too cuz' he was gay)

This tough front,
This altogether unlikeable first impression,
This mean, crude obnoxious scumbag,
This despicable misogynist,
This cynical misanthropic madman,
“Wassup wit dat?”
Enquiring fans of poetry want to know.
Simply stated, 'tis my oldest modus operandi,
Self-protective, learned street behavior;
My don’t-****-with–me first line of defense.
Surely some form of survival mechanism;
Meant in the narrow psychological sense.
Evidence of mental health or illness,
My cloaking device and shield,
Gift from Jove, my goombah father.
Dad: a powerful force in any child’s universe—
Be the patriarch dead, absent, retired on the job,
Out of the picture, just plain missing--or insane,
The latter, something you may not
Want to know about your gene pool.

So I’m really just a *****.
Forgive the expression, Germaine Greer.
A pussycat and big old teddy bear,
Mr. Sensitivity:
Wiping a warm washcloth between your legs.
Across puffed & pouted lips, gently.
After shooting a load of *** into you.
Or on your face: Spumante!

No, strike that last part.
Let’s start again.
I am a kind soul, a precious man.
The sort who likes animals;
Puppies, especially, and kittens too.
Savoring sunsets and flowers,
I serve you sweet gelato & Asti.
Sometimes I’ll spumante you with original love poetry.
My Muse: your gorgeous body delights me,
Your brilliant mind & noble spirit inspires.
Each night of the week I surprise you,
Prepare for you an exquisite home-cooked gourmet meal.
Served with your favorite Pinot Noir,
Brought to your elegant, candlelit dining room table,
By yours truly, wearing only a scarlet bow tie
And black silk jockstrap.
(Starting to get into this, Maureen Dowd?)
Later I’ll run you a relaxing bath,
So you’ll have something to do,
While I wash the dishes, scrub the pots,
Do a load of whites, clean your bidet,
And Swiffer®  (www.swiffer.com) the entire house.

By then, you are ready for your nightly spa treatment,
A 15-minute, deep tissue massage,
Followed by a hot oil treatment.
Next up is 30 nonstop delirious minutes,
Me, going down on you, without
Seeking any ****** gratification for myself.
In the morning I’ll make macadamia nut pancakes,
Your favorite, and brew you a fabulous cup of coffee,
From freshly ground beans, very rare beans
Salvaged from Karen Blixen’s last crop, before the fire
Completely destroyed her plantation in Kenya.
"I had a farm in Africa, Babaloo!

You can go shopping from dawn to dusk
With Ruth Madoff, while I go out & lose my soul,
Selling Dominican Republic timeshares all day and all night . . .  
(Cue West Indies Calypso: “All Day, All Night, Mary Ann!”)
Calypso-Harry Belafonte Songs, Reviews, Credits,
Awards www.allmusic.com/album/calypso. 1956.)
I’ll still find the time to open up for you
A line of credit at your favorite nail salon.
I’ll pay for weekly bikini waxes, hair and Botox treatments,
And the odd cosmetic surgery you may require.
I’ll pay your cell phone bill; I’ll pay off your college loans.
I’ll send money to your extended family in the Ukraine.
Yeah, that’s the kind of guy I am.
Your life with me will be every woman’s dream.

And, if you believe that,
You soulless Ukrainian ****,
Then monkeys will fly out of my Wayne’s World ****,
You stupid capital C for ****-*******,
Capital B for *****.
THIS JUST IN:
“Arms and the Woman,”
An article in Time Magazine, conveys a statistic:
Some 20 million women in the U.S. own guns.
As the NRA instructs:
Guns don’t **** people.
Women with Glocks **** people.

You ******, exotic,
Beautiful creature.
I could not be more intrigued by you.

I drove, 46 miles,
to be screamed at for being late.

When I rolled in with a leather jacket
my lit cigarette,
you asumed I was this rebel.

Dangerous,
adventurous creature.

Dropped onto this earth
for your entertainment

That's exactlly what I am.
46 miles away from my home town.

My foam swords,
magic the gathering cards,
Dungeon and dragons playing self
packaged tightly in the lockbox
at my bedroom door.

Today, I am a persona poem.

My smolder is a gas mask.
you are the poison gas.

It was invented for survival
in the trenches with you.

I hold myself like a commander
shouting orders at my mind:

“Stop calling her beautiful, you maggot!
She wants you to take charge.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

...So uh...
What do you wanna do today?

“What do you think you're doing?
Don't give her options, Maggot!
Tell her where you're going!”

“Sir, yes, sir”

We're getting coffee.
her favorite coffee house

She gets a nutella mocha.
I get a 16oz almond milk maple syrup latte

She calls me a hipster,
I laugh, I don't disagree.
I give her the radio,

“What do you think you're doing maggot!?”

“trust me,
we need to find out what music she likes."

Show tunes.
Light bulb.
Rapport jackpot.

you ever heard of Rocky Horror?
Doctor Horribles Sing Along Blog?
Little Shop of Horrors?
Repo, The Genetic Opera?
Hedwig and The Angry Inch?

“What do you think you're doing maggot?
Don't fall in love with this girl."

“Sir, maybe, sir”

We walk the beach,
Singing showtunes
we know all the words.

“You're actually the first person
I've seen in real life from tinder...
I hear all these stories
couples meeting online
Getting murdered
I was half expecting you to **** me.”

“Well we didn't get to the end of the beach yet"

.... wait... is she serious?

"My boyfriends waiting
at the rocks down there
when we Start to ****
he's gonna jump out
slit your throat.
The redness of your blood
spilling on the rocks
is going to make me so,
*******,
Wet.”

"... I
.."

She texts her boyfriend
asks to kiss me.

Babe.
Babe.
C'mon Babe.
Really, Babe.
Babe.
Babe.
Babe.

I drive to portland in the rain
We park in the parking garage
There was free on street parking
but I don't
Understand...
Parking Signs...

“Good job, maggot.”
“Sir, yes, sir”

I drive the 46 miles back to kennebunk to drop her off.

She keeps my favorite shirt
because it smells like me.

when I get home.
I find her ******* in my backseat.

“You forgot something, Maureen"
when do we Tango again?

"When you pay my Rent,
You smug *******."

We used to sing a song
Of little children playing
Until the sun had completely gone
They chased the butterflies swaying
To and fro in the summertime
The teddy-bears and dolls
Danced and cheered to this song
Its sound beat with the passing years
And now, much later now
We sing different tunes
Not loudly in a gust of play
But few times when alone
And far from a neighbor's ear
It's not a song of children's cheer
But of lover's hearts that are dear
broken or estranged to another's sway

Few times when I browsed through those
Growing years
That little song comes knocking
And with it the happy games
And childish lines
And the setting of the sun
I see the close of day
But now it's darkness that'll next be my way
Those little children playing in the park
Didn't notice it was getting dark
How I now notice the quiet night
And the passing time
It's not the years that make me sad
Its comparing them.

You. You engulfe me. Over and over and over.

Relentless. Little weapon. Poxy.

Maureen of Blackpool. Readers' Wife of the Year 1988. Wife of the Year. 100% correct.

Goodbye sweet princess. The 4 in 1 will no longer taste of pure Korma. But

Jalfrezi

Yes, I used to be
What I used to be
But, you wanted me
More than I could've me
  
Oh! Yes, you wanted me
More than I wanted me
But I couldn't be
All that you wanted me to be
  
Yes, you wanted me
Yes, but I couldn't be
Even though you wanted me
But you couldn't be
  
No, you couldn't be
All that I wanted, Eve
So you couldn't see; and I couldn't see
Me and you believe; but do we' believe

“you having a bad week bri?”
hilary peers over the glass partition
between me and reality
“me? a bad week?
how can it be a bad week
when it’s only monday?”

but the truth is
it’s usually not
a great week
here for me
when my life is how it is
their lives are how they are

kayla had her baby
before christmas
haven’t seen sam
in forever
jennifer still doesn’t like
dressings or sauces
but she doesn’t call in her
usual every day anymore

still getting calls every morning
what’s the soup special?
barb drinks the same
cappuccinos as always
still can’t see properly but
she’s still trying
jim and dorothy like it when
i make their sandwich
because they say i’m the only
one who gets the chips right
nicadamus just didn’t
show up one day and
nobody quite knows
where he went

now mckenna walks
around the counter and
puts his arms around me
because i’m his girl
and him?
he’s my whole world

i bring mint brownies to the
brewery for the older couple
i smile when children smear
their grubby fingers across
the bake case that was just
cleaned and pretend it doesn’t
bother me to fish uneaten
coleslaw shards out of the drain

ray passed away
in july and nobody
told me because they
thought i knew
last week i find out rita
has gone on too
and the feeling in my
stomach sinks
into relief that she’s not
without him anymore

susan stops by sometimes
for lunch on her way to
see janice who is now
in the nursing home for good
and it’s better for her
but she doesn’t understand

the same faces come through
but a little tickle in the back
of my brain tells me some
of them haven’t been in
i can’t help myself from hoping
they’re all okay

new faces appear
i tell myself not to get
attached to them but after
weeks of making the same
items over and over just
the way they want
it gets hard not to see others
as an extension of my routine

the world is spinning
at an alarming rate
my heart is still running
at a declined pace

“well, breezer
between me and you”
maureen says
(she calls me breezer
and i call her a salve
to my cold 7am soul)
“i don’t blame you
you can’t stay here forever
and it’s a hard job
i couldn’t do it”

my mother tells me i’m not
going anywhere
maureen tells me there are
better things out there for me

and i tell myself i can
steep fulfillment into
complete strangers’
cups of tea

what i was saying to hilary
was that past a certain age
nobody tells you you’re
doing a good job
“we do in my office”
she says with a
who-hurt-you
expression

maybe in offices it works that way
but maybe i couldn’t force myself
into a plate glass cage where
telephones never stop
ringing and “coffee”
comes out of a k-cup

indecision
grinds its teeth
and i find myself clapping my
hands over the register and saying

“you’re doing your best!
you got this, c’mon
let’s get some espresso in you
and you’ll feel better
you can do anything
even get through today”

when i look in the mirror
i hear myself screaming
that all i have to do
is get through today
words echo through my
brain that i will get
through this
that i am smart
and beautiful and change
begins by knowing i am
worthy of better things

but i also realize it’s easier
to drown out the doubt
when you hear it from
someone else
so whoever and
wherever you are
if you need this affirmation, take it
pass it on, even

keep grinding, girl
you’re doing a great job

I am from the ever expanding library of my imagination.
From stories that I keep re-writing in my head.
From all the things that happened a lifetime ago to the hopes and dreams of tomorrow.
From the falling leafs in Autumn to the blossoming flowers in the Spring.  
From the smells of fresh cut grass, gasoline, and pine-sol.
From countless hours with my nose in a book.
From ‘Maureen Elizabeth I swear’ to ‘one more chance’ and getting ten.

I am from the ever expanding library of my imagination.
From the endless supply of golf ***** in the basement to the mountains of unopened Pepsi.
From the non working clock on the porch to the woods with our forts.
From ‘only one’ and taking five.
From ‘don’t get that on your clothes it’ll stain’ and ‘stop biting your nails,’ a habit I’m still trying to break.


I am from the ever expanding library of my imagination
From tickle wars that always end with my hiding or crying because I’m the most ticklish person you’ll ever meet.
From older siblings saying ‘there’s someone in the house’ to scare me to ‘Fight me!’ as a joke
From the holes in the walls from sibling or cousins fighting.
From endless hours that my siblings and I would spend cleaning and being mad at Mom.
From secret discussions to sneaking around and being caught.
From our “spy agency,” to ‘Mom and Josh are coming run!’

I am from the ever expanding library of my imagination
From the yellow van always parked in the lot
From the yelling of children outside.
From the cookouts at friends houses.
From fights to forgiveness.

I am from the ever expanding library of my imagination
From the inside of my head  
From my grandfather’s house
From the books I read.
From countless hours spent with siblings
From the ruined friendships of my past to the ones that’ll last a lifetime.
I am from the ever expanding library.