Poetry Rule No. 45 Don’t underestimate the therapeutic quality of vices – or verses

Turning the Tables

Lobster meat is sweet, I believe
I tasted it once, a long time ago
but I really don’t know
if the clacking, snapping, pincer-sharp
bite of the lobster-look-alike girl’s mind
belies anything even remotely kind

As I sit watching her eat that lobster meat
sucking her fingers with self-satisfied glee
pouting and spouting out the debris
of her clacking, snapping pincer-sharp mind
and smile inwardly at the resemblance I see
a wonderful, horrible thought comes to me

Wouldn’t it be great if a giant lobster loomed
and ate her up after popping her into
a boiling pot, while she was still alive?

This is the sea-bed of salvation
upon which I feed and thrive
turning the tables through poetry
on the clacking, snapping
pincer-sharp lobster-look-alike girl’s mind
and her kind

(c) Maggie Baker 2014 & Glad the Poet 2020

Poetry Rule No. 9b Keep recycling to a minimum until you’ve got your other priorities right


Don't judge a book by its cover
don't even begin to think that you know
what lies underneath
when every belief
that is written in time comes and goes

Don't judge a book by its cover
for the pages are those that can lie and deceive
the wisdom of years
may appear as true fears
and the rest will come in as you weave

Don't judge a book by its cover
when the story has not yet begun
Yet the time is right now
and in some way, some how
what needs to be said will be done

Don't judge a book by its cover
it's only a matter of time and again
tattered and torn may be weary and worn
but it's all the same in the end

Don't judge a book by its cover
don't even begin to think that you know
for it's all in a muddle
and inside the middle
is a tale that is waiting to grow
so it will


Poetry Rule No. 37 Recognise a cry for help when you see one


A cry goes out
but no one hears

The Act is almost
done, no tears

But then another cry
is heard

That stops the Act
before the end

And so it goes on
and on
and on

These are the pages between the sheets of our lives

Blank. Black. White. Dirty. Torn. Cornered. Folded. Plied.

These are the lives that we limit to live
These are the cries that we’re frightened to give
These are the days that we count on our clocks
How soon will it be before it all stops?

© Glad the Poet 2020

Poetry Rule No. 47 – Still in development (or should that be ‘instill development’?)

Photo by Alex Andrews on Pexels.com
Fox, Alert

Once, upon a green and white day, I walked
with shades of blue and grey above
and occasional muted pools of golden light
along the way

Cold and still, it was as
wrapped in thoughts and clothes
I lumbered on
taking weary steps in heavy boots
glad to be out but ill at ease
and with no easy motion

Then, suddenly, up ahead
a quick quiet movement of life
and limbs
and fur of warm brown red

A dog, I thought, at first - but no -
a fox!

I stopped and stared
and thrilled at each tight turn

Alert though not aware of me
she moved, close enough to see
the splash of white
upon her breast
no cunning vixen, she
with body, mind and spirit
in perfect poise
and purposeful grace
beside the still
and silent

Doing what she needed to do
being what she needed to be

But then I moved
and she was gone

So I carried on 
through the green and white day
with shades of blue and grey
moving easier now
but missing her and wishing
that our eyes had met
that I hadn't seemed a threat

For in her hungry hunt for food
she had nourished me
and warmed my heart
while her cold search
went on

Alone, both
and alive

She free, and I
a few steps closer now
to being

(c) Maggie Baker 1998 & Glad the Poet 2020