I write a line

It’s Sunday so I’m writing you a letter
I’ll tell you of the moments I enjoyed
Don’t worry cos I know I will get better

I wonder if a female poet’s coy
When she will not meet another’s eyes
When she thinks her cell phone is a toy

I’m mainly honest but sometimes I tell lies
Kant’s imperative can bring such joy
Then a doctor hints that I shall die

I learned that my own husband was annoyed
He wanted to divorce me but he fled
He was sort of introverted , shy.

He was very tender when in bed
He called me private names I can’t reveal
His skin broke out in hives when we were wed

I think that bad emotions were concealed
Hiding in the space between the lines
I drank so much my lips became unsealed

Well,we must make an end and that is fine
My hospitality goes downhill at times
Jesus was a Prophet, that’s a sign
The Word is stammered, flesh, oh flesh divine

The footstep on the stairs

I remember you so well for those eight years
The nights you sang love’s lullabies to me
I was fearful of the footstep on the stairs

You held me as we paddled in the sea
Maybe Blackpool,maybe Morecambe too
You told me stories as I sat upon your kne

I have some good memories, too few
Where are all those days we played outdoors?
Who knows if these memories are true?

In East Lancs and in West Lancs rain will pour
Once you wrapped me in your coat, but then
Mam was angry when we reached the door

She told you, you were foolish for a man
Why should men be wise, should anyone?
That was when your illnesses began

You let me lie beside you in your bed
I’d had my tonsils out and felt unwell
I talked but don’t remember what you said

I didn’t know the meaning of pure hell
I guess I learned that when death you befell
Come back,Daddy,missing you too well

I’m still your little girl, your smiling belle