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

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Bullshit Nirvana

bullshit-nirvana

for Steve Doolan

*

Let the world turn as it will

‘Tis all the same to me

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

Bring on the empty horses

For ‘tis all a comedy

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

We come and then we go

We be and we not be

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

I’m a bloke at a bar, I am

A wild bird flying free

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

So I’ll have a lime and soda, ta

‘Tis all the same to me

Blah Blah Bullshit Nirvana

Sweet, Sweet Epiphany

*

© Gail Foster 6th January 2017

The Fall of Camelot

*

Down where the bins were overflowing

On concrete where the cracks were showing

As weary winds came slowly blowing

A manky crow began a-crowing

Songs of Camelot

Through window dim the lady saw it

Heard it, and could not ignore it

Acknowledged, there was nothing for it

She had lost the plot

 …

She blamed the mirror, false perceptions

Embarrassingly dire reflections

Figments of her own deceptions

Misread signals, misconceptions

And bloody Lancelot

And other knights, they’d all been arseholes

Shites wrapped up in pretty parcels

Crawling back to rule their castles

When the day grew hot

And Good Sir That, and Good Sir This

She’d let them all just take the piss

So grateful was she for a kiss

Or any scrap of earthly bliss

That scraps was all she got

The last one, oh, he’d been a giver

Until the day when, all-a-quiver

He caught a catfish in the river

And her love forgot

Enough, she said, enough projections

All of you, take your rejections

Yer fish and shit, and your erections

Faithless hearts, and imperfections

For I like you not

With that she fastened up the latches

Made a bonfire, found some matches

And, as was mentioned in dispatches

Blew up Camelot

*

© Gail Foster 11th October 2016

Glad Eye

img_9537

for Steve Doolan

*

A man saw a maid, dancing high on a hill

She was wild as the waves of the sea

I’m thinking, he thought, that she’s looking my way

And she sure has a glad eye for me

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

No, sir, she said, ‘tis a trick of the light

You’re deceived, for I’m looking elsewhere

And ‘tis only by chance that my mischievous glance

Has been caught by your curious stare

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

 …

How she danced, how she danced, on the top of the hill

How she swirled like a cloud in the blue

Appearing to flirt with a flick of her skirt

And the bat of an eyelash or two

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

 …

She was here, she was gone, she was there, she was gone

As the moon on the wings of the fay

For a moment, the light, then the fall of the night

Then the smile, then the looking away

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

Now your man was a no nonsense sensible cove

And time waits for no man, nor he

It was tea-time, and late, so he asked the girl straight

What’s with the glad eye for me?

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?


She stopped for a moment, up high on the hill

And she blushed to the prettiest pink

Why, no sir, she lied, there’s just stuff in my eye

And your man is mistaken in drink

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?


He thought for a minute, there wasn’t much in it

And tea had a finer appeal

So he bid her good day, in a chivalrous way

Doffed his hat, and then turned on his heel

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?


Come back!  she said, ‘Twas all bullshit!  she said

Though my fancy is fickle, ‘tis true

You may take me, or leave me, but better believe me

I so have a glad eye for you

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no?

 …

He thought to himself, she’s a right silly lass

But she sure has a glad eye for me

So he beckoned her down from the top of the hill

And took her back home for some tea

 …

I may do, I might do, but how would ye know

Whether my glad eye’s for you, boy, or no

For truly it’s really quite tricky to tell

Whether your man has a glad eye as well

 *

© Gail Foster 5th October 2016

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guilt and Shame in the Market Place

*

The sun bore down on the Market Cross, where Guilt and Shame were sat

Guilt was clad in a penitent’s rags, and Shame wore a dunce’s hat

The steps were strewn with sticks and stones, and faggots had been lit

And smoke rose up to the pinnacles where shadows of psychopomps sit

“It was you,” said Guilt to Shame, “‘twas you, that brought us to this place”

Shame hung her head as her cheek bled red from the whip of the flame on her face

“‘Tis maybe true,” said she to Guilt, “for I was ever this

Destined to burn in the Market Place for the sake of a stolen kiss”

Guilt fell silent, angry tongues flicking ire in the light of his eye

“‘Twas you as well, my love,” she said, “who brought us here to die”

Then she fell silent too, as snakes of flame hissed in her hair

And the stench of smoking human flesh pervaded the summer air

Above the Cross the sun bore down, and the wheels of justice turned

Guilt and Shame in the Market Place; by terrible passion burned

© Gail Foster 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trickiest Mistress

*

Desire is the trickiest mistress

A strange unpredictable beast

Tickled by fancy and circumstance

Afflicted by famine and feast

A delicate matter to master

An unruly monster to tame

Lightening flash turning wood in to ash

Fickle wind flirting with flame

The shock of a shot in the darkness

Rending the fabric of reason

Twist of the moon in the bloodstream to

The flow of the earth and the season

A flicker of feathers, a furnace

A shaft through a crack in the gloom

A kingfisher flash, and a cymbal clash

Stunning a moth to its doom

The lustre of dew on the morning

The rushing of rain from the heights

Soft light of the haze of a lazy day

The scream of a curse in the night

Dark tryst, with the forces of fury

Sharp wound to the breast of the brave

Tears streaming forth from the altar

In penitence down to the grave

A hypnotist, haunting the astral

A soul sold for pennies to Death

Dark lies from the lips of a lover

Spake on a sorcerer’s breath

A trickster who picks the wrong moment

A joker who laughs at his joke

The strike of a flint over kindle and lint

Drawing flame from a nuance of smoke

A trigger, a shiver, a whip crack

As swift as a swallow in flight

A shimmering dust of desire and lust

On a mirror upturned to the light

How it craves for its own consummation

And seeks its own purpose to feed

A bottomless well that can never be full

A cup all half empty of mead

‘Tis a mare that the Gods cannot master

As the wildness of wind in a tree

A force as elusive to harness

As the unbridled waves of the sea

Desire is the triskiest mistress

The riskiest creature to catch

For there in her eyes and the cleft of her thighs

May morality meet with its match

*

© Gail Foster 2016