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Shirley Gribble Poem
January Two Perspectives
From his park bench bed
He hears bells chime in New Year.
Quiet desperation.
From her pavement tent
She peeps. Harrods is open!
January sales!
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
I'm writing a torrid love story,
Full of scandle and intrigue and sex,
About film stars and beautiful people,
And who goes to bed with who next.
Their clothes are by famous designers,
They wear diamonds and mink and real pearls.
Their hair is just perfectly coiffured -
And that's just the chaps, not the girls!
The hero's in love with his uncle,
And his wife's had an implant or two,
Grandfather has married the housemaid,
He's eighty and she's twenty-two.
When it's published I'll make lot's of money,
But just for a while, till I do,
I'm a little bit short on housekeeping -
Can you lend me a fiver or two?
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
Here's Looking At You!
A glass of champagne,
Mixed with the girl of your dreams
Could start something great.
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
Parting
Spring
Stay, see the blossom
Promising bountiful fruit.
Pick cherries with me.
Summer
Musk roses heady scent.
Diamonds in a velvet sky.
Warm love in Summer.
Autumn
The smell of wood smoke,
A bonfire of promises,
Hopes, dreams, drift - gone.
Winter
He left in Winter,
Snow covering his footprints,
Ice gripping my heart.
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
The Sadness of Small Things
The tin of beans sits dejectedly on the shelf.
Why is it still there?
It's not like he's going to breeze through the door
Demanding beans on toast.
Not now.
But there they sit.
I don't even like beans.
I take them off the shelf.
I'll give them to the first person I see -
No, I'll leave them on the garden wall,
Someone is bound to take them.
Why didn't he take them?
He took everything else.
Why am I crying over a tin of beans?
I don't want his bloody beans,
I want him.
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
The Call of the Highlands
Oh I'd love a day out in the heather,
With a ghillie a gun and a stick,
I'd stalk 'cross the moors, crawl about on all fours
All the way from Fort William to Wick.
Oh I'd love to catch fish in the river,
Cast my line, it's no problem you see,
For the fish that I catch will find they're no match
For a quick-witted lassie like me.
Oh I'd love to go riding on horseback,
'cross the valley the glen and the moor.
I'd gallop all day o're the banks and the brae,
And come back a bit saddle sore.
Oh I think that maybe on reflection,
If it's snowy, or if the wind roars,
That I'll find me a nook, cuddle up with a book,
By a nice cosy fire - indoors!
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
Her Vows.
I love you more than mashed potatoes, or tea in my favourite mug.
I love you more than curling up on the sofa with a rug.
I love you more than a manicure, more than George Clooney too,
I love you more than a thunderstorm, that's how much I love you.
More than a trinket from Tiffany's (well, almost I should say)
But I 'specially love you lots and lots, today, our Wedding Day.
His vows.
I love you more than a mega-byte, or a beer on a Saturday night,
I love you more than Ipswich Town (well if they loose I think I might)
I love you more than a skiing trip, and more than five-a-side,
I love you more than fish and chips, my love I just can't hide.
I love you more than a compact disc, and more than a good read,
I'll marry you, of you'll take the risk, you're all I'll ever need.
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
Rumour Has It
Rumour has it he came from the country.
I do not know his name,
But I do know his face.
I moved to the town so that I did not have to see his face.
Rumour has it he has a secret.
Now I watch him from behind the safety of my curtain.
Rumour has it.
And I know what it is.
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
Unsuccsockful
Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs,
Everything always happens in pairs,
Except socks.
If one child's ill, another follows,
The fridge breaks down, the washing machine swallows
The socks.
The cat gets stuck at the top of a tree,
Fall over the Lego, hole in my knee -
Like the socks.
The toast burns, the dog is sick,
It's eight o'clock, oh do be quick.
WHERE ARE MY SOCKS?
In the drawer there are long ones,
And short ones
And thick ones
And thin ones
And brown ones
And black ones
And grey ones.
But where is a PAIR?
Not there.
I despair.
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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Shirley Gribble Poem
Commuterland
Our estate is very posh,
Executives, and oh by gosh
Our Sunday evening cocktails are the thing.
Mortgaged to the eye-ball we are,
We don't even own our own car,
Matter of fact we don't own anything.
We're all driving 4X4's,
And mine's as twice as big as yours,
Every day we drive to kids to school.
Ladies luncheons are de rigueur,
Then they exercise with vigour,
Dipping painted toe- nails in the pool.
We do our bit to help the nation,
Try to combat the inflation,
Knocking back another G&T.
We get all our goods on Access,
And it is the usual practise
Not to actually pay for anything.
From the bank we have to borrow -
Fund our lifestyle for tomorrow,
Louis Vuitton luggage is "tres cher".
Golf club, gym, and school fees rising,
So you see it's not surprising
We can barely pay for the au pair.
We're very nicely ticking over,
But it's not a bed of clover,
Sometime very soon will come the crunch.
Not far off the day of reckoning,
Bank manager will soon be beckoning,
Hope the pension fund will come up trumps!
Copyright © Shirley Gribble | Year Posted 2014
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