"nellie" poems
smelly the elephant came to town in a circus show
but from poor nellie the smell it used to flow
she just couldnt help it her feet were really bad
she was so unhappy and very very sad
people held there nose as she was passing bye
this it made her worse and she began to cry
then she asked the vet to see what he could do
he said i have a potion that i can give to you
he rubbed in the lotion and the smell it went away
they never smelt again to this very day
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Under the moonlight the creatures all glare
At a beautiful Fairy with rich Autumn hair
She crunches the leaves under foot where she treads
As she dances and giggles at the stars overhead!
This beautiful creature in a dress olive green
Comes out to play when the humans do dream
With mind like a child and a voice like a harp
She skips and she sings for the creatures of dark!
The mesmerised Hedgehogs, a line dance do they
Kicking their heels in the cold yellow hay
Most creatures around all decide to join in
Laughing and wearing their best Autumn grins!
Sweet Nellie Owl gives a “Twittery twoo!”
And she opens her wings to applaud all they do
Then all of the moths with formation of wings
Glide past with valour making circles of wind!
Then gusts stir the leaves in the chill of the night
And the beautiful Fairy just smiles with delight
She knows the display we’ll wake up to at morn
Golden leaves at our feet as the Autumn's now born!
© By LynnKaren
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
There was an old man, I once knew
Peaches was the name he used
He was the drunk, set on our trunk
his body old and abused
Sharing his beer with an old horse
who caroused in the end stall
Each day by three, they'd walk by me
and stumble but never fall
His liver was a lace doily
alcohol pickled him thin
He'd been turned down, all over town
no one ever took him in
He drank his beer with ole Nellie
she could tip a bottle too
Swig and sway, like Don Quixote
as they staggered, swirling, brew
We were headed for the races
this blustery afternoon
Each planned the trip, we had to ship
I knew we'd be leaving soon
From where we trained at the fairground
we carted them to the track
Where all would race, and take what place
each earned in front or in back
Peaches rode in back of the truck
so he could drink the whole way
My uncle said, he'd soon be dead
drinking had seen his decay
We sat apart from others there
he and I were best of pals
He'd tell me tales, of life’s travails
while I ogled all the gals
That day he shared a sordid tale
of pain he caused his own son
He had shouldered blame, bore the shame
for this thing that he had done
Back when he was just a young man
a pillar of support
He took his boy, his life’s great joy
to play their favorite sport
They went to a picnic that day
he had drank one too many
On the way, to watch his son play
of fears he hadn't any
His boy was riding in the back
not thinking they skipped the seat belt
He'd rolled his car, the door ajar
surprise was all he had felt
His boy was tossed out in a field
sweet clover of timothy
The child's light hair, seen lying there
remembered so vividly
"I was a Veterinarian"
said Peaches to my surprise
"I went insane, called out in vain
but God never heard my cries"
"So now I ride where I belong
In back of my self-made bar
Hoping he, will come to take me
by tossing me from the car"
Just then a tear fell from his cheek
the pain enveloped me too
Here cried a man, much deeper than
any of us ever knew
Tate
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
GRANDFATHER CLOCK
"When granda died
he turned into a clock!"
I was 7 or so, so this seemed
an acceptable fact.
"Oh we still kept him in the corner
wound him up every night."
I glanced at the nothing in the corner.
There was only a slab of sunlight dozing.
"Oh we had to pawn him
a long time ago!"
I gasped: "Noooo!"
"Oh he had to go
he had only one hand
and his pendulum
was broken."
Sam the dog barks
asks if I am coming out to play.
I of course am
coming out to play.
Auntie Nellie scolds
Uncle Michael.
"For God's sake Mikey
will ya ****** well stop!"
Mikey sticks his tongue in cheek
a characteristic tic.
"Can't ya see the poor child is
ejeet enough to believe ya!"
Whenever later I chance to meet
a clock that could be my granda
I touch its face tenderly
stroke the mottled glass
"Ahhh Granda!" I smile
giving him a great big hug.
"TickTock!" says granda
**** ****
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
SAD VALENTINES FOR BREAKFAST
Oh my how red **** struts(thinks he's a sultan)
striding in and out among his harem-scarum hens
talking to themselves
like some lost senile sentimental souls.
Foolish fowl!
They lay eggs for gentlemen
and kids on long hot summer holidays
they hide their eggs like broken hearts
like old love letter secrets
safe in unseen places.
But see Auntie Nellie willy-nilly as a fox
stalk the chickens and expose them
cruel as the NEWS OF THE WORLD.
See her raid the haystacks
(backseat of the old car)
rain rusting machinery
her apron pregnant and precious with
the warm and brown gift of eggs.
Red **** crows loud against the morning marigolds
while children's voices babble sleepily into wide awakefulness
love letter secrets staining their lips
sad valentines for breakfast.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 3:37 PM UTC
Jumping, bouncing and swinging from tree to tree
In a sparse forest just outside a village on the outskirts of Antananarivo
They adapt to the changes flung at them and strive to survive
On the ground a troop leaps sideways side by side in a straight line
What a comical spectacle
However solemn their purpose, they must find a home
The little one abaft of the line
Takes one last glimpse at the home he leaves behind
Oh it’s up in flames now and bulldozers knock down his trees
Beyond, just yonder
Over a hill further down south, the prospect is in sight
A new forest with new opportunities
It’s denser; it hasn't caught the eye of encroaching villagers
They forge on towards it in that spectacular procession
High up in the trees they mark their territory
Males call out to females and they howl in response
The young ones frolic in the underbrush
They mate, they eat, they thrive
Another forced migration
There they go again in that sideways march
More deforestation for infrastructure
There must be leeway for civilization one way or the other
One must wonder now
What future lies in store for these that have no place in government?
Their trails fade away from the Malagasy ecosystem
Their lives hang in a balance at the brink of extinction
Will our grandchildren ever get to appreciate
The extraordinary feats of agility they display
The gymnastics they perform from day to day
On the trees and on the ground in the jungle everyday
Ostentations of dramatic optical presentations
In their furry coats of monochromatic patterns
Perhaps they will disappear and my son’s sons may only get to
Read about them in the has been list of the annals of history
At this rate since erecting urban jungles
Of tar roads and skyscrapers is the order of the day
They might even be able to catch an obscure image of the lemur
In the form of a costumed trapezist mimicking one
Or a twisting contortionist in The Cirque Du Soleil
Nellie Nkosi
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
jack casual was a hard workin' man,
put bread on the table,
kept the roof over our heads,
and kept that dog, nellie, from gettin' 'er sorry be-hind run over.
yep, ol' jack was worth his salt.
he used to play his acoustic for us
when we were tikes,
back when we had an air conditioner.
when it broke down,
ol' gran-pappy,
jack's dad,
had him run out to the store to buy a window unit
and a slurpie.
then pappy would stagnate all day
in the back room while we sweltered,
and he'd send me on errands on my bike,
and read week-old newspapers,
and yell at jack to
"pay the god **** bills"
at four in the morning.
jack wanted to send him to a "home",
but mama never did like them.
she said they were "unsafe",
"unsanitareh",
and "unhospitible".
so gran-pappy stayed.
yes sir-ee, gran-pappy stayed
for three long years
with his banjo
and the growin' pile of slurpie cups in the corner
of that back room where it was cool.
until that one night
when gran-pappy called mama
a name the dog had done learned to respond to,
and mama said,
"jack,
just put him in the home!
a lady shouldn't be treated upon
in this mannuh."
that was the last i ever did see
of ol' gran-pappy,
but i still remember the last words he said to us:
"...and bring me back a slurpie,
it's one hot son of a ***** up in here
and i need somethin'
to cool me off a spell!"
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 3:29 PM UTC
watched three grey geese in a field fulled with wheat grazing
while Peter Piper pecked some Petunias
while Bitter Butter bit her lip gazing on the scene
of strangeness like writers on paper
wrapping alliterations softer than sleep
louder than firecrackers I had a dream.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
GOODBYE TO THE CIRCUS
( 'Oh! Nellie the elephant packed her trunks
and said goodbye to the circus...
off she went with a clumpity clump
...clump....clump... clump!
The head of the herd was calling...
far far away.' )
Auntie Nellie
died of:
drink, loneliness: & whatever...
(not necessarily in that order) .
And the farm that was
our young days summer holidays
cast her youth like so much pig slop
to the squelching grunt of
cow dung days
moo cow lowing years
until the dust collected and
settled in the corners
no one could reach....
Time left her like a Holy Picture
high above the mantle piece.
See the children
take the coloured cards in their hands
go play 'Fish in the Pool! '
Scream: 'Snap! '
Laugh at who is left to be:
'Old Maid! '
'Not me! '
'Not me! '
Time never took her
hand like a lover's...touch...
... Time...
...only...
...waited...
. . . for her.
In her loneliness
she read and re-read and lived on:
Aldous Huxley's - ISLAND.
She said...this said: 'Everything! '
Years, later...when she reads
like a fictional character in someone's story
when time no more ...mattered.
I travelled to her
ISLAND
and touched her LONELINESS.
felt her LONGING.
Auntie Nellie died of:
drink, loneliness: and whatever
(not necessarily in that order) .
...said goodbye to the circus......calling far far away...
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
The Dogwoods bloom in the name of Nellie ..
Anointed with Spring flowers .. Gardenia , Sunflower and Crape Myrtle ..
Whispering hymns , tolling the farm bell , calling her children home ...
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
We talked about the dance,
she said. Is that all? Yes,
well she did mention that
her man was late home
from work sometimes
and she misses him
before she has to leave
for the dance show,
but that's all. I see,
Fred said. Nellie looked
at him, brushed her hair.
Her dancing is faltering,
Nellie said. As if she
had other things on her
mind. What other things?
he asked. How do I know?
She didn't say. Unless she
thinks her man is cheating
on her? Do you think he is?
Fred said. He's the type who
would, Nellie said. What's
the type who would? I don't
know, but you can tell, there's
something about him gives
me the creeps. Women's
intuition? he said. You could
say that, she said. How comes
she doesn't have that intuition,
too? Fred said. She's in love with
him, love blinds, she said.
What are you dancing, tonight?
he asked. Swam Lake, she said.
She finished brushing her hair
and poured him a scotch and ice
and prepared to leave. He watched
her as she put on her coat, her
fingers buttoning up, her eyes
watching her hands in action,
her tongue poking over her
lower lip. He lifted his glass
of scotch, studied her ankles,
and had a long slow sip.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
it didn't used to be this way
leaving hours in decay
armadas sailing chalks of line
rotten days drop from the vine
princess killer hides her hole from burning
as the starlight stalks the skyline
the rain pounds the nails in yearning
we pollute our love with time
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Grandad never spoke.
Never spoke of war;
his war; 1914 -18 war.
Trenches, barb wire,
mud, blood.
Never spoke of it.
Drive the horses
and guns.
5'4" tall, fine framed.
Tattoo for love of Nellie
on his right arm.
Never spoke of what he saw.
Saw blood, mud, bodies,
horses and guns.
Granddad was quiet.
Soft spoken. Nightmares
haunted until he was woken.
Granddad never spoke.
War is no talking matter
-no joke.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
Cordon off the tombstone Nellie
Hide your spleen from sight,
Render clean the history Nellie
Make it all seem right.
Remember well your anger Nellie
How you stabbed so hard,
And buried deep your nemesis
Beneath the dunghill yard.
Wash your hands of blood my Darling
Rinse your eyes of bile,
Knowing that forgetfulness
Will help you for a while.
Tally up the score my Nellie
For bleak as it may seem,
Much lesser men have won at court
With margins half as keen.
Saddened eyes are weeping Nellie
They called you to account,
Rough rope at dawn around your throat
At yonder wooded mount
Call the baying hounds in Nellie
Tether them up tight,
For misery’s afoot with gallows
Trudging into sight.
Watch the darkness fade so softly
Bask in rising sun,
Savour these, your last sensation,
Now your time is done.
It’s tantamount to crying Nellie
Prone there as you lie,
Grey locks awry in meadow green
As brilliant blue eyes die.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
12 June 2010
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 1:10 PM UTC
you’ve lost that twinkle in your eye
your hair has dulled to gray
your hands are gnarled and cracked and dry
your memory slowly fades.
you’ll never get to hold her hand
you’ll never see her smile
her life on earth has just began
while yours has just a sweet short while
how I wish there was a way
that you could somehow feel
the love inside this little girl
whose name you’ll never know
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
One hundred years ago
My Mammy was just three,
The exact same age as me,
When she sailed us across the sea,
All those years ago.
Just lately, just now,
I said Mammy's Mammy's name out loud.
What was that, I asked.
For sure her name's not been said
For many, many years.
Margaret Duffy
A dog barked.
So I said my mother's:
Mammy
A breeze furled the window sheers.
The dog continued to yelp,
So I said her other names louder:
Brigid...........Nellie
I will keep the wind inside me,
And allow the dogs their day;
Your names will still be called upon,
In stress or tranquility.
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 6:06 PM UTC
Father Joe died that year.
The Benedictine monk
who’d got you through
the worst of things.
Cancer got him in the end.
Your youngest daughter
was born that year but
nearly lost some heart
**** up the docs fixed
with their box of tricks
and the hand from God
you guessed. A year you’d
listened to Nellie Melba
from old opera recordings
on your Walkman sitting
on trains to the hospital
and back having visited
the sick wife and babe
both on different wards.
Before the babe was born
you and your wife had
visited the abbey grounds
where Father Joe had been
laid to rest with a simple cross.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
In the wake of Poseidon we live our lives
Tossed to and fro as ships on stormy seas
Where the stability of land is nowhere in sight
****** into an invisible vortex
We hover about in a Bermuda triangle
And suffer our delirium
Ha ha! One way or the other we align to the moon
Her pale face resembles our own as we wallow in the throes of her curse
An incongruent blend of sanguine and melancholy disposition
And the crux of it all is how we cordially board
The vessel that sets us sail into the treacherous waters
Where sirens sing us to gloomy depths of emotional turmoil
Nellie Nkosi
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
On the backs of the women before us
Stands legacy and triumph,
Women like Anna Komnene
Who saved her father’s reputation, knew the classics,
And supervised hospitals,
Proving you can be royalty and brilliant,
Empress Wu,
The only known empress in early Chinese history,
Who challenged the norms for women liberation,
On the backs of the women before us,
Are the Roasies,
The strong women who joined industry and steel during World War 2,
Doing a man’s job,
Showing women have muscle,
A group known as the night witches
Women who bombed Nazi’s in the darkest hours,
Showing women can fight,
On the backs of the women before us,
Sacajawea,
Who at 16 trekked the mid-west with Lewis and Clark with a baby on her back,
Proving women can endure,
Kathrine Johnson,
Who proved to the world gender and color doesn’t matter,
Anyone can use mathematics for the growth of humanity,
Rosa Parks, who looked into the eyes of a white man,
And refused to give up her seat,
Proving that women can revolt,
Nellie Bly,
Who mothered investigative journalism,
Florence nightingale,
Who without her nursing wouldn’t have its roots,
On the backs of the women today,
Is Malala who at 15 was shot for standing up for a girl’s right for education,
Or Gretta Thunberg who at 17 is fighting for a greener earth,
On the backs of the women before us,
And on the backs of the women today,
Are women showing girls that tomorrow and the day after,
They can look into the eye of a man and say
Try me.. I’ll go far
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 3:20 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
"Mammy."
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
The day you slept I cried
I wonder why
My heart sat in my throat trying to choke me so I could sleep along with you
And yet while you lived I would have kept my distance
Kept far from your disdaining reach
Now I would have given anything to wrap my arms around your warm waist
To touch your smooth camel skin, trace my fingers on your cinnamon freckles
Or just stare into your hot brown eyes
And yet while you lived I would have kept mine lowered
Kept my gaze averted from your frightening glare
While you existed I cried
I think I know why
My brains boggled in my head wildly so I could be unhinged like you
It seemed uncanny how the powerful, fierce woman I once feared
Had now become just a frail, helpless shadow of herself
Still spewing malignant insults at me from her chaffed mouth
Cursing fervently with force that would bend me again to her will
In your weakness your words still crushed me
Orders barked from your sick bed jolted me
As if the strength would return and position you to punish me if I didn’t obey
When you lived I cried
I know why
My body stayed in a constant state of swelling, bruising and wounding
So I could be scarred like you
It didn’t matter that I was innocent and needed your love
Only fist punches, metal rod lashes, finger nail pinches
Sometimes hair pulls, palm slaps, boot kicks and back hands
On better days the odd berating in public would do the trick
Yes, this was the only kind of love you had for me
The kind to pound me into the ground
Well now you’ve long been gone
All that you broke down in me, I’ve rebuilt
With tears and hunger and shrinking
The scars have healed and I’m whole
The love you withheld, I have found in myself
Nellie Nkosi
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
Edna drew the curtains
on the night sky;
Nellie was already in bed,
watching.
Did you undress
without drawing
the curtains?
Edna said.
It was in the dark;
I didn't light the candle
until after.
The candle flickered
in the candle holder.
Shame about the old dear;
do think she'll cope
now the old buzzard is dead?
Edna said.
Her daughter
said she will,
Nellie said,
watching as the maid
began to undress.
**** wasn't so sure;
she reckons
she'll peg out next,
Edna said.
What does old **** know;
she's just the cook,
Nellie replied.
She studied Edna
wash quickly
in her underclothes.
****** cold,
Edna said.
Come to bed then,
said Nellie,
and I'll warm you.
Edna dried herself quickly;
then put on
her old nightgown.
Poor old dear,
Edna said quietly.
She climbed into
the old bed
and pulled the blankets
over them.
Nellie blew out the candle
and the room in the attic
was swollwed by darkness,
except for a slither
of moonlight
which pushed through
the parting
where the curtains
didn't meet.
Edna giggled.
Quiet,
Nellie whispered.
Well don't
touch me there,
Edna replied.
Where?
Nellie said.
Edna giggled again:
There,
she muttered.
Outside
it began to rain.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
DIRECTIONS
I’m heading West
(where ever that is) .
I march off into the distance
of field & sky.
West is where
my uncle is.
I cut through
the heat haze.
My uncle’s dinner
wrapped up in a scarf on the end of a stick
as if I am
running away into forever.
Tea slops in an old milk bottle
with a piece of cloth as a stopper.
I stare into the empty air
as if suddenly I will discover there
a sign saying:
“West – this way! ”
My Auntie Nellie’s instructions
still stamped on the inside of my stupid skull.
“Go west into the field
with your Uncle Michael’s dinner.
“Tell him. . .”
Me too terrified to tell her
I don’t know
where West is?
Typical townie!
I search the farm field by field
‘till I finally find him
sprouting out of a field
with a cloud attached to his head
beside the broken rickety gate
where the tiniest ever wild strawberries grow.
So this is where West is!
Why didn’t she say so in the first place!
This I know!
Why send me like a fool on a child’s errand!
My uncle devours everything ‘cept
the scarf & the stick.
Tells me
(“Oh no! ”)
to go South to where Uncle Seanie is
and. . .
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 6:58 AM UTC