Monday, 27 August 2018


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

Thursday, 23 August 2018

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

Tuesday, 21 August 2018

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

Sunday, 19 August 2018

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 the 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.




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

Monday, 13 August 2018

How Busy The Night...

How busy the night

Where, in my head

Troubled thoughts

Each filled with dread

Stand in line

To make it known

They will never

Leave me alone

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Thursday, 9 August 2018


Give me a book

To calm my mind

Give me a library

To comfort my soul

Give me the company

Of words unspoken

And I will give you


Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Monday, 6 August 2018



May flaunt its miseries

And clip our wings

But tonight

We fly

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

For My Michael...

No truer love

Than his

Have I e'er known

No headier heights

Through him

Have I e'er soared

No better life

Than this

Could I e'er hope

Than the one

I share with he

Who holds my soul

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard


Better I should hate the world

And endure a life alone

Than face the unbearable loneliness

Of loving you

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Thursday, 2 August 2018

Bugbears And Bathhouses...

One of the things I loathe about public swimming the 'public' in swimming pools.

I have an aversion to the notion of an aquatic army of bacteria surfing on the shed shavings of folks dead skin and skimming across the undulating waters before finding refuge in any open gob hopelessly oblivious to the invasion.

And, of course, the detritus of the human body is not restricted to mere flesh.

The thought of unwashed anal hair, waving like seagrass as it penetrates the restraints of swimwear tight enough to challenge circulation, randomly flicking unwiped wastage into the path of unsuspecting swimmers, has the potential to bring forth through my repulsed state an impressive tsunami of bile-infused vomit.

When I was a kid at school, the only horror WE were programmed to worry about gatecrashing public baths was a renegade verruca!. The teacher supervising our submergence would line us up, pre-entry, and check our feet and God forbid she should discover this wanton wart brazenly embedded within the foot of some poor wide-eyed and hobbled foot youngster.

Should this be so, the plague carrier would instantly be subjected to the walk of shame to join any other verruca lepers in the changing room where head bowed, they'd slowly drag a crusty heeled sock over the offending protuberance whilst pondering a future of ostracisation.

And, talking about changing rooms...there lies another horror waiting to be endured post-swim.

Your body is hot from the swim itself, much to the delight of your newly acquired bacterial passengers, each busily burrowing through every open pore in your unsuspecting flesh.

Eager to rid yourself of dripping swimwear, you enter the changing room....and instantly stand in the cold, gestating, puddles of someone else's bacterial debris!

If you're really unlucky, as your face creases into folds of raw repulsion worthy of some bizarre origami project, you'll quickly try to avoid the puddle only to discover that someone's old plaster, aka band-aid, is using your foot as a raft! And Gawd only knows how much residual infected tissue from the previous owner is clinging to THAT!

Of course, there's always the reassuring contemplation that public pools are safe 'cos they're treated with chlorine...and that thought does bring some relief to many....especially those who haven't considered the evolution of chlorine-resistant bacteria.

Also, as brushed over at the start of this blog-post, the gastrointestinal bacteria Cryptosporidium, which can cause diarrhea, stomach pains, vomiting, and fever, is easily contracted when a person swallows water contaminated through the infected residue of feces from other bathing beauties.

And if you're wondering how do I know all of this?....well, let's just say, I know a lot of random shit.

However, don't let any of the above, poo on your pool plans this summer.

You can always purify yourself by relaxing in a nice, hot steam room or sauna after your swim. Don't let the damp, porous, germ harbouring, wooden benches put you off! What's a little impetigo between friends, eh?

And what better way to clear your head of any lingering colds than to take advantage of the therapeutic properties the moist, clammy air provides. 

That is, of course, so long as you don't mind risking the potential bombardment of airborne mold as this polluted, nasal douche journeys up your nostril and spreads its spores up an' beyond.

But hey! I don't want to pee on your, don't let any of this play on your mind!

Summer's here, school's go enjoy yourselves and help put the fun back into fungal infection...

Sweet swims....

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard