clawing the courage to say no

The agony of my indecision

had done my head right in.

The hurting of my inner child

had left my true self wilting.

The logic part had made up its mind.

The fragility, it was a fraying:

teetering in, about to give way

a lifetime battle drilling.

So, where could the courage come from,

to say a crucial ‘no’ some time?

Perhaps it stemmed from dark-down stuff

that finally said ‘enough’.

the one who gets under my skin

the one who gets under my skin

is needy, lays back,

waiting to be fed;

but what I put on the plate

will never be enough:

it’s too late, too meagre,

too tasteless, too wrong.

 

the most sumptuous feast

will never sate

the appetite that devours;

bones are sucked dry

teeth are picked

a sneer that reeks of menace

mocks my begging bowl

as I wait for a tiny morsel

of gratitude.

 

I won’t stop cooking for good

but I have to stop buttering you up

with dishes I don’t even like,

puddings far too fancy

mains that betray their true meat,

and sides that sell their soul.

I have to accept, finally,

that even the finest recipe

made to your exacting order

will leave me tasting your bile.

my ambivalent feelings for snow

inktuition snow

Oh, when you’re meant to be there

you don’t bother turning up:

(Christmas).

The whole world grinds to a halt

from two millimetres of you

(London).

You rock up when we don’t need you

and kids want to throw you around

(school run, 30 minutes late).

When you grow old and dark,

my heels and tyres slip warily on you

(icy reception).

Yet the fragility of your freshest flakes

makes the air a magic twinkle

(trees and fresh snowprints).

And being snowed in for days

while annoying, is freeing

(sound of your silence).

the deceit of loss

A furbo fox slips through a net,

a chicken gets surprised.

A wily boss keeps staff on board

with an ever-decreasing prize.

A playboy fools again his wife,

who withholds the sex he craves,

in denial that his wayward ways

will help to cheat the grave.

The soul gets bought with cash or time,

depends on what’s for sale.

Life’s random cull will cut and run,

and blur success with fail.

A famous face suddenly lost, now

is odds to top the charts.

A eulogistic comedy face

is drawing the last laugh.

the illusion of control

Control was my calling card,

what everyone knew me for.

Control was my comfort,

a way to keep the score.

Control took my humour,

replaced it with sour lips.

Control was my defence

against the highs and dips.

Control and I had a battle

until I learned who was boss.

Control gave me power

that was way too easily lost.

Control I gave up

when robbed of those I loved.

Control I still explore

through story, rhyme and word.