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Emmy Weatherill Poem
The leaves have turned brown and crisp
And I've remembered
How much you've been missed
On a day like today
It's the days when I feel down
And I'm sad
That you're not around
Desperately in need of a grandpa's embrace
You were like my best friend
And I'm yearning
For the hours we'd laugh on end.
Now I'm doing quite the opposite
The memories harvest in my mind
As I bow to your grave
With flowers of all kinds
Commemorating the part you played
In shaping the person I am today.
Yours sincerely,
A granddaughter that misses you dearly.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
The sun shines on your
Dark eyes
Pale face
Blank mind
Veiled emotion
This is the aftermath of deprivation
The moon sparks up your
Overrun mind
Burdened by today's thoughts
Reminded of yesterday's emotions
Revisited by last year's memories
Tempted by next year's ambitions
This is you...deprived
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
My lips are sealed
Tightened by pain
Locked with secrets
Perhaps I should tell you...
My life and my memories,
My troubles and struggles.
I could teach you a thing or two,
Respect, loyalty and class,
The 1950's and the 1960's.
If you want to know my dear-
Watch closely.
Look beyond the tears in my
eyes,
Translate the tremble of my hands
That is how you speak my language, petal
it's much more than words.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
He slumps in his chair
Looks at the papers
Spread over the desk
It has been a long day.
Walking to the bathroom
He stops to look in the mirror
Smooths his fingers
Through his hair
****, another grey hair
Already?!
He's full of cold
And notices a booger
Hanging out his nose.
Quickly, he wipes it
Hoping that no one saw
In the 3 meetings
And 2 interviews today.
Returning from the toilet,
His assistant stops him
"Sir, they need a blue print"
"What for?"
"You know, the wall"
"I aren't an architect"
He turns and walks away
Feeling a little harsh,
'Maybe that was a bit blunt'.
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit"
But who cares, he's "hangry"-
'Hungry' and 'angry' apparently.
Mel better have made dinner.
Back in his office,
The businessman sits down
In his big leather chair.
He opens his draw
With his secret stash of twinkies,
Takes 3 out, feels guilty
And puts one back-
This man needs to be careful
He's got appearances to keep up.
He's also got a lot of paperwork
But he's exhausted.
This whole inauguration is tiring.
Licking his Twinkie covered fingers,
Mr Trump grabs his coat,
Walks out of the Whitehouse
And heads home.
He'll think about the wall tomorrow.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2017
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
"To God,
Today my mummy told me off
She said I hug my friend too much
She don't like the way it look
She told me to stay away
Cause it look kinda gay
Yesterday my friend say I'm weird
She said my mum and dad have split
She see it as a crime they commit
She told me it ain't right
Unless they were to reunite
Last week my teacher shouted at me
He said I can't be a referee
He told me it not right in rugby
He think a girl can't control a boys team
Since it'd ruin their self esteem
So, God, I wrote to you
It seems they always say your name
When I get the blame
But where do I belong
If I think they're wrong?"
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2016
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
What do others see
When they look at me?
Is it the green of my eyes
Or the size of my thighs
The scar on my chin
Do they think I'm slim
I'd love to meet myself.
What would they say
If they met me one day?
Do I appear kind
After delving into my mind
Maybe it's just a mask
To veil all that's in the past
I'd love to meet myself.
What do they shout
When I'm not about?
Am I a subject of topic
When it comes to gossip
Perhaps I'm crazy
With looks that could kill...maybe.
I'd love to meet myself.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2016
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
They met at a bus stop on the A63
He greeted with a smile and so did she
They exchanged a glance
She stood dazed in a trance
At the way his eyes beamed with romance
The bus arrived and on she walked
And suddenly they wished they had talked
For now she was gone
He was alone
At a bus stop on the A63
They were destined never to be
As they didn't speak on the A63.
However one sunny day in May
I'm happy enough to say
That as he got on
A bus to Brighton
There she was sat, in hope for him to be her companion
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
My heart aches once more
For a lover who has gone
Giving their amour
To another someone
Whom takes a name but mine
My throat chokes again
As I begin
To speak of your name
But this you win
The trophy of my besotted silence
My tears stream one last time
In order to forget
The subject of my rhyme
A lover, a memory, a regret
And here I sigh.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
What does 'clever' mean?
Is it to fix a machine
Is it the ability to sing
Is it to know everything
What is it?
What does 'nice' imply?
Is it the resistance to lie
Is it never to criticise
Is it the skill to advise
What is it?
What does 'pretty' suggest?
Is it the gift of big breasts
Is it to have nice eyes
Is it a gap between thighs
What is it?
What do they mean to you?
Which definition is true
For those you say it to?
Consideration is due
Rather than changing according to who.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2016
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Emmy Weatherill Poem
Here sat on my shoulder
Is a voice that's of mine but bolder
When I'm unsure
It's there to lure
Me into things that perhaps I shouldn't consider
It's like a key
That unlocks a different side of me
For it controls what I do
And that was when it threw
My life into omniscience
Apparently they call it a conscience
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015
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