I meant to write a poem of revenge
To hurt the one who shot out glacial words
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Through the Oxford. my sharp eyes had lunged
My vile emotions then were further stirred
I meant to write a poem of revenge

First he wooed me , showed his cultured friends
Sweet the words and soft the voice I heard
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Would retaliation my heart rend?
Down the vultures rushed ,carnivorous birds
As he wooed me with the words he wrung

My arm was disengaged by unseen hand
I could not write, impossible cruel words
I meant to write a poem of revenge

Lady of Macbeth, who’d wash in blood
When evil can be overcome by good?
I meant to write a poem of revenge
I hated once but Good controlled my hand

I do not like this stone within my heart

Its jagged edges  tear the living flesh.

Devoid of feelings yet it causes pain 

Who will cut it out, with blood to wash?

Why do people turn to stone inside?

Something is preserved, we are not dead.

And yet it’s useless even full of harm

I lie here weeping on my unmade bed.

On its stony surface evil dwells

Alien forms of life take up this home.

And, all unknowing, we  live our sweet life.

Until we’re brought to earth, no more to roam.

Oh do not let me die, I want more life

Where is my surgeon with his sharpest knife?

Daddy where were you when I was sad
I bought you Woodbines in Mather’s corner shop
I carried your boiled egg with salt on plate
You lay in bed adorned with wreaths of smoke

Uncle Herbert died when I was five
Not many of Dad’s brothers left alive
But Bert was old and all his children grown
He lay inert, the coffin dark, the stone

I saw yours and Grandad’s too, the oak
The Cemetery filled with men and broken hearts
Baffled grieving we would love seek
And for Mum’s mother’s grave, we tried to look

We too will lie down in the earth
In communion with our parents ,love and birth