POEMS

Darlings,

it's a fine line between the brave and the foolish... I will not ponder on it too much and claim bravely to include here some of Mummy's poems for you.

I hope they provoke some thoughts and even some tittering! *chuckles*

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SHIPPING NEWS

Upon apparent solid ground
That for me moves still,
Breathing an ocean of sighs,
I again search the horizon.

Scanning what's left
Scanning what's right

No storm in a teacup
To match my squalid mood,
Just calm skies and clear seas,
As if the world hasn't noticed me.

Wondering what's left
Wondering what's right

I search for a flag of surrender.
Brightest white on bawling blue,
But around me all is becalmed,
And alone do I remain.

Remembering what's left
Remembering what's right

If any port does for a storm,
Then summon the tempest
And bring my ship home.
Even dismasted and wallowing.

For there is nothing right
About being left
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THE PUZZLE

The box is old with edges worn.
The lid is gone - it's most forlorn.
A substitute still does the job,
But conjecture from reality has rob'd
The picture, which I now am missing,
So my efforts are no more than guessing.

And of its contents - what a mystery!
Shapes and sizes, colours of history.
Pieces passed through many hands,
But I cannot begrudge their past demands.
For such unusual shapes remain
Of a puzzle I quite happily claim.

With pieces laid out on green felt,
I picture words, not how they're spelled.
I try to sort the sky from sea,
but blue is blue as blue can be!
And I despair the loss of time
In solving this dear puzzle of mine.

The edges they come easily.
A border appears teasingly.
And this is flesh, I am quite sure!
I look again to seek for more...
I really cannot tell apart
which is soul and which is heart.

Some pieces start to fall in place -
The puzzle's style, and hue and grace.
The centre though remains quite hard,
I only get feet, when I want yards!
And maybe there are pieces missing,
But to play the game is all I'm wishing.

Like for like to find a match,
I think I've gathered a little patch
Of common pieces that can share,
A common purpose if they dare!
But still the picture stays obscure -
Yet even more is this a lure...
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ON THE APPLICATION OF LIPSTICK

Removing the cover, I lightly caress its base.
A friend, old yet new, pushes its way up to greet me,
Red as a rose, waxing lyrical,
Like marble veins in Marmo Rosso.

I regard the task before me.
How curious that this act can define me.
Once the immoral sign of a working woman,
Now a marketed icon; vision of woman's work.

I have already outlined my heart.
Shot from cupid’s bow, but where is the point?
Instead, the lower vermilion is gently curved and trembles
For torrid colour to burst on tender mouth.

Awaiting taut skin, fresh and clean,
With wayward hair teased away,
I take to my task with cherry delight,
And purse my lips – as ready as red rages.

Gliding smoothly over pillar,
Squeezing and pressing at the philtrum’s base,
Back and forth, the top is teased. And now go low and wide
To coax maximum length for maximum time.

A luscious pout is the gaping ideal,
But I face the curse of a too small mouth,
So a sleight of hand may sometimes assist
To give a fuller and more pleasing aesthetic.

Applied now. I suck long and slow
To better distribute blood coloured pigments –
Top to bottom, bottom to top.
Lip to lip together to evenly redden.

Don’t blow it. I hold my breath,
For I dare not breathe out,
Should the trembling of life’s force disturb
The anticipation of such painted pleasure.

Almost done. Past parted lips,
A final touch of gloss shines, and hints
Of dusky red surrounding a shivering sunset
All spent breathless in sticky pursuits.

Finished. I swallow and now regard
This curious red tip shaped by my lips’ impression.
Marked as mine, although others have worn the shade.
It becomes more mine each time we take this rite of passage.

I delicately lick my tongue around,
Careful to not disturb such plump fulfilment.
All that remains is to remove all excess
With the teasing touch of a tissue.

And as I behold the passion drawn before me
I cannot help but smile at the image.
For overzealous lips will always be recalled
By the loving red stains they leave behind.

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