Home » Poems » Best » Viv Wigley » Best Viv Wigley Poems

Best Poems Written by Viv Wigley

Below are the all-time best Viv Wigley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Inside My Head- For Contest

Hello there, do please come inside- no need to wipe your feet
excuse the mess, I fear you'll find it isn't very neat.
This place is always untidy, victim of my disorder
from old hang-ups to memories, I'll admit I am a hoarder.
In here hanging like mobiles, noisy, at odds with my feelings
are life's little distractions, niggling, swinging from the ceiling.
Careful with your torch,  don't shine it underneath the bed
beneath it there is lurking a dark sprouting creeping dread.
Most people couldn't live with it, a disturbing thing to some,
as it cowers in the corner from the things still yet to come.
Tread lightly in the corridor, just mind out where you walk
you'll trip on my anxiety that bobs up like a cork.
The fire is stoked, the hearth is swept and logs stacked in a heap
my warmth to all well tended (well, except when I'm asleep).
Cardboard tubes in disarray, and more you cannot see-
plans I drew up in the past, none ever meant to be.
Mannequin in veil of black, arms raised as if to dance
with all my past relationships that never stood a chance.
This rocking chair, my temper, that sometimes I must sit in
and you'll notice that the varnish of my patience has worn thin.
My sense of humour's in the loft, protected by my hats
seemed like the right place for it, since my friends all think I'm bats.
That one small window by the beam lets my faith's light shine in
I'm sorry it's not brighter, window dirty from past sin.
Still, I can  climb and open it to aim my telescope
for somewhere in the darkness lies the faintest glimpse of hope
that keeps me living here in peace and shelters me from sad;
you wonder why I live in here? Well, out there-
its just mad!

September16th 2015

For contest 'Inside my head'- sponsor John Lawless

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Spider Web

filigree shimmers
sunlit dewdrop tiara
graces summer rose

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Held Aloft

We'd laid old George to rest the week before,
at ninety-one he now rejoined his wife,
no heirs to his estate, so one thing more
to do, and that's clear where he'd spent his life.
Downstairs had been quite easy, George was neat,
his things all had a purpose, neatly stored,
for tidiness this home was hard to beat
all clean and dusted, nothing was ignored.
It seemed almost that since his wife passed on
his solemn duty was to keep a shrine,
no other purpose now that she had gone,
he spent each day just sat, biding his time.
A plain and simple man, a life lived long
but opening a hatch proved we were wrong.

Met with a cold shaft of descending air
and particles of dust caught in the light
I climbed up while my friend steadied the stairs
feet dangling then disappeared from sight.
The torchlight didn't lie, I'd been deceived,
expecting just to find an empty space,
instead I stared unable to believe
how much there was in such a tiny place.
Now, yes, I would expect a Christmas tree
and Golf clubs that had long since seen a round,
a failed attempt at home brewing, maybe
and pictures he thought lost but never found.
But hidden in a tired old briefcase
were things well hid that old George couldn't face.

Tied in a green silk ribbon, slightly frayed
 letters to him from his loving Maureen
about over the years the plans they'd made,
a little odd, since his wife's name was Jean.
A small cardboard box held a simple note
with medal and a ribbon tucked inside
thanking him, someone's wife had briefly wrote,
for being with her husband when he died.
I sat and read, transfixed, beside the hatch
the commendation from his high command
for acts of courage, mentioned in dispatch
in battles fought across Tunisia's sands.
It seems for these few things George had no use,
the man who wouldn't say 'Boo' to a Goose.

No time to dwell on this, I carried on,
my eyes attracted to a wooden box
the thing that caught my eye as torchlight shone
was that the lid had far too many locks.
This was no safe, a simple wooden crate
that otherwise one wouldn't think about
easy to break but did such locks dictate
that what was in there wasn't coming out?
A screwdriver was all it took to break
the brass hinges and hasps around the lid,
this liberty I was about to take
I suddenly was sorry that I did.
I paused for breath and let some moments pass
my preconceptions shattering like glass.

Swaddled within a crocheted woollen shawl
doll-like but skin with a leathery feel
chin touching knees curled up into a ball
at first glance, just a toy- but this was real.
she looked maybe, oh, three months old, I guessed,
and judging by the romper suit, a girl,
in cheery pinks and white she lay there, dressed
with matching bonnet hiding wispy curls.
Horror and disbelief fought for control,
recoiling, heart rate now in overdrive,
a stark realisation gripped my soul
that George knew of this when he was alive.
This open box no longer could disguise
the George we thought we knew was built on lies.

Composure now regained, I reached inside
and gently pulled the card out from her hands
on which the feelings mother had to hide
were written for someone to understand.
“ I had my child in nineteen fifty two
but out of wedlock gave birth secretly
they would have taken her, what could I do?
She's all I had and was the world to me.
I moved away and found another place
a dingy hole, so damp, not very nice
one night I woke and saw her pallid face
and realised for this she'd paid the price.
In case folk find out she must stay unseen,
Please take care of her, George, my love- Maureen.

The loft now cleared is empty, hatch is closed,
Golf clubs and barrels gone to garage sales,
the picture frames, well, I hung on to those
and good dish cloths and towels still tied in bales.
The medals and dispatches soon will sit
within a glass case for the world to see
since they're a recollection truly fit
for such a hero no-one knew but me.
And what of the secret letters? They're all gone
ashes to ashes, as they surely must.
Child's memory will no longer live on,
returned now to the ground to turn to dust.
no trace left for the future, no more proof
that there were two Georges under one roof

For contest 'Photo story', sponsor Eve Roper. Picture number three.

15th November 2017

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Books

They stand, silently,
shoulder to shoulder, upright,
save one at the end, leather bound
who slouches, James Dean fashion.
Six with blue covers, gold blocked,
uniform, like Trumpton Firemen.
All wear their heart on their sleeve,
honest and trustworthy, 
patiently waiting
to be picked by my mood.
A tome selected, opened,
the smell of old paper, as if
it had been holding its breath.
Whispered greetings as the leaves turn,
flickering candlelight warms the words,
and in my mind
they dance.

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Autumn

gently laid to rest
 wafer thin in copper bronze
 fallen ghosts of spring

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Going Bald

As biology goes, I'm surviving,
a few aches and pains and a cough
and I check every morning when in the bathroom
to see if my bits have dropped off.

Now, father time knows where I'm living
and likes to make regular calls
which I know by the strands of my hair on the bedding
that have come from my head and my nose.
(Yes, I know what that last line should be, but it's  a family website)

The condition called male pattern baldness
is feared by men everywhere
and even I've tried all of the creams and the potions
to try and save my bit of hair

A comb-over like Donald Trump has,
using all of the growth that remains
was still not enough to stop that awful tapping
from every time that it rains.

I even tried growing my eyebrows
as long as I possibly could
to comb them straight upwards and over the top
but that didn't look any good.

A  hair loss clinic was suggested
so I phoned them and gave my details,
but I bought myself one or two different fedoras
quite simply in case all else fails.

 Then the hair loss clinic gave me an update
which I wasn't expecting so soon,
they'd found my lost hair on a Camel's backside
in a market just outside Khartoum.

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

A Pirates Life For Me- For Contest

Here we are in 1650, which is ten minutes to five
swing the wheel to the West, which is left,
put your sun cream away, man the mizzen and the stays
as we set off for some murder and some theft.

You'll find us as your hosts on the sunny Barbary Coast
and from there we venture forth to ply our trade
we've been out leaving them for dead from the Atlantic to the Med
before we skittle off back home our fortunes made

With a yo-ho-ho and a barrel of grog
and an arrr and some other cliches
table leg for a thigh and a patch on me eye
as a Pirate I will end my days

As I previously stated we all get inebriated
from our copious imbibing of the grog
our excuse is there's no Cola in the bars of Hispaniola
which is why we need the hair of the dog

With a yo-ho-ho and a barrel of grog
and an arrr and some other cliches
table leg for a thigh and a patch on me eye
as a Pirate I will end my days

Got a woman in Bermuda and another in Tortuga
and they give me lots of lovin' for some coins
and although they're very foxy they're just both a pair of doxies
which I'm sure explains the rash around me groin

With a yo-ho-ho and a barrel of grog
and an arrr and some other cliches
table leg for a thigh and a patch on me eye
as a Pirate I will end my days

Now we're really no buffoons when it comes down to doubloons
and our treasure chests are burstin' at the seams
then old Blackbeard started spouting about doing our accounting
so I said (before I shot him) 'in your dreams'

(ye chorus)

As we skirmish the Atlantic I was starting to get frantic
since the one thing on my voyage I've always feared
is the men who've not been coming for a while across some women
have all started wearing lipstick, which is weird

(arr, the chorus again)

Well it's reached that point me hearties where we anchor down and party
so me shipmates here on board I'd like to thank
though the mix of food and beer has now given me diarrhea
which is why I've made our cook just walk the plank

(for thee last time, chorus, arrrr)

September 17th 2015, 'A pirate's life for me' contest, sponsor Kelly Deschler

(Author's note- there are several spellings of diarrhea, but it doesn't matter, they all have 'arr' in 'em, me hearties)

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

And Then I Opened That Door- For Comp

(For Competition 'And then I opened THAT door', sponsor- John Lawless)


My relationship had broken down, when love ran out of gas
so down life's dark and lonely road I dragged my sorry ass.
Could have done with company on such a painful walk
my passenger I'd left behind, no-one to hear me talk
a light (could it be hope?) I'm sure I saw not far ahead
so I took the avenue called naive to see just where it led.
The house of Her, it's elegant facade, I really was impressed
not sure if I should ring the bell, being not ideally dressed
my cares were worn and dreams were torn, not sure if all that matters
holes right through my optimism and happiness in tatters
no harm in stopping by, I thought, so hey-ho, what the hell
just take the bullshit by the horns, go up and ring the bell.
No answer, but a sudden gust of wind opened the door
and I stepped in, whilst wondering had I been here before.
The corridor stretched out before me, doors to left and right
Not sure how many, since I was too young to see the light.
The first door was denied to me, and so were all it's kin
but since I was alone, I thought I'll just go kick it in.
The first room it enticed me with it's beauty, grace and form,
a fire of passion crackled in the grate that made me warm.
The next room was a cellar, Magnums full of ruby wine
full bodied and intoxicating, all this could be mine.
The third room swathed in velvet, silk and lace, so smooth and cool,
to not lie in such luxury would make a man a fool
excited and emboldened now from all I'd seen before
spoiled child rampaged from place to place
and then opened THAT door.
The blast took me right off my feet, I crashed into the ground
the house of Her shook violently upon the Banshee sound
full force, indignant anger, outright rage, fury unleashed
as only then I understood the nature of the beast.
My welcome suddenly outstayed, my fault, for had I known it
though I had been invited in, walked round as if I owned it
The room hissed in an icy tone as she laid bare my crime
that I would have been more welcome taking one room at a time
but men will open every door to fulfil all their needs
the key to each door is respect, no barrier to greed.
Tornado fire, the Vixen's ire ripped me into the yard
winded, no breath left in me, my ego landed hard.
Got up slowly, brushed myself down and rubbed my aching head
eagerness had bled right out and brashness torn to shreds.
Staggered back out through the gate and turned along the lane
raised my collar round my neck and headed home again.
You see, my relationship had broken down, when love ran out of gas
so down life's dark and lonely road I dragged my sorry ass.
A light......................

18th June 2015

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Rainbow

It struts peacock-like when the rains have gone,
but visible from only the one side,
to folk who from behind sun shines upon,
those facing its bright rays will be denied.
Get closer, as the superstitious do,
and hopes arise with each step they draw near,
in vain seeking treasure, although they knew
the closer they get, it would disappear.
From far off we must seem the happy pair,
our faithfulness tied bow-like round the years,
but close up lie the strains, the wear and tear,
frustrated arguments that no-one hears.
Our hearts not washed in seven coloured stain
rainbow faded, long showers still remain.

For contest 'Rainbows', sponsor Craig Cornish

Details | Viv Wigley Poem

Patriarchy- For Contest

As fathers go, I used to say, I thought he was alright
 took the work wherever he could and kept our fire alight.
 Brylcreem hair , good muscle tone, a boxer's solid build
 army tour in Burma where his discipline was drilled
 his right and wrong were black and white, he clearly drew the line
 step beyond, by God you knew it- otherwise, you're fine.
 Skilled with hands to sketch and whittle, genius with a saw
 and musical- Harmonica (Sunday evenings) at his jaw.

 But as years passed there came the cloud which we had all been fearing
 lungs and heart all damaged from industrial engineering.
 Powerless, no air nor strength, a pallor greyish-blue
 from bed to armchair, back again was all that he could do.
 The rules now changed, they had to, as to what the future be
 so life played spin the bottle, and the bottle stopped at me.
 Carrying the gasping shell with all the strength I had
 fate's wind had turned the weathervane and boy became the dad.
 Until that August, '81 , time off for good behaviour
 final release and went in peace through the mercy of the Saviour.
 I stood outside and cried and cried , my only words were 'Dad',
 the weathervane took pity and blew back, and kissed the lad.


For competition 'Patriarchy' by Thomas Martin
14th July 2015