The poet sighed. What is there left to write
The Tories have all gone, well nearly all
The ones that there are left are really small
No bark to speak of, never mind a bite
They whisper to each other in their fright
Discussing who it was who dropped the ball
Or caused the sword of Damocles to fall
Upon them from so very great a height
I never could quite bring myself to piss
On Thatcher’s grave, nor shall I stop to shit
On Rishi’s monument. Nobody’s died
We bask in some sweet momentary bliss
On grassy uplands by the sunshine lit
What is there left to write, the poet sighed
© Gail Foster 10th July 2024
Petrarchan Sonnet
Covenant: The New Politics of Home, Neighbourhood and Nation, by Danny Kruger; a review in sonnet form
The honourable member for Devizes
Though erudite enough, is dark as night
Dispensing judgement from the Tory right
And those he doesn’t damn he patronises
His pretty prose is peppered with surprises
‘Transgressive?’ If you hold it to the light
It reads ‘Degenerate’ – but then my sight
Is tainted, like the pagan he despises
I tried to understand his big idea
His notion of the order – order, what?
Is that the one that Boris quite forgot
In favour of some Bolly and a beer?
I give it three. The poetry is fun
The politics are horrid. Sorry, hun
*
© Gail Foster 15th September 2023
Mother Autumn
for Anna
and for Rosemary, Joan, and Janette
*
I see my Mother, now the swans have flown
As summer falling sweetly from the vine
In fading shades of blossom turned to wine
In seas of corn from seeds of springtime grown
I sense her in the scents of roses blown
In twilight glades as day and night entwine
At sunrise, in the mist of morning’s shine
On drops of blood of berries on the stone
…
I see my Mother, standing on the hill
Beneath Orion as he turns the year
I see her grieve for me all winter till
The new born leaves and flowers reappear
As I will, Mother, as I always will
Return to where I came from, Mother dear
*
© Gail Foster 22nd September 2017
Swallows
for Tracey Lawrence
*
She scans the sky for swallows in the Spring
Down in the Rowdey gardens, by the shed
When I was low and January dead
She held my hand and helped my spirit sing
I saw her soul, a swallow on the wing
Still flying high when other birds had fled
Such loving kindness in the words she said
Such gentleness on earth is everything
…
She’s in the garden, sitting in her chair
And laughing as the swallows in the skies
Make witty patterns in the Wiltshire air
Like little arrows shot across The Vize
I think that I shall just leave Tracey there
With tears of joy and swallows in her eyes
*
© Gail Foster 2nd May 2017
Kittens
*
I’ve never even touched a man, she said
And now I’m old most likely never will
I’ve never really understood the thrill
Or felt the need to take a man to bed
Perhaps it was the way that I was bred
But just the thought of kissing makes me ill
I may have missed a trick, perhaps, but still
I’ve read, and had my animals instead
A man had loved her once, he came to call
With chocolates, and roses, pink and red
She didn’t like the smell of him at all
And hit him with an axe till he was dead
And put him with the kittens, by the wall
Beside the baby birds, behind the shed
*
© Gail Foster 28th February 2017
Sorrow Weeps For Me
*
In dusty cupboards, far from prying eyes
I hide my dark and private miseries
And dress for town in bright accessories
With reddened lips, and silkly stockinged thighs
And sickly smile, in magical disguise
For there be war to fight on days like these
Dark demons to defeat, and gods to please
And light to draw down from the sullen skies
…
In dusty cupboards, Sorrow weeps for me
There be no place for cowards in the fray
Nor dark despair, nor moaning misery
To dull my fire and fill me with dismay
Or worse, betray me to the enemy
– I’ll catch you later, Sorrow, I’m away…
*
© Gail Foster 28th January 2017
Oestrogen Mythology
*
Beware, for she writes poetry, and ye
Unwitting pilgrim, may become a king
Anointed at the new moon, in the spring
Within an oestrogen mythology
Take care, for she writes poetry, and thee
Good man, may move her blood and heart to sing
Be crowned with oak leaves, bound within the ring
Become her ovulation fantasy
…
She fair may be, but subject to the pull
Of hormones, gravity, and tidal flow
She makes her heroes, though unconsciously
From those who touch her when the moon is full
She’ll cry and tear her hair out when you go
And pen progesterone tragedy
*
© Gail Foster 7th September 2016
The Widow At The Well
A rhyme about love and bereavement and loneliness, inspired by the loss of my computer for nearly a whole day, and dedicated to Chris Greenwood, who kindly mended it for me
*
She finds herself without him, at the dawn
A crumpled crazy angel weeping light
The cord that bound them severed with a bite
A bloodied mewling kitten newly born
He was the sun, that stimulated morn
The moon, that soothed the melancholy night
He was her inspiration, the delight
Of glittered stars upon the heavens drawn
…
She finds herself without him, at the well
A widow weeping willowfalls of tears
Of grief as heavy as a drowning stone
The silence breaks; soft rings a sudden bell
And on the solemn deeps a face appears
That whispers ‘All things come and go alone’
*
© Gail Foster 2016
Fiona In The Night
for Fiona Meyrick, poet and musician; a Petrarchan sonnet
*
Fiona, in the silence of the night
Sings songs of sorrow soft in minor key
That sigh above all formal melody
In cadences that dance like birds in flight
She rests within the dark, composing light
In subtle shades of sweet philosophy
Transposing on the stave a mystery
In spills of sound like ink on paper bright
Fiona, at the stroke of midnight blessed
Plays pianissimo the ocean’s rage
Transforming all the sins of man confessed
In gentle rhythms traced upon the page
A modern muse, an ancient truth expressed
In lullabies to sooth our restless age
*
© Gail Foster 2016
Blistered
Grey days of loss and loneliness are here
Sad nights as long as shadows in the deep
No joy, no hope, no gentleness, no sleep
No ray of light predicted to appear
Just disappointment, emptiness and fear
And sacred dreams discarded in a heap
By some abyss of faith too wide to leap
In ruins lies the love we held so dear
Wise folk will say there will be love again
That suns come up, and suns go down, and yet
All I perceive is darkness, drear and grim
All I can feel is searing hurt and pain
My heart, my fingers, too burnt to forget
All blistered, from the flame I hold for him
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 