Wednesday, 15 April 2015

Long and Soft...

Long and soft

Long and soft

His kiss upon her lips

Strong and firm

Strong and firm

His hands upon her hips

Hard and deep

Hard and deep

His passion quickly spent

Sharp and swift

Sharp and swift

Her small neck deftly wrenched.

Poem only  © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

Fickle Heart...

Home lies not

Where the heart is,

For the heart is fickle

And easily distracted.

Home lies

Where the soul best fits,

And sometimes

That place

Holds a darkness

Like no other

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

The Old Soul...

The old soul peered

Through the newborn's eyes

Saddened to see

A world it recognised

Where famine and war

And disease still raged

Where compassion and peace

Remained to be upstaged

By material gain

And industrial greed

By one man challenging

Another man's creed

And the old soul sighed

Feeling pity for the child

As it drew it's first breath

Before letting out a cry

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 11 April 2015

The Silent Tear...

With head in hand

She sheds a silent tear

As with deep remorse

She mourns the passing year.

So many wrongs that she

Cannot put right

Torment her through each day

And endless night.

The love she had has gone

No more will he

Embrace her with the warmth

That used to be

Still, memories of their time

Lie bitter sweet

Of how they lived

And loved

And laughed

And chanced to meet.

It's through these thoughts

She walks with him again

Their hands entwine

Their hearts beat as the same

Once more she feels

The passion of his kiss

But then is overwhelmed

By all that's missed.

And so she can but hope

That whilst apart

Knowing that another

Holds his heart

Sometimes he will recall

The hours they shared


Upon a time

When he loved her

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Wednesday, 8 April 2015

Shadow Dancing...

Our bones may creak

Our skin may sag

But we can leave 

Old age behind

If we dare to step

Beyond the flesh

Onto the dance floor

Of the mind!

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Sunday, 5 April 2015

The Handbag...

His hand,


But not insensitive,

Slowly crept, over

The creased, sticky contours

Of the blood soiled, leather handbag.

Her handbag.


Before releasing

The time tarnished, silver clasp,

He considered the power

Of all that lay within

And inhaled a deep breath.

An icy breath.


The contents shivered

At the brief touch of moonlight

Brushing across their secrets,

Reluctant to share.

And he smiled.

A baneful smile.


Red and seasoned by its travels

Upon her tired lips

Glided down his tongue

As he pressed and dragged

To absorb the tragedy of its flavour.

Her flavour.


Cheap and as stale as her dreams,

Cowered in the tattered confusion

Of frayed and shabby lining,

Until discovered

And sprayed into the night

The hopeless night.

A photograph

Faded and clinging to a solitary key ring

Recoiled as sinful fingers

Abused the memory of its image 

With vile, vicious stabs

And mocking laughter

His laughter.

The knife

Already busy this night

Trembled with the excitement of instruction

As he savoured, the anonymity of her condition.

More would follow, but for now

He wanted to enjoy, the immediate company of flesh

Her  flesh


Careful, quick, precise, eager to please,

The blade began its task, deftly tending to its labours

And all the time the night sky cloaked his progress.

He had no need for light, his hand was well  versed

And soon he would feel the comfort of skin upon his own

Her skin.

Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Park And Ride...

She stands, on the corner

In the pouring rain

Puffing on a fag

Sleeves hiding the vein

Where she shoots her dope

With skirts pulled high

And top down low

So he'll Park and Ride.

She wobbles, in

Her old worn shoes

With the laddered tights

Hiding the big black bruise

Where he'd kicked her shitless

In the street

When his lust was spent

And he'd spilled his seed

Before spitting,

As she'd tried to stand,

Into her black toothed face

Where the imprint of his hand

Brought reddened welts

To her rain stained cheeks

Mimicking the misery

Of the girl who hid beneath.

A quick fix,

Her hurt on hold,

"'Cos drugs don't judge, they just console"

Is the lie she lives by every day

As she pulls another punter

And squirts poison in her veins,

So she doesn't,

Have to stop and think

That she's a pro and she's a junkie

And that poison is her pimp.

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard