Monday, 18 February 2019

Window World...



She sits by the window

Plucking hairs from her chin

Scratching her armpits

Slowly sipping pink gin

Gawping at the rat race

Scuttling on by

As her liver-spotted hand

Swats the odd malingering fly

And she chuckles to herself

In her dusty old house

With the creaking doors

And the three-legged mouse

And she counts her blessings

For all that she's got

Even though some might say

She hasn't got a lot

But she knows different

And she reaches for a fag

Whilst shifting her numb buttocks

Before taking a deep drag

Then straightening the creases

In her tattered old frock

She sways to and fro

To the rhythm of the clock

The clock on the shelf

That no longer tells the time

'Cos the clock's hands are broken

And that suits her just fine

Mithering measured moments

Were never her thing

She'd rather watch the world

Than watch life's pendulum swing

But not the world through TV

Or the half-truths of the press

She prefers to watch her window world

And the march of the obsessed

Who stumble by her tiny terraced

Going about their day

Eyes glued to their iPhones

Their pallor shades of grey

And if she's really lucky

As she chews her morning toast

She'll see a Smartphone idiot

Walk face first into a lamppost

And every time that happens

She splutters crumbs and tea

As laughter overtakes her

Bringing with it a dribble of wee

And all the dust mites scatter

At the strength of her guffaw

Whilst she shuffles off her window seat

To raid her knicker drawer

The drawer shared by her one-eyed cat

And her extra set of teeth


The drawer where Herbert's ashes rest

Tucked safely underneath

The silk chemise he used to love

The blue matching her eyes

Before age gave her cataracts

And before he told her lies

Lies that broke her trusting heart

Teaching her a lesson

Believe in no one but yourself

Solitude can be a blessing

And from that time so long ago

She's loved to live the life

That lets her be just who she is

And not defined by 'wife'

Then as she potters back to look

Her window world in the eye

She briefly thinks of Herbert

And such thoughts widen her smile

As she glances to her back garden

And the scorched patch, hidden well

Where Herbert spent his one last night

Before journeying on to hell



Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Friday, 25 January 2019

I Know He Loved Me...



I know he loved me

When the years were young

And so was I

I know he loved me

When the world was ours

And every day he'd say

This is our special day

I know he loved me.


So, when did all those feelings

Start to fade?

When did we lose the special in our days

When did I move from sunshine

Into shade

Within his eyes


I know he loved me

When he held me in his arms

And spoke my name

I know he loved me

I was the moth, always attracted

To his flame

I felt so safe

I know he loved me


How could the seasons of his love

So change

That I no longer felt warmed

By his flame

How could the tender textures

Of his kiss be so remiss

To feel my hurting


I know he loved me

When his eyes

Looked into mine

And touched my soul

When each part of us together

Made one whole

The perfect mould

I know he loved me


Looking back

How could I fail to feel

The shift as slowly

He drifted from me

Perhaps I too had drifted

In some way

And had I not

Would he have stayed?



I'll always love him

Even though his love for me

Has long since gone

Even though

The tears I cry I cry alone

I'll always love him.



Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Wednesday, 23 January 2019

Stitches...



Give me my needles

Give me my yarn

Give me my memories

To restitch moments warm

Give me the time

Give me the chance

To knit back our yesterdays

And relive life's romance




Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Sunday, 20 January 2019

The Dream...



When she woke up

From the dream

Still haunted by

The things she had seen

She could not wait

To dream again

Those long dead things

Were her only friends



Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard


Wednesday, 9 January 2019

Happy Hour In The Mortuary...



It was Happy Hour

In the mortuary

And as the clock struck twelve

Steely doors swung open

And cadavers shuffled from shelves

Some were sturdier than others

A few were missing odd parts

But this didn't halt rictus reverie

Nor did it Formaldehyde farts

Old Mary was giving it big licks

As she grooved to songs from the grave

That's what brought her here in the first place

When she fell off the stage at a rave

Big Barry had choked on his supper

Whilst devouring a hearty pot roast

The irony being that posthumously

Breakdancing popped pork from his throat!

Shelf-stacker Sheila from Sheffield

Was lovin' a bit of hip-hop

Just as she once had in her living years

'Fore succumbing to a dodgy hip op

But the one who displayed all the best moves

Was Stan the night porter who dropped

Straight to the floor at the sight that he saw

His new dance being 'Convulsions In Shock'.



Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 22 December 2018

Ho-Ho...Oh!...




Christmas is upon us again, eh? That magical time of year when we're guilt-tripped into spending an entire day eating and drinking with the same people we'd usually spend every day avoiding and the only 'ding-dong' is the fight which follows hours of festering in their company having consumed copious gallons of alcohol which mostly serves to dissolve any semblance of one's social filter.


And as for Christmas dinner, well, as a matter of health and safety (other people's) I've never cooked one...had I done so, there would have been three phases:

1) Serve food

2) Wash dishes

3) Bury the dead

Each far too labour intensive to be arsed with and, anyway, I need a new spade and a bigger garden.

Festive songs abound, which we merrily sing-along to at the family gathering as we joyously dance around granny sitting prostrate on her tinsel-bedecked commode in the living room (something we did when I was a kid, 'cos we couldn't afford a tree) but do we ever really listen to the lyrics?

Some can be quite menacing, especially if we remove the melody and talk in subdued tones with the lights dimmed, holding a torch beneath our chin.

With such a method in mind and the implications of 'Santa Claus Is Coming To Town' explored, let's take a peek at a young mother tucking her little son, Tommy, up in bed one cold and wintry Christmas Eve: 

"Now then, Tommy"

"Yes, mam?"

"Settle in, lad, I've something to tell you"

"Ok, mam"

"You'd better watch out"

"Eh? What d'ya mean, mam?"

"You'd better not cry!"

"What's happenin'?"

"You'd better not pout"

"Mam, you're scaring me"

"I'm telling you why! A big, fat stranger in a red suit with a thick, wiry, white beard, accompanied by several ruminants, is going to break into our house later on tonight".

"You what, mam! Why??"

"'Cos of YOU, lad!"

"Me! How does he know me??"

"He sees you when you're sleeping"

"And you knew about this??"

"He knows when you're awake"

"Is there a webcam in 'ere?"

"He knows if you've been bad. Or good!"

"I wanna ring childline"

"Just be good, for goodness sake! And he's bringing stuff with him"

"It's not an axe, is it mam???"

"Stuff like little tin horns and little toy drums...rooty toot toots and rummy tum tums"

"Mam, did you skip your meds again?"

"He's coming son. He's coming"

"I wanna sleep at grans house!"

"Hush, hush. Quiet now, I'm going to tell you a Fairytale. It's set in New York where....they've got cars big as bars...they've got rivers of gold..."

"Oh, mam, that sounds so magical! What's it all about?"

"It's about domestic violence, alcohol abuse, yer dad's criminal record and the realisation that my life is but a requiem playing its mournful melody in the graveyard of my rotting hopes an' dreams.

Merry Christmas, son, sleep well"



And a Very Merry Christmas and Joyous New Year to you too...my ever faithful reader.... 




© Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Thursday, 22 November 2018

Ding-Dong Not So Merrily With May...



It being the season of goodwill an' all that, this Gargoyle has taken it upon herself to compose a little Christmas ditty for the attention of our beloved bleeder...ooops sorry...'leader'...Theresa May...*spits*...

This is best read to the tune of...'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'...



A question Dear Theresa May

How do you sleep at night

Knowing that your policies

Put people's lives in plight?

I suggest quite easily

For one who can so breezily

Deprive us of comfort and joy

All hope you destroy

As you deprive us of comfort and joy


Can you relax when bedroom tax

Is lurking at your door

Course you can 'cos it's not you

Who struggles to afford

All the things that we are losing

At your whim and by your choosing

Do you wonder why you are so abhorred

So abhorred

If we could we'd abhor you even more


Libraries shutting

Health Care struggling

Businesses closed down

Mentally disabled each victims of your plan

To cut the cost of public spending

By our lives prematurely ending

Happy now you've run us into the ground

Into the ground

And sadly come the end you're still around!!






Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard