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
Category: Rules
Poetry Rule No. 9b Keep recycling to a minimum until you’ve got your other priorities right
Cover
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
2014
Poetry Rule No. 37 Recognise a cry for help when you see one
Cry
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’?)
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 trees 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 me (c) Maggie Baker 1998 & Glad the Poet 2020
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