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Rachel Fawcett Poem
The deal is done you’ve sold your soul,
hurled yourself into a pit of coal,
whirling like a dervish you fan the flame,
each time he invokes his unholy game.
In a ball gown made of funeral palls,
you dance with the devil each time he calls.
Entranced by his rhythmic violin,
you live a life of perfect sin.
You lie and cheat, your wish is his pleasure,
have everything you want, wine, women and treasure.
You believe it’s right even though it’s wrong
now Satan’s the singer and you’re the song.
But soon the glitter will turn to dust,
the gold and silver he promised will turn to rust.
As you twist and writhe he’ll revel as you burn,
for this is a lesson you’ll never learn.
To the devils tune you dance so well
yet you wonder why you’re still in hell.
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2017
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
Upon my palette I find one shade,
so deeply rich it’ll never fade,
pure purple, my favourite hue,
that mystical shade where red meets blue,
I take up my brush and begin to paint
bold strokes that show no artistic restraint.
I picture myself a Queen in a Royal gown
a giant Amethyst atop my crown,
I confer protection to all in my sight,
my violet aura shining bright.
At my feet the thistle flowers
a symbol of my nobility and royal prowess.
The colour of energy fuelled by passion
dubbed the “new black”, just ask fashion,
the shade of kings with courtly power
my canvas a wash of Pasque flower
it’s peaceful coolness brings me calm
purple’s my magical healing balm.
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2013
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
Named after NZ's native bird,
there's an awesome fruit, it's concurred.
Sold with a spoon, never stirred
adored in salad, so I've heard,
it sounds absurd, it sounds absurd.
Fuzzy outside, brilliant green inner,
helping to digest your dinner.
Eat it raw to make you thinner,
when you work out, makes you trimmer.
It’s a winner, it’s a winner.
Its Vitamin c keeps you well,
boosting each immunity cell.
By binding toxin’s, they expel
the illnesses we all misspell.
They way excel, they, way excel.
Kiwis are tasty raw or stewed,
consuming one improves your mood.
Enjoy one now, go on, be shrewd,
help to end the growing fruit feud
it’s a superfood, superfood.
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2018
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
It starts as mizzle, a lethargic drizzle dribbling down the pane.
It’s dull and grey on this miserable day - I want to have some fun,
a sudden flash brings a big fat splash raindrop racing has begun.
The skies rock the starters block, they’re pelting down the pane,
tipping, slipping, constantly dripping, never ever still,
chasing, pacing, always racing each other to the sill,
lashing, dashing, splishing, splashing giving me such a thrill.
Their watery tails leave comet trails blazing across the pane.
They’re hell for leather in this inclement weather then out peeps the sun,
her soft warm glow makes the raindrops slow evaporating every one.
26/5/2013
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2013
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
A is for an album to hold my stamp hoard,
B is for back of book where my “specials” are stored.
C is for the cancellation that causes such strife,
D is for definitives with their unlimited life.
E is for excitement, the thrill of the find,
F is for fiscal and its financial bind.
G is for the gum that sticks them in the post,
H is for the hinges displaying those I love most.
I is for imperforates, those joined with no holes,
J is for a Johfra box to soak off without bowls.
K is for a killer mark that destroys a stamp’s worth
L is for local stamps with a limited dearth.
M is for the magnifying glass used for searching out flaws
N is for the newspaper stamps that brought headlines to our doors.
O is for “officials” with a government cachet
P is for postage due when the sender fails to pay.
Q is for the Queen’s head on all British stamps
R is for retouches and forgers re vamps.
S is for a stockbook for stamps that are spare
T is for tweezers to handle them with care.
U is for unused, a stamp postally mint,
V is for variety, it has a fault in its print.
W is for watermark to prove authenticity
X is for xanthic spots, rust, that strikes without pity.
Y is for youngsters and encouraging their dream
Z is for Zemstvo a rare Russian theme.
To see a stamp thrown in the bin, now that is such a crime,
I’ll revere it in my collection making it sublime.
Written 1st March 2013 by Rachel Fawcett. I am a Trained Nurse by day and spend my time off collecting stamps and trying to write poetry. I haven’t been publicly writing very long and this is only the second poetry competition I've ever entered. I love writing as it stretches my imagination and I enjoy the challenge it brings. I love collecting stamps as they bring order to my mind.
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2013
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
Your love is lost your heart is shattered
mosaicked by a complex of cracks,
wordy weapons leave it tattered
the battle scars of life’s attacks.
Shrouded in a blanket of pain,
you think love’s gone, remote, extinct,
in time it will rekindle again
for life and death are closely linked.
In dark despair, pique's deepest cold
is thawed in the refiners furnace,
there love's small fruit is turned to gold
a warmth you can tenderly embrace.
There those battered shards are gently gilt
becoming a new love token,
where repaired and lovingly rebuilt
you’re more beautiful for being broken
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2013
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
Seventeen minutes to midnight - the world enters a new era,
nuclear arsenals reduce as peace creeps ever nearer.
Fourteen minutes to midnight - our hopes begin to fade,
as we discover no new world order, just the powder keg we've made.
Twelve minutes to midnight - there's tests on bombs non stop,
we need to sign a peace treaty to end this agitprop.
Ten minutes to midnight - Eastern Europe leaves the block,
shattering communism, the world stares back in shock.
Nine minutes to midnight - nuclear armament gathers pace,
nation challenging nation to win the world arms race.
Seven minutes to midnight - we're officially nucleoholic,
each missile's the last one, each threat of peace symbolic.
Five minutes to midnight - global warming walks on stage,
ironically nuclear power will usher in the world's new age.
Three minutes to midnight - world tensions are renewed,
disarmament grinds to a halt as superpowers obtrude.
Two and a half minutes to midnight - fake news is on the rise,
with fabricated statements, politically calculated lies.
Only two minutes to midnight - the whole world's breath is bated,
the doomsayer counting down, a holocaust long awaited.
In those two cold minutes to midnight - doomsday's knell is ringing,
announcing Armageddon, not the end but its beginning.
19th Feb 2018
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2018
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
Smoggy, foggy, damp and cloggy,
cloyingly moist, feeling soggy,
lost in a shroud of stratus cloud
muffling the voices of the crowd.
Whirling, swirling, wraith-like curling,
absorbing the light, as dark unfurling
it reflects the moak, thick as smoke
all life hidden in its nebulous cloak.
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2013
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
Curling crests cassessing coastlines
backwash bumping beach breakers.
screeching Seagulls squark and scream
mocking maritime merrymakers.
Burning boogers brave blisterd backs
scorched surfers seek shoreline shade,
urbane under umpteen umberellas,
peacocks posed in a parasol parade.
Drifting dunes delight deserted
lovers, languorously lounging, lazily
craving comfort, coveting cool currents.
Hellishly humid, heat hovers hazily.
Spirited siblings, spades spanking
bucket bottoms, bulid
carefully carved chimerical castles,
infantile fantasies fulfilled.
Exposing exiled exoskeletons
turning tide tickles toes,
sun sinks slowly seaward
disclosing dusk's descending doze.
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2018
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Rachel Fawcett Poem
My manager’s voice is booming
telling me my deadlines looming
overwhelmed I begin to drown
Whoop,whoop,whoop, red alert – MELTDOWN!
eyes in the office are staring
wet excuses I'm declaring
I'm paralysed by my boss’ frown
Whoop,whoop,whoop, red alert – MELTDOWN!
laughter floating like bonfire smoke
there's no deadline that was a joke
my boss is now the office clown
Whoop,whoop,whoop, red alert – MELTDOWN!
relieved I find myself smiling
work for me no longer piling
lets all leave early, go down town
Whoop,whoop,whoop, red alert – MELTDOWN!
Copyright © Rachel Fawcett | Year Posted 2013
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