Come Back To Me...

Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

Let the cool night breeze

Brush the cold soil from your body

Let the full moon

Chase the shadows from your soul

Let the Raven's wing

Mark your path

And let my song of heartache

Guide you home.


Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

My tears will wash the grave dirt

From your cheeks

My arms will soften the harshness

Of your passing

My heart will beat not for myself

But for we two

And we shall know again

The comfort of the other's presence.


Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

I hold no fear for the greyness of your pallor

Nor do I fear the corrupt passage

Of deaths seeping sap

No mortal purpose could dissuade these arms

From holding you close again

I fear only the absence of your touch

The retreating proximity of your desire.



Come back to me.

Come back to me, my love

And lie with me beneath the chiffon shroud

Of the night's black sky

Whilst I drink deeply of the merciful potion

That will speed my spirit outwards and onwards

To walk, once more, with yours.

And with my last, lonely breath

I shall speak your name, my love

And we shall embrace eternity together

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Tissues...

I don't want your tissues

To soak up my 'issues'

Nor your stock responses

To ease your conscience

I want your grasping

All I was asking

When I begged you

To leave me alone

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Brian The Therapy Dog...

I 

Am Brian

She

Calls me her therapy dog

But it is I who carry the burden of life

To the deep, fleecy confines of my doggie bed each night

Where worries jiggle around my flatulence, pummeled innards 

Like half-chewed Bonio biscuits

In a tombola drum.

It is I who is in need

Of therapy.

Concerns weigh heavy

Within my perfectly-profiled-head-in-the-right-light

What if I am never to discover WHO the 'Good Boy' is

The one she urgently enquires about each day?

More so, why does she presume I am withholding knowledge

Of its whereabouts?

Is this why in her search for answers

She implements the sphere of torture

She calls THE BALL on our walks each day?

The ball she so forcefully throws

Compelling me to chase on, to run wildly into the distance

Tongue lolling from my panting jowls

Whipping against my flapping cheeks

Like Donald Trump's comb-over in a wind tunnel

Until,  eventually, my speedy pace reduces to a halt upon discovering

SHE DIDN'T THROW THE BALL AT ALL!!!

Is this her attempt to beat me into submission

Through the malice of mind games

Thinking me forced to reveal the location

Of the elusive 'Good Boy'? 

And why upon our walk does she insist

On collecting the odorous secretions of my previous meal

In tiny perfumed bags

Indeed, rewarding me for such an act!

The reward differing depending upon the size

Of that which is expelled from my

Neatly-trimmed-and-regularly-licked~clean-backside.

And why the disturbing, unflinching eye contact

When I am in the midst of implementing this manoeuvre

Her accompanying smile as disturbing as

Theresa May's jewellery? 

What alchemy she intends to execute

With these putrid deposits of my DNA

I can but wonder

However, until such time as all is laid bare

I shall play my part well

And continue with the subterfuge of our relationship

I shall 'roll over'

I shall 'sit'

I shall 'play dead'

And whilst in this static position of the temporarily subdued

I shall ponder the questions burning in my soul

Questions such as

Why instead of such cold instruction

Am I never encouraged to

Pursue my dreams?

To think outside the kennel?

To tune into my purpose and align with it?

I suppose, dear friends, that the answer

To such contemplations

Will, at least for now, remain an enigma

And so, I shall concern myself no more

With this trivia

Choosing to return to the much more pressing consideration

'What, exactly, would I do with my tail

Should I ever catch it?'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Much That Withers...

Flowers fade

Their petals fall

Man grows old

No longer walks tall

Summer shrinks

At winters tread

Yet

Much that withers

Is not dead

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

The Voices In My Head...

They are loudest

When my eyes are closed

When a window to this world

Is denied them

When they can no longer seek

To manipulate

Those before them

But are forced to suffer

The crazed outrages

Of their own company

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

No One...

No one puts 'BECOME HOMELESS' on their 'To Do' list.

No one in the educational community offers a 'GATEWAY TO HOMELESSNESS' as part of their curriculum.

No one in the careers field suggests 'HOMELESSNESS' as a vocational option.

No one encourages their child to 'BE HOMELESS' when they grow up.

NO ONE!

And there's a reason for that...

Homelessness

Is not an aspiration

It's a dire

And desperate

Choiceless situation

So don't judge

Don't ignore

Don't walk on by

If someone's out there

Struggling

There is a reason why

But you don't need to know it

Their business is their own

Just maybe stop

And have a chat

Help change homelessness

To HOME.

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

The Passing...

Oh, to be

Loved

With such depth

As to be forever

Hated

For my passing

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Yes I Must Dust!...

(There's a wonderful poem by Rose Milligan called 'Dust If You Must'...(do seek it out)...and one day, my eldest sent it to me after she'd invited me to a social thing and I'd declined 'cos I was busy cleaning. This was my tongue-in-cheek reply to her)


Yes I must dust

To appease the demon

That stresses me out

If I cease the cleanin'

Yes I must dust

'Cos if I want the time

To enjoy life's pleasures

I must first vanquish grime

Yes I must dust

Regardless of weather

'Cos that's what helps me

Keep my shit together

Yes I must dust

So bear in mind, please

You would dust too

If you had OCD's

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Fragility...

If we look deeply enough

Into the other's eyes

We will see reflected

The fragility

Of our own mortality

Is that not reason enough

To savour life

Rather than

Destroy it?

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Who Cares For The Carer?...

Who cares for the carer

When they're feeling low

When their energy's zapped

And their flow's on go slow

When smiles hide their tears

And laughter their pain

When they long for the norm

And they're drooping and drained

When they won't show they're weary

And starting to wilt

'Cos the feelings they're feeling

Are each edged with guilt

As they worry their loved one

Might think they're a burden

When the truth is the carer

Is hurt at their hurtin'

And wishes their suffering

Was transferred to them

So their loved one was happy

And healthy again

And despite carers bones

Being aching and strained

They'd do all they're doing

Again and again

For the love of their loved one

Knowing they'd do likewise

THAT'S who cares for the carer

Through their own caring eyes




Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Slave To Censorship...

I'm a slave to censorship

I can't say shit

In case you're offended

By my colloquialistic quip



I'm a slave to censorship

Must be careful when I joke

Can't have you sensitive hypocrites 

Complaining I'm having a poke!



I'm a slave to censorship

And the social media prudes

Reporting ART on Facebook

For 'containing semi-nudes!'



I'm a slave to censorship

Mustn't voice my personal views

Even though we all know

You feel the same way too!



I'm a slave to censorship

In a world of claim and compensation

In case you rush me off to court

For causing aggravation 



I'm a slave to censorship

In a world that's too PC

But then again who gives a fuck?

Most certainly not me!

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Traffic Lights...

The car stops at the traffic lights

The one behind parked so closely

Through the back window

I can clearly see the crumpled, teary faces

Of the mourners within

Cold eyes staring blankly ahead

Studiously intent on their performance

Of their own, personal interpretation of sorrow.

How entertaining

To witness such a parody of emotion

Played out

 Through the strained, tumbling, debris

The situation commands.

Flakes of fallen, sodden tissues overloaded

With evidence of their grief

Cling to the black costumes of the cast

Each flake awaiting the applause of its audience

To be provided by the obligatory mumbling

Of others condolences

And by the sombre passing of hastily scribbled

Sympathy cards.

Bravo! Bravo!

Such a moving production

Surely worthy of an encore?

Which there will be, of course

Once the players are gathered together for the last act

The finale

The flamboyancy of their floral tributes serving

To verify and measure

The earnestness of their regard

For the leading lady.

How touching.

And how unforgivably empty, the play of it all

For never in life was any appreciation delivered

Never in life were tears shed in true sympathy for the now deceased

Never in life did any one member of the spurious troupe care to listen

 Nor choose to 'hear' the real, desperate reply to their automated question

"How are you today?"

Not a one.

Without doubt, the only genuine tears

Ever to crawl down their cheeks

Are the ones spilled for themselves.

No surprises there.

Red

Amber

Green

The traffic lights change

Granting permission to move forward

Allowing access to the destination

Of their journey

And with that permission

I also move on

My spirit returning

To the white silk of my temporary lodgings

In the back of the hearse

Where even that very silk which my waxen form rests upon

Is fake

A cheap, rough version of the real thing.

Of no matter

The ground will welcome me soon enough

The ground will gain nourishment from my passing

And, in due course, pass it on

The ground will comfort me

And at last, expose my hidden worth.

I am eager to reach such contentment.

Move swiftly on, driver!

Let the theatre of this absurdity come to its end

Far better things await me

Beyond the final curtain.

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard