LYZ HARVEY

‘I CAN MANAGE WITHOUT YOU’

 

 

No hairs in the plug hole, except those that are mine:

When I do the washing it's all my own grime:

No delayed mealtimes, no fuss and no fret:

No 'will you just ... ?' - and sulks if I forget:

No snoring, no coughs (or noises much worse):

No toothpaste uncapped, no raids on my purse.

Just peace, blessed peace, and hours on my own

To sit and count blessings, now I live alone.

I cherish my thoughts in this space I now have,

And nurture my needs. People say I'm 'so brave'-

But although I can see what they mean, it's not that -

It's what life has dealt me and how I adapt.

The day when I woke with a smile on my face,

And a gladness inside, and of sadness no trace -

That's the day that I knew, with no shadow of doubt,

That I'd mastered the art of living without

Any need for another. So life will be fine –

And I'm able to say now 'the pleasure's all mine!'

THE HERMIT CRAB MOVES HOUSE 

 

 

No room to stretch, each movement is agony;

Comfort, space, are but a distant memory.

Time to move on - the most tricky decision -

When to, and how to, weighed up with precision.

Locating a new shell when the tide has receded,

Finding a whelk of the size that was needed,

Then summoning courage, emerge from the old home -

Vulnerable body exposed in sea foam.

Hasten the process lest voracious gulls spy

The transfer taking place as they wheel in the sky.

Now the tip of the tail locates the vacant shell -

Ease backwards, prehensile, test - all appears well.

Smoothly and gently the spiral can guide

And welcome the body as it settles inside.

The entrance filled with the head, legs and claws

As the hermit crab, rehoused, rests and withdraws.

WYSISWYG

 

 

What you see is what you get?

Not in this age, don't you fret.

Cosmetic surgeons, tucks and nips:

Colloidal injections in your lips:

Liposuctions flushed down the drain -

Soft and rounded's ne'er seen again.

Toned and trimmed, taut, tense and untrue

Poor girls - what lies ahead for you?

A LITTLE PAIN 

 

 

That's all it is - a little pain,

No need to bother the doctor yet.

I went last month, so I won't go again,

No, I can manage - no need to fret.

He's got far worse to see in there -

A surgery full of colds and sinuses.

Ooh - that hurt! No, just a twinge -

Nothing that aspirin can't put right.

Oh drat - another - that made me cringe.

Perhaps I'll just book an appointment tonight.

 

 

I feel such a fool now I'm safely back home.

I'm sure by now it's the talk of the staff.

He examined me first, then extracted the bone -

From my corset, while trying so hard not to laugh.

SPACE 

 

 

You're so unbelievably rude,

Not to mention downright crude -

Moronic, idiotic,

A complete waste of space!

 

 

Don't you tell me what to do

Or I'll throw the other shoe -

Your antics make me frantic,

Just get out of my face!

 

 

You can get out now - the door!

I can't take it any more -

I'm too busy, makes me dizzy,

I just need...my...own...space!!

DEAR 

No, I'm not! I want to shout with great glee

"Cheap and cheerful" - now that's much more me.
'Dear' makes me feel so ... patronised -
"There, there, dear - you're all right."
"No I'm not - I'm quite scandalised
That you're seeing me in a dependant light,
When self reliance has been my lifelong fight.
So don't 'dear' me, or you'll live to regret it -
I'm able and feisty, and don't you forget it!"

CHRISTMAS LURGY 

 

I've got potions to swallow,

Tablets to suck,

Lotions to rub me,

And sprays to sniff up.

I'm under the doctor

And on the box;

I'm in terrible trouble,

(and flannel nightie and socks).

Can't lie down to sleep,

Can't sit up all night;

Can't get warm, can't keep cool,

Unwashed hair, look a fright.

Run out of fresh tissues,

Oh, loo roll will do -

Shit, I've run out of that,

Now can't have a poo.

I'll try to die quietly -

No noise and no fuss.

Good job I'm a woman -

Men are always far worse.

"What? - oh yes, dear,

I'm coming right now."

With honey and lemon,

We soothe fevered brow.

We postpone our bronchitis,

Forget our own ills -

Open the brandy

To wash down the pills.

It just keeps us going

Sufficiently well,

To run upstairs and down,

While you give us hell!

WICKED LUSTS 

 

The birds are tweeting,

Sweethearts are sweeting,

It's that loving time of the year, we know -

For just holding hands

Long walks on the sands,

So the wavelets can tickle your toe.

 

We spotted a squid,

Stranded on a tin lid,

And let this be a terrible warning -

He waved his tentacles,

Ravished ten barnacles,

We could only blame global warming.

 

Such inspiration!

Sweat, perspiration!!

It instantly boosted our wooing -

We were carried away

By the high tide next day,

While the crowd that had gathered were booing!

 

Beware this season

When chaps lose reason,

And young women lose more than intended -

They'll make sure you pay

At the end of the day,

Heed my warning - least said, soonest mended.

GRANNIES WHO LUNCH 

 

We’re sophisticated, smart; Grannies who lunch.

Independent of children, a joyful bunch.

We meet every month for "intellectual" chat –

Nothing too heavy, just this and just that.

We swap notes on false nails, we admire Lumley’s looks,

We lust after Redford, discuss latest books.

 

We’re middle-aged women out on a spree

Not a husband in sight – a whole six hours free.

There’s an unspoken rule – no photos please

Of curly haired babies sat upon knees;

No mention of Grannies, we left that behind

When we shut the front door and opened our minds.

 

We’re loath to relinquish our hard-won status -

Free of families for once – no domestic hiatus.

We indulge in large gins, overdose on sushi,

Relish the prawns, greet gateaux with glee,

Reminding ourselves we deserve only the best -

Today is for us, with no thought for the rest -

That is, ‘til it’s time to air kiss ("mwah, mwah") one another,

And on the way home, metamorphose into Mother.

TERZANELLE "The elusive Muse" 

 

In the dark and dismal attic

Sits a man in deepest gloom.

He's wild-eyed and going frantic.

 

As he waits inside his room,

Will the Muse come - now - or never?

Sits a a man in deepest gloom.

 

Wishing that he was more clever,

Waiting for some inspiration -

Will the Muse come now, or never?

 

Clears the beads of perspiration,

Mopping at his brow, despairing.

Waiting for some inspiration.

 

Should he rhyme or be more daring?

Try a sonnet, or blank verse?

Mopping at his brow, despairing.

 

Has the muse gone? Could be worse ...

In the dark and dismal attic

Try a sonnet or blank verse -

At last! He's got it !! He's ecstatic!!!

"A GARDENER IS BORN" 

 

"It takes a special sort of eye"

The nice young agent muttered.

He’d shown me round as nice as pie -

d.g. and plastic guttered.

 

"The heating’s gas, the décor’s great –

No need to paint or paste."

"Oh good" said I "no problem, mate;

The garden’s to my taste?"

 

But when I flung the curtains wide

To peer at vegetation,

I gazed in horror as I spied

With awful trepidation

 

The thigh high grass and thorny weeds.

He’d hoped I wouldn’t flinch.

"I think attention’s all it needs,

It’s going to be a cinch."

 

I took the keys and signed the forms,

The ideal first-time buyer.

I dreamt of seeds and bulbs and corms

And crops grown higher and higher.

 

I cleared the grass and dug the soil,

And saw my physio weekly

For muscles pulled by honest toil -

I paid the price quite meekly.

 

"‘Twill not take long" I told my friends,

"I’ll show you what I’ve done"

Then handed out some odds and ends

Of tools – they soon went home!

 

But five years on I’ve got it straight,

It’s really my true passion –

I cultivate and prune, create

Whatever style’s in fashion.

 

I’ve joined the village gardening club,

My old friends all have gone –

I wouldn’t meet them in the pub.

The new ones are more fun.

 

We meet up monthly in the hall

Hold competitions every time,

Have quizzes horticultural,

And annual shows sublime.

 

My true ambition’s come to pass –

I’ve won the best of prizes.

It’s in the "least exotic class"

Rude veg - all shapes and sizes!

 

A SHELTERED LIFE SONNET ... (A new reality TV show?)

 

There'll be slices of life, and some may be boring -

But that's what it's like in Sheltered Housing;

Fred and George shaking rooms, noisily snoring,

While Minnie and Madge are eternally grousing.

 

With a bit of good luck maybe someone will die -

A nice funeral would help TV ratings to soar.

Now who might it be? Old Joe or Eli?

They've both of them passed their ten and four score.

 

Audiences will see all the callers we have

And the visits we make to the hospital -

Physios, chiropodists, relatives who brave

Our sharp tongues as we moan about it all.

 

But it's reality of life, when all's said and done;

Face the cameras, shoot the wrinklies - go on, let's have fun!

THE BALLAD OF COLLEY GATE OSCAR

 

Oscar was a wise cat.

He'd walked all through the streets,

Rejected by his owners,

Raiding bins for little treats.

He really liked the Balti,

Next best he liked Chinese -

He loved the bits of prawn and beef,

But longed above all for cheese.

 

So one dark night he thought he'd try

A favourite trick of cats.

He found a house that looked just right,

Then howled outside on their mat!

The couple rushed - "Poor thing!" they said

"He must be lost, let him in!"

They gave him milk, they tried tinned food -

But no, he still looked thin.

 

Then one fine day the old man said

"I fancy cheese for my tea,

Toasted on bread, with a fried egg on top"

"Oh good" said his wife "that suits me!"

When Oscar smelled cheese his fur stood on end

His nose twitched, his whiskers curled round.

He went to the table and sat on a chair -

He wouldn't jump down to the ground.

 

So just for a lark, they gave him a plate,

And cut up the cheese into bits.

His manners were perfect, they needn't have feared,

And every meal now, here he sits.

WHO'D HAVE THOUGHT IT !

 

"Provide a photo for Pandabash"

No problem, I thought, if it's nothing too rash -

Dig out the album, it should be easy...

Six hours later... hmmm...they all make me queasy.

But this one showed promise, I thought - yes, and scope -

If nothing else than to prove that there's hope

For every sweet, little, innocent, brat

To become, decades later, a cynical old bat !

I RAN OUT

 

I ran out of listening to your fanciful dreams:

I ran out of funds for your hare-brained schemes:

I ran out of give when you could only take:

I ran out of allowances you said I should make:

I’d exhausted it all - then one final day

I ran out of reasons why I should stay.

INDUSTRIALISATION 2

 

Man in cloth cap

Eating his snap

Fingernails grimy and black.

 

Deafened by din

Wages are thin

Laid off when orders were slack.

 

Now he’ll retrain

Discover his brain

Is still there, waiting for use.

 

A white collar job!

Now he’s a snob

Stress is his daily short fuse.

 

Does he regret

The days when he’d fret –

His craftsmanship never in question?

 

His manual day

To computers gave way –

That’s progress? No, modern frustration!

ALICE THREW THE LOOKING GLASS

 

This title makes her sound

A self-indulgent little brat:

And, sure enough, the smile is all

Remaining of the Cheshire Cat.

It’s allegorical, I’ve since been told,

But the warning’s plain to see –

With hallucinations by the score

Beware any bottles that say "drink me".

DOG-GEREL

 

Oh I’m a vet – a TV vet;

A very wealthy man.

I’ll tend the illness of your pet

For as many weeks as I can.

 

Treasured Staffies, mutts and poodles,

All are welcome in my care;

I know they’ll bring in oodles

For my coffers – that’s quite fair.

 

My staff are photogenic

And the pets are checked for fleas;

Mustn’t scratch, no, that’s pathetic –

(And I draw the line at bees).

 

Insurance covers most things,

So I can charge the earth

To mend your pet moth’s broken wing

And help your mouse give birth.

 

So keep on watching TV progs –

Encouraged by the kids.

Keep turning up with cats and dogs

While I rake in the quids!

PULL YOUR FINGER OUT!

 

We all know the story of brave little Dutch Mike –

The boy who prevented the flood;

How he stuck his finger right into the dyke

- we assumed it was all for the good …

 

 But when Mike grew up, carried on with his life,

He couldn’t be a hero for ever –

His children got bored, as did his wife,

And told him he’d never been clever.

 

He became quite depressed and went into decline –

He looked at his finger and sighed

"If it wasn’t for you, my life would be fine."

Put his head in his hands – and he cried …

 

So he chopped the thing off – yes it hurt quite a bit;

Then he put it in ice, in a box,

Took it to the museum – it’s displayed as "the digit

That saved a whole country." Now no-one mocks.

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