She wrote of powers.
Of love and flowers.
Of magic treats.
And kisses sweet.
All upon a napkin.
Sat in a fast food joint.
Penned a menu for love extreme.
That tissue he took away.
A memoir of that splendid summer day.

Okay so it was winter.
He left it upon his bedroom table.
She left notes of love around.
He found them stashed around his place.
After she had run back to ground.
The *****.
Maybe just his ***** minx.
Left him trinkets in words.
Pricking his insistence that may she does matter.
After all.
Pride of man 'o'war.
Won't permit a fall!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

She was a dancer,
caught off beat
by a neat little stranger lurking
in the body of the womb,
where once she strayed from danger,
within a motherly costume.

After show drinks, stage
& waits in the green room,
were pipe dreams for this
Mum without a groom.
Yet still, and continuing so,
she provides for two girls,
her blonde Monroe's; be that lifts
to school or another
big shop so the nonstop
keeps from turning blue.

But how up North can you keep from the cold,
when constant frost creates the vignette
to the serviette snow out there?
Cheap beans and even cheaper bread
won't make that meal you read and said to be good,
any better than it is.
But a text, fax, pigeon post fast, to your Mum back home
wipes clean these thoughts of being alone
and underfed,
and instead; restores your faith in everything
and anything you may do in the future,
and what you said-

to me once on that walk;
will stick with me until we next talk
or, maybe quite possibly, drink
until glasses are empty and
the wine bottles clink.

*for the Carters

He used to hide things for me
In the microwave
Or under a pile of serviette
In a metal room
Where I hid to eat
I ran away from all the heat
To talk about familiarities

He used to give things to me
On long working days
Chocolate ice cream,
Mixed with kindness
Served with dreams
Talks past midnights
Evening shifts

And when you were gone
My Mom told me,
That some things fade
And life moves on
Feelings shift
New plans will form
And loosing someone will keep you silent

But the things you gave me will always be kept.

~G

Slim- Where is my T-shirt May?

May- I pegged it on the clothesline yesterday...

Slim- No wonder I couldn't find it!

May- After you'd spilled tomato sauce on it, I thought I'd wash it.

Slim- The next time, I have sauce on a pie, I'll have to be careful not to get it on my shirt...

May- You may need a serviette around your neck....to ameliorate stains on your shirt.

Slim- Have we any serviettes in the cupboard May?

May- Yes! I bought some at the supermarket earlier on to-day....

Slim- No doubt, I'd be lost without you May!

May- When you married me, it was most certainly your lucky day...

"I'll leave you all the weapons for that",
Pat smiled and perched the two too-tall cinnamon buns
down beside me on the windowsill,
as promised fully armed with knife, fork and serviette

I entered the fray and caught the eye of the postman
as he fought with his cart along the too narrow,
not-quite-cobbled path, slick with rain,
and then he nodded and gave way
to the guy in the slow sports wheelchair

while the young mum on low reserves
wrestled with her twin girls
up past the town hall and gallery,
perhaps with the promise of grandma's cookies

- all this while Jill's coffee brewed patiently alongside the buns
as she and Deb re-ran long laughter of past adventures
and plotted paths to future endevours.

Welcome to the pharmacy, for poetry.

Meek me
mild me
freaks out the
wild me

I wanna it to be
like it
never used to be
with me.

The grumblings of an
old man
was never ever in
my plan
so
who changed it?

I saw this young lady
She stepped into Starbucks
Holding a thick novel by Murakami
And a wrapped sandwich from Subway
In front of the counter
She smiled to the Barista
Ordered her coffee
Grande hot caramel latte, i guess
She chose to seat at the corner
Tasted her coffee using the stirrer
Unwrapped her sandwish, began to eat
I kept my eyes on this young lady
While she was eating, she was scrolling
Wasnt sure what was she looking at
But I saw she smiled, and giggled to herself
She was all alone
Accompanied by her handbag, handphone, coffee, and subway
But her face didn't show that she was lonely
She ate halfway, i knew she enjoyed her sandwich a little while ago,
She seemed to made a phone call out
Her pleasant face changed expression
While she was talking on the phone
She took the Starbucks serviette
Started tearing, began to cry
What a long conversation she had.
I watched her for a moment
What made this young lady cried?
I wonder.
She didn't finish her sandwich,
I wasnt sure bout her coffee, but she threw it away as she stepped out from Starbucks.
I whispered to my self,
"What drama I just watched?"

La serviette est une servante,
Le savon est un serviteur,
Et l'éponge est une savante ;
Mais le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Oui, c'est un grand seigneur, Madame,
Des plus nobles par la hauteur
Et par la propreté de l'âme.
Oui, le peigne est un grand seigneur !

Quoi ? l'on ose dire à voix haute
Sale comme un... Du fond du cœur
Que l'on réponde ! À qui la faute ?
Mais le peigne est un grand seigneur !

Oui, s'il n'est pas propre, le peigne,
À qui la faute ? À son auteur ?
N'est-ce pas plutôt à la teigne !
Car... le peigne est un grand seigneur.

La faute, elle est à qui le laisse
S'épanouir dans sa hideur.
C'est la faute... à notre paresse.
Lui, le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Oui, notre main est sa vassale,
Et s'il est sale, par malheur,
Il se f...iche un peu d'être sale,
Car le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Il ne veut nettoyer la tête,
Que si la main de son brosseur
Lui fait les dents ; je le répète,
Oui, le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Oui, c'est un grand seigneur, le peigne ;
Sans être rogue ou persifleur,
Sa devise serait : « Ne daigne. »
Car le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Grand seigneur, son dédain nous cingle,
Porteur d'épée, il est railleur,
Or, cette épée est une épingle,
Si le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Cette épingle, adroite et gentille,
Le rend propre comme une fleur,
Aux doigts de la petite fille
Dont le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Donc que je dise ou que tu dises
Qu'il est sale, mon beau parleur,
Il laisse tomber les bêtises,
Car le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Pour moi, je ne veux pas le dire :
Cela manquerait... de saveur,
Et puis cela ferait sourire ;
Non..., le peigne est un grand seigneur.

Sur vos dents fines et sans crasse,
Chaque matin j'ai cet honneur,
Mon beau peigne, je vous embrasse,
Et je suis votre serviteur.

Beware of Poets
Don't trust a poet' s declaration of love
it is the words he means, the turn of a phrase
you just happen to be there as he looks you in
the eyes thinking; I have to write down that
before I forget it
Sometimes he finds a serviette borrow a pen
writes down words you thought was meant for you.
Drinking coffee with you, he appears restless
because he wants to go home and
fill out the poem he composed, alas he is not
thinking of you but of a wider audience

Some half baked dubious ******* that I wrote on a train headed in the direction of Kortrijk:


''An endless stream of not arseds to hang your ***** washing on/Ya forebearers are all mutts, your pallbearers will be too/You are a kazzoo blowing *******, an idiot's tac nightmare/seen two or three of your alleged family members puffing their chests out down the backtrack, propa knackas/Ya ma is very particular, your sister is as cold as a fortnight in the briar dene (although a fine dancer when she sets her mind to it/
Getting older or more toxic? Shushhhh, be kind/started hearing normans and lennys settling betting slips while I'm on the netty/dettol and despair- the golden duo made good/I'll be bed ridden in time for christmas- flannel pyjamas and sentimentality/heard your kid slagging uz & saw demons in the mist on the windee (window, *******)/cutting my losses/tobogganing hopes/
the left side of my chest is 85 the last weeks/the streets in Brussels speak to me and are canny this time of year/I am not a francophone by predilection/making a secret pact with the universe not to mourn its passing/Every social situation is becoming like a casino for *******/Starting to feel a little bit more Panzram than Ghandi/Flanders is flat cos someone trod on it while under the drink/I might have fitted better into a bygone era- a bewildering lack of manual skills- what came first the dial up internet in your ma's back room or my cack handedness/Don't have owt to tell anyone anymore, don't give two shites nevermind one/Your step brother watches hollyoaks and eats ****** snacks while your step sister hums songs of unknown origin''.
A bumbling idiot's invented history of tyneside:
''I saw 3 cats attack a pigeon in heaton park as bobby thompson, aka the little waster, danced suggestively with the setting sun, a serviette tucked down his front to catch his dinner....................mike neville cried in the dark, while suckling away at a glass tizer bottle from the arcade chippy in whitley bay, that day there was no news on tyneside......T Dan Smith liked a snack as much as the next man...but what he really liked was to drink a pint of water everytime the clock struck 36- that way he could **** the toon into oblivion at his own behest or the behest of occult forces.....I found Gazza, shellsuited, eating a child's portion of cod and chips in St Paul's church yard, in his ruddyu red hand was a 6 pack of socks from winners (the flagship store). Abandoned between his feet were 50 notebooks from the fisherman's mission.....don't get me started on sting''.

All seated at the breakfast nook,
We all took turns dividing eggs, toast and ham.
Like a mashed garden of daffodils and roses our breakfast did now look –
Most unlike last night’s roast leg of lamb.

Before long, the pleasant porcine potpourri
Turned acridly sour
As disagreement broke out afresh between mommy and daddy
Afore the clock struck yet another fateful hour.

“I’m going to leave!” pounded the usual threat.
“You’re impossible – you’ve always been.” The Rock’s head tilted to the right.
The Old Bull hurled an avocado at him full-heat,
Smearing the white wall green with all her might.

The Rock retaliated with Peck’s Anchovette,
With a better aim, but no cigar.
As I reached for a serviette,
I realised that my family life is most putrid a tar.

Why didn’t you leave her sooner?
Only flying avocados will celebrate mismatched marriage hereafter.

Arriving at the outside
dining area, we were
given two big round
plates, cutlery, serviette
and a fishing net.

"Excusez moi, si vous plait"

Oui Monsieur/Dame

" Pourquoi Le Fishing Net " ?

Ca, Monsieur/Dame est pour
des chose qui tombe du L'arbre.

C'est pour ca le nom de la restaurant
est " DOPPIO's "

The wake


I can't cope with this everything is arranged
the women in my house are talking about handbags
that much not match the dress.
Or is it the other way around
I tried my suit it was too small I'm wearing a black trouser
with a suitable jacket.
The casket will be open, but we can't stand too near
I Don't want to see his cold face.
He has been in the morgue for days, waiting for
the money from his boss in Congo
if the money does not arrive on time, we have to wait
a bit longer.
I have saved, but it was meant for my funeral,
everything else is arranged they are playing AVE Maria
which will reduce me to tears.
My wife will shush me to tell me to pull myself together
and hand me a serviette.
After the burial, we will go and get something to eat
I like to get drunk, but my wife will stop me.
You see he was my friend and I will never get a new one.

i searched for serviette here
with small success, some years
back i discovered it too
how the ink soaks backand made a thing of it
i like it when things happen

in my head i hold a list
of things to do that seem
like magic
to me

it was one from costa and i think
is in my other files
you know

now social distancing
more than usual

costa