Category Archives: Poetry

The Gas Light

28 Saturday Sep 2019

Posted by in Divorce, mental health, Motherhood, Poetry

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Gaslighting has become a bit of a millenial buzz word, and it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.

I think a lot of people don’t really understand what it means, what it looks like, why it matters, why it’s so hard to deal with, how it relates to wider abuse – or even if it’s actually happening to them or someone they know.

And it’s not just about personal relationships, it’s bigger. It’s about politics, women’s rights, #metoo, and more…

And sometimes when something is big and complicated and hard and I’ve been trying to sort it out in my head for a long time it comes out as a poem.

And that’s not always a good thing, because they can be harder for people to connect with, but if you’ve ever wondered what gaslighting sounds like or feels like then maybe this will help.

Thanks to all the women on this page, and in personal messages, who have shared their stories with me. You’ve certainly helped me.

xx

The Gas Light

when it’s lit, you don’t notice
a fire sitting under a potted frog
did you forget again? silly

it doesn’t illuminate, it obscures
sucking up light and clarity
consuming your spark and turning it dark against you –
but that didn’t happen, I never said that
the gas starts invisible, odourless but poisonous
a mist of missed marks, misunderstandings, mistakes, failed tests,
that’s okay, I forgive you

the canary sent in ahead is long dead
and a colour you second guess yourself used to be yellow
but now can’t be sure if you saw it at all,
because you’re being over sensitive

and maybe the red of the red flags is just menstrual,
are you on your period or something?
you’re overwrought, did you take your pills?
you need to chill

because up is down and down is up
and black and white come in stripes of static
and logic defies gravity but you are always wrong, somehow,
and everybody thinks you’ve lost the plot
I cannot deal with you when you get like this
it’s not normal

beginnings and middles and ends and causes and effects get muddled,
and you’re falling
down the gap between words and actions and stories and evidence,
befuddled,
and at the bottom of the trap are spikes
you’re talking crap, I’m the one being reasonable
you’re behaving like a fucking terrorist

because beneath the gaslight smoke are mirrors –
no, you’re controlling, YOU abuse ME
look you’re gaslighting me, now, can’t you see that?

and you can’t see so you close your eyes to clear them
but it’s the only peace you’re allowed
and you’re so tired maybe you should just keep them shut,
like your mouth,
you’re being paranoid you need to get a grip
are you thick? don’t be ridiculous

and as the gas light turns up things just get dimmer, diminished,
no one else would put up with you
you’d be nothing without me – less –
and maybe, maybe nothingness would feel like relief

and it scales all around you blocking escape
I grabbed her by the pussy but that’s not assault it’s your fault I’m like this
and 350 million lies on a bus means nothing don’t fuss,
look at me I’m a good guy, I’m trying here, it’s you

and what do you do if everywhere bare-faced truth isn’t true
and alternative facts before your eyes are/aren’t presented as lies
and in the eyes of the beholder, bolder is realer than real
and swagger sways, pays well, and steals actuality
and whatever you feel is a betrayal, a pale imitation of you
that will always lose but you’re the one that’s confused
an unreliable witness unfit to think your own thoughts
your mind undermined
tricked by a ruse in a rose that you chose
you made me do this
why are you like this?
what’s wrong with you?
what the fuck is wrong with you NOW?

and the cycle of create, stipulate, manipulate, capitulate, abate and wait
for it all so start again, starts again –
flaring in the black the gas-light is back
throwing shadows into the future long and low
no one’s going to believe you, I argue better
you’re a psycho

and you will host ghosts inside
because you can’t hide from the fact that secretly you will always believe –
even if you’ve managed to retrieve something of yourself from the fog –
you will still ask, was it me? is it me? is it me?
maybe I am the mad dog, after all?
pass

and in your heart of hearts there will always crawl doubt,
lit by him
fuelled by gas.

I hide that from myself

28 Saturday Sep 2019

Posted by in mental health, Motherhood, Parenting, Poetry

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I thought life would be yellow, but it’s basically the colour of mud –
the flood of universal brown you get when rainbows smudge,
when you’ve overworked your palette and mixed all the colours up.
But I hide that from myself.

I am not the change I wanted to see in the world – the world changed me
rearranged me in ways I didn’t expect and sometimes don’t like.
Right and wrong give way too often to grey exhaustion and ease.
But I hide that from myself.

Creating life came at a price,
twice what I expected to pay, in a translucent currency of wrinkles and worry and waste –
of all the bits of myself left or lost on the way. Bits I never said goodbye to.
But I hide that from myself.

On the other side of love came fear and pain, the same ugly,
nameless things that in the dark wheedle their way into your brain like pink worms.
They bore new paths for bad thoughts.
But I hide that from myself.

They say hate consumes you, but for me it was love, eating me up,
shoving out everything. And to shaw up the shell in the void grew things I never knew I could do,
some of them black.
But I hide those from myself.

There is more struggle and fighting and
frightening in Family than I understood. I know I’m happy but only with my head –
and the quicksilver smile too deep inside doesn’t always reach my eyes.
But I hide that from myself.

There are so many things I could have
should have done or been better I can’t count them. But they add up anyway,
into a thousand purple flagellations on the cusp of consciousness, floating heavy.
But I hide them from myself.

There are days when I am not real and can’t
feel enough, when I watch numb from outside and follow disconnected a beat behind.
I am the blood redshift doggedly stalking the stars, out of phase.
But I hide that from myself.

It hurts to look, but it also hurts to hide, in the end. The effort in
pretending, in singing La la la as my own background theme with fingers stuffed in ears,
drags me down by the lobes.

Deliberately not seeing, not probing, staying dim, carefully ignoring the peripheral
pushing in, refusing to admit the bits my mind shies to touch
costs much, too.

Because blinkers come with a harness –
tarnished, and I hold my own reins like a cruel and unforgiving master
white at the knuckles and mouth.

But I hide that from myself.

Happily Ever After – Disney style

06 Wednesday Mar 2019

Posted by in Humour, Parenting, Poetry, Uncategorized

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At the beginning, it’s Once-upon-a-time
(Which everybody knows)
And then Happily Ever After comes –
And that’s it, it’s done, it’s closed!

But life is not a fairy tale
The end is just the start –
And it’s not a smooth eutopia
But the very hardest part….

Let’s take for an example
A tale of truest love –
A girl stuck in a castle
And a bloke with sword in glove.

Our Sleeping Beauty found her Prince
Post curse and spindle prick
(Though snogged asleep she’s mostly gained
A weird consent-blind d ck).

But what happened next to this odd pair
Now navigating life?
The adventuring necrophiliac
And his barely legal wife?

Does she stack the dishes the wrong way
Does he leave open every drawer?
Do they spat about who’s turn it is,
To mop the kitchen floor?

Are they drowning now in nappies,
And wishing fervently
For 100 years more blessed sleep
Without feeds at 12 and 3?

Is he spending too much time at work –
Doing Princely stuff?
Is she too focussed on the kids
To tidy up her muff?

Have her lustrous locks gone greasy
Are there skid marks in his shorts?
Does he sulk if she says no to sex?
Are her abs no longer taught?

Do they only ever listen
To endless loops of Baby Shark?
Do they lie awake at nighttime
Not touching in the dark?

Has intimacy dwindled
To the obligation bonk?
Does he think she’s lazing out at home?
Does she think he’s a twonk?

Is life one round of gruelling chores
And bills, and bleugh and BORING?
Nit-picking at her menu rut
Or shoving him for snoring?

Yes, did true love go the distance
For Philip and Aurora?
Or does she nag him half to death –
And does he just flat ignore her?

See, ‘Ever After’ isn’t glamorous –
Happy’s harder than it looks;
We were all sold empty promises
By Walt – and ladybird books.

I feel for the princesses,
Who’s end-tale we don’t know
Did Rapunzel hair go thin post-birth?
Do the Dwarves still include Snow?

Did Thumbelina’s fairy fella
Try to clip her brand new wings?
Does Ariel blame Eric
For her loss of gills and fins?

And what about Beauty, kidnapped
With her severe Stockholm-type crush?
Did that infatuation last them
Through her recurring thrush?

Does Beast spend every Saturday
With his mates just playing golf
Does Belle find herself wishing
She’d let him die by paw of wolf?

And then there’s good old Cinders
Does she still scrub for her mister?
Did she give up on the grooming –
Do the school run ugly-sister?

Did the grind and dull of day-to-day
Dissolve Prince Charming’s smarm?
Did her love of shoes and rodents
Lose for him their first-blush charm?

Then next there’s lovely Jasmine
Who married her Aladdin
Are there still soft words and stars in eyes –
Or is each row Armageddon?

Does she go Christian martyr?
Does he stay out too late?
What happened to the Princess
On the other side of fate?

Did Pea-Prince keep on setting
His spouse impossible tests?
Did Frog-Prince take his ball home
When the baby stole her breasts?

For there’s nothing like mundane routine
To burst the idyll bubble
And nothing like a small non-dwarf
To turn relationships to rubble….

How did our couples deal with worms,
And snot, and pox and grot?
Did they pull together as a pair?
Or did the magic rot?

For when the birds stop singing
(And the deer stop cleaning stuff)
What’s left is empty glitter –
And that’s sometimes not enough…

Once the foe is finally vanquished,
And they’ve danced the final dance,
There’s just a boy and girl left there
Without all the romance.

Real life is kind of messy-gross
And that wears through the sparkle –
It’s hard to hold that heart-skip
Through a D&V debacle…

So when you choose your Prince, my friends
Seek more than looks and daring-do
Look for kindness and for laughter –
(And a tolerance for poo).

Love isn’t being rescued
Or in a gesture big and grand
It’s in the little everyday stuff –
In a life lived hand-in-hand.

It’s holding hair back when she’s sick
It’s letting him lie in,
It’s making tea and taking turns
At taking out the bin.

It’s squeezing spots and feeling lumps
Knowing sanitary brands,
It’s tickle fights and sofa slumps
And brainstorming names for bands.

It’s going gooey over baby steps
And marvelling at their cute
It’s going off to Cleethorpes
With a crazy bulging boot.

It’s a Kiss sing-song in the car
A Just Dance best of three
It’s stopping 12 times on the motorway
Because she’s got to pee.

It’s embracing all his comic books
Building flat packs from Ikea
It’s lying prostate watching crap TV
And sharing every fear.

It’s living with her mood swings
And his disgusting fungal nail
Throwing tantrums of exhaustion –
And saying sorry when you fail.

It’s a smile, a touch, a silent nod
Having someone on your side
Shared memories and in-jokes
And feelings you don’t hide.

If you both can still find Beauty
Without the bloody Sleep –
Well that’s an Ever After love,
And that stuff don’t come cheap.

Depression is a Zoo

06 Wednesday Mar 2019

Posted by in mental health, Poetry

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People talk of the Black Dog of Depression, ever loyal, hounding their steps.
People talk of the Bluebird of Happiness, who soars over rainbows and white cliffs.
But they don’t talk of the Others…
The Black Dog’s friends, hunting, blotting out the Bluebird in a blood red eclipse.

There is the Squirrel of Anxiety, flickering, flitting, flurrying, whittling. The continual motion of internal commotion that cannot stop, or… what?
The Cheetah of Sadness, whose tears start thunderously fast for no reason, and run black mascara races down shrunken, fading faces.
The Sloth of Exhaustion, wading slowly through treacle, retreating, into un-replenishing oblivion.
The bleating, belligerent Goat of Distortion, looking at the round world through strange square pupils, out of sync, on the eternal brink of dissonance.
The Beaver of Unrelenting Standards, one who is never done, has never achieved enough, damned soul ever searching for the perfect log to block an endless hole.
The sly Snake of Negativity, whispering insssssssideously of temptation and failure, a demagogue squeezing out breath.
The Hippo of Hypochondria sweating hot pink, promising death.
The Bee of Brain Fog, buzzing so loud it can’t hear itself think.
The Goldfish of Amnesia, who can’t hold onto a thought, losing time, all circles and no straight lines.
The Owl of Insomnia, mind spinning like it’s head on it’s shoulders, pining for sleep, but orange eyes wide.
The Parrot of Social Awkwardness, who tried and tries, but says the wrong thing, shrill, brittle, and always dressed a little too brightly.
The unsightly Amoeba of Guilt, constantly multiplying, vying for space, tightly packed and leaving no room for much else.
The Rhino of Impending Doom, always charging, bearing down in panic, expecting extinction – a unicorn in disguise in whose eyes shines fear – and disappointment.
The Platypus of Disjointment.
The striped Tiger of Overwhelm, stalking up on silent feet, and pouncing in a flurry of claws.
The Chicken of Obsession, pecking, on repeat, a constant tic, a beat that drum-sticks to a desperate routine… Fowl laws on a loop in a coop.
The Aardvark of Self Absorption, who can’t see beyond its own nose.
The Zebra of Self Doubt, a poorly disguised imposter who fears to be exposed.
The Tortoise of the Impossible Task, who is too paralysed to start and can’t see the finish, and loses heart and withdraws into its shell.
The Jellyfish of Indecision, a brainless bell with entrails, half invisible – pale even to itself – wibbling over everything.
The bone-tired Meerkat of Vigilance, who must always look out for the Rhino of Doom.
The Angler Fish of Anger, erupting from the gloom, the same tame Squirrel of Anxiety turned prehistoric, apoplectic, all teeth and fury. And beneath its own light, it sees its gory ugliness, and retreats in disgust.
And then must enter the Elephant of Shame and Regret, who can never forget, or forgive itself.
The Ostrich of Avoidance, burying its head.
The quivering Greyhound of Dread.
The rippling, crippling, famous Ray of Hope, hiding its smile underneath, but always, always with a sting in its tail. For there is no plain sailing here.

This is not just the bark of the morose Black Dog. Depression is a Zoo.
It is a gross, earsplitting roar, and a squawk, and a flap and a snap, and a hiss and a splash and shriek –
And if YOU are the keeper trying to keep these wild beasts at bay, behind bars and in tanks and shut away, struggling to contain and maintain them, you have your work cut out.
And that’s why they say, don’t feed the animals.
Whatever you do, if you want to survive don’t let them out. They will eat you alive.
And in this Zoo, they visit you.

Hi. Have you ever been visited by the Tiger of Overwhelm? Perhaps you know the Rhino of Impending Doom? How about the Chicken of Obsession (a personal favourite)?

It’s the week of #BlueMonday and lots of people have these visitors. If you’ve got one I’ve not mentioned, please do add it into the comments! I’d love to add to the menagerie.

In the meantime, please share. It could help someone with their Zoo… Or help them explain what it looks like to someone who doesn’t have one.

Sometimes I shout

29 Thursday Nov 2018

Posted by in Motherhood, Parenting, Poetry

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Sometimes I shout.
And I don’t like the voice, bursting forth, without choice
and lashing the people I love most.
The monster I host, just under my skin, whose sting is saved for those I would protect from all else…
But myself.
Because sometimes I shout.

I shout because I am afraid.
A bone deep fear that rears its head at danger – a stranger I have known only since you
who whispers you’ll be hurt, or lost, that I will pay a cost for loving you so much.
That love is lead, and rings in my head, and pushes out rage – assuaged only when you’re in my arms, safe.
But love will chafe if it holds too tight, and I know it’s right but sometimes, it spills out,
and sometimes I shout.

I shout because I am overwhelmed.
There is so much to do, and achieve, and the list adds up, and weaves an impossible maze.
And I have to get through it, these days, of getting you up and dressed and washed
and brushed and rushed and fed and ready and keep you steady,
breaking up fights, battling over tights, all against the clock,
tick tock, eating my time with you, and please FIND YOUR SOCKS,
it’s time to go, you’re going so slow, we’ve got to get out –
and sometimes I shout.

I shout because I am lost.
I don’t have all the answers, or any, and there are so many things to decide, and I’ve tried,
and I’ve cried, inside, but I can’t show that to you.
You need me strong.
But when it leaks from my lips lost comes out wrong, longer and louder, defeat becomes heated –
because I don’t know what I’m doing or what comes next or what’s for the best and my chest it tight with doubt.
So sometimes I shout.

Sometimes I shout.
But whatever I say is just in the way of what I mean, a scream hiding ‘I love you’ like a secret,
above you, beyond what you can see.
But one day, you will know.
You’ll be me.
With children who won’t put on shoes, or choose, or whine or a billion other tiny crimes
that get in the way of the day that needs to be lived and done with everyone still alive at the end.
And love will be a cry trapped in your heart, your heart in your throat, floating at the tip of your tongue,
hung in the air –
and sometimes, sometimes you’ll despair, you’ll fail, you’ll turn tail, you’ll burnout.
And sometimes –
sometimes you’ll shout.

 

Life is too short to scrub gussets

25 Sunday Mar 2018

Posted by in Humour, Parenting, Poetry, Uncategorized

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Life is too short to scrub gussets
Some advice both useful and sage –
I give it to you with my blessing
To apply it to life’s every stage.

It’s particularly apt when training
Small bottoms to use mini loos –
Because rubbing the poo out of cotton
Can give you the laundry blues.

The very worst bit of the process
Is keeping your cool unconcern
When faced with more toxic hand-washing
From a child taking AGES to learn.

So if you’ve got a toilet-resistor
And you’ve quite reached the end of your rope,
Let go of your scruples and Persil!
And save yourself heartache and soap.

Go buy up some Paw Patrol knickers
In cheap B&M packs of five –
And when the next accident happens
Chuck them out and raid your supplies!

My thanks must go to the woman
Who first passed this secret to me
It’s the key to zen potty training –
Untroubled by stray poos or wee.

The rule works for other odd soilings
(From quickies to menstrual leaks)
So abandon those pants with abandon –
And discard them without blushing cheeks!

Yes, I officially give you permission
To bugger the unseemly waste
Because life is too short to scrub gussets –
A new mantra to wholly embrace.

Oh Bedtime, Wherefore Art Thou?

24 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting, Poetry

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O Bedtime, wherefore art thou? You’re taking bloody ages.
The kids have worn away my calm, by scrapping, screaming stages.
It’s surely time for tea quite soon, and then they’ve got to bathe
And then you’ll come, O Wondrous One, my sanity to save.
It’s not that I don’t love them, or treasure every second –
It’s just it’s so relentless, and harder than I’d reckoned.
I’ve smiled, I’ve shushed, I’ve wiped their  bums, (and noses and the floor)
I’ve played at mermaids, painted pictures, upheld turn-taking law.
I’ve fed them food (which they’ve ignored) and stopped them eating mud,
I’ve hugged and kissed it better when one of them draws blood.
I’ve been a horse, I’ve been a chef, I’ve even been a hanky –
A pillow and a punch bag (which made me somewhat cranky).
We’ve done the park, we’ve read a book, the baby had a nap
But now it’s time to put them down and claim my own self back.
I want to drink a nice hot drink, I want to be alone,
I want to look at pictures of them, scrolling through my phone.
I want the chance to miss them, I want a bit of peace
I want to want them in my arms, while I bask in sheer relief.
So please be kind, O Bedtime, and peaceful and serene,
Let lullabies yield to sleep – and sleep per chance to dream.
Let there be no more wees, wails for water, or demands for one last book,
No more existential questions, as a conversational hook.
Let them close their eyes and remember the best of all our fun,
And forget the bits I didn’t do, the bits that I got wrong.
Let me see long lashes rest on cheeks, and hands curl under chins,
Let my heart fill up with love again, and forgive their transgressions.
Tomorrow is a whole new world, to explore and start anew
But only if I get the chance – to watch them, and renew.
For there’s something rather magical about a child relaxed in slumber –
That unwinds the day’s frustrations back to sentimental wonder.
So by any name, O Bedtime – just please tonight be sweet
(And maybe slightly early, ‘cos I’m dead upon my feet).

What would I do?

04 Tuesday Jul 2017

Posted by in mental health, Motherhood, Parenting, Poetry

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What would I do, if that were you –
trapped in a tower, devoured by fire?
If my choices were to pick your death – to choke on smoke or drop – and hope you land,
whole.

What would I do, if that were you,
and I had to let go of your hand?
Your soul –
leaving mine behind, aching in hope, shaking in hopelessness.

What would I do, if that were you,
running from men, with evil intent?
If I had to keep you quiet, pleading, needing, lying that it’s a game, that I can keep you –
safe.

What would I do, if that were you,
listening in the dark for footsteps, waiting for violence,
your face –
staring back in final bloody silence, ebbing away, holding my gaze in betrayal.

What would I do, if that were you,
with drips and drains stuck in your veins?
If I had to watch your body dim you, eat you alive, while I had to survive?
Continue.

What would I do, if that were you,
and I could never, bring you,
back?
Your lack a black hole in my heart consuming everything that ever was.

What would I do, if that were you,
in the coach, on the ride, caught by the tide?
If I lost you to your life, on a trip, and you slip from my grasp in a gasp –
Gone.

What would I do, if that were you,
if it were me getting the call, screaming
they’re wrong?
Not you. Because I would have felt you leave me, heard your goodbye.

What would I do, if that were you,
in a place ripped by war, gore, and more your eyes shouldn’t see?
If I had to pick between a bomb,
or boat.

What would I do, if that were you,
at the mercy of waves and greed and cold and fate –
Afloat.
Face down and drifting out of reach – out of sight – to an indifferent beach where I will never find you.

What would I do, if that were me,
living between breaths, at the top of my lungs
scared to breath deep, to sleep, to wake, to make a mistake, to choose, to lose you –
Living in the freezing seizing no-man’s-land of ‘what if’
a looping gif I can’t escape,
that shapes my days and nights –
And yours.

The open jaws of panic, of doom, loom over me and block your light.
And in the dark I walk a tight-rope, sinew from my heart, re-started each day, pounding your name inside my chest,
stretched, round my neck like a noose.

Terror runs loose, and it rules supreme, its soundtrack a scream in waiting.
What would I do, if that were me,
and I could not see
an end,
But every, gritty, grating, end in between?

What would I do?

Playing at schools

04 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by in Poetry

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How do I teach, two little girls, playing schools with dolls, about evil?
At story time, when do I introduce, that heroes die, that bad guys win, that bad things happen and good people cry?
Night night, my darlings. Sleep tight.

How do I hold them tight enough, now, to keep them from harm?
Where is the silver lining, the balm, the meaning?
Horror streaming live – dying in my living room.
How do I teach reason when there is no reason, safety without fear, life without death, love, when hate walks the streets, our lives, with knives?
When it cuts.

How can I show them light when the dark eats away at my edges, whispering worst case scenarios? Pledging death.
What happens if the bad dreams don’t go away when when I wake up? When they wake up?
What happens if it’s them next, if it’s me, waiting, baiting, clenching, wrenching? Running frightened in the night from real life monsters, real death, real – etched in red, raw, detail – sealed in blood.
Unmoving on a pavement.

How can I let them go? How can I let them grow, in this world, when I know what it contains?
How do those families carry on?
How do we?
They say, look for the helpers, look for the brave, for the love, for the flowers.
But what if you can’t see them for the tears?
What if the fear is, deep down, after all, that it will be the petals that fall?
Lining a velvet, fragrant, grave, for the babies you are – ultimately – powerless to save.
Ice, in your heart.
Freezing feeling.

They say, don’t give them what they want.
They say, don’t live in terror.
It is easier said than done – the weight of that responsibility a stone, a ton, on my chest – on yours.
We are all now, a nation who cannot breathe deep – steeped, in sadness. In fear.
It would be so much simpler to let love stifle and wilt, protect to the hilt, let that morph to defence, and hone to hate.
And hate attack back.
They are two sides of one coin, spent either way. Flipped, flippant, fleeting.
Close. So close.

How can it be, that twisted by fear and hate, love is suddenly bombs and blades?
They are us. We are them. Lives entwined, enslaved.
We stop breathing, stop thinking, and we cut first – rewind, repeat, the cycle of violence.
So we must keep breathing. Keep thinking, keep loving, and keep living life.
For how can I let love be soiled, turned seething, boiled black by their rules?
When love for me lives in two little girls, with pink dolls.
Playing at schools.

The Mummy Puzzle

18 Saturday Mar 2017

Posted by in Breastfeeding, Humour, mental health, Motherhood, Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

“I’ve lost someone somewhere, not sure how
But I turned and she’d gone – she’s missing now.
I liked her, I think, and I’d like to re-find her –
Can anyone help me, give me a reminder?”

“Hush little Mummy, don’t you cry
I’ll help you find her”, said a butterfly.
“Let’s have a think, how big is she?”
“She’s bigger”, I said wryly, “than she used to be”.

“Bigger than you? Then I’ve seen your lady!
Come with me, over here where it’s shady.”

“No no no, that’s an elephant!
(Though the size is right, that you I’ll grant)
The woman I knew wasn’t a wrinkly hunk
Her skin wasn’t grey and her eyes weren’t sunk.
She didn’t have snot stains up to her knees,
And could pass the fridge without snaffling cheese.”

“Thinner, you say? Then she’s very near
Quick little Mummy! She’s over here!”

“No no no, that’s a slithery snake!
(A fashion faux pas she would never make).
The woman I knew wouldn’t dress like this –
Nor be covered in spit-up, or eau de piss.
She didn’t dress in her wardrobe’s dregs
And on occasion she’d even shave her legs.”

“It’s legs were looking for now you say?
I know where she is then, come this way!”

“No no no, that’s a spider!
(She wasn’t this scary to your average outsider).
She wasn’t disgusting, or hairy or fat,
She never had as many legs as that!
She wasn’t bogged down in a tangled web
And could rise above her lowest ebb.”

“So she lives above? You should have said!
The woman you seek us above your head!”

“No no no! That’s a parrot!
(You’d be better at this with cards of tarot).
She had eyes and tits that didn’t leak,
And her ears weren’t assailed with squawks and shrieks.
She wasn’t tied down- she could spread her wings
And her well-slept steps had plenty of springs.”

“A ha! I’ve got it! She leaps about?
She’s just round the corner, without a doubt.”

“No no no! That’s a frog!
(The woman I seek didn’t live in a bog –
She didn’t much like poo at all,
And bodily fluids used to make her bawl).
Butterfly, Butterfly please don’t joke –
I’m here talking to insects to keep me afloat!
She knew what she wanted, before she got muddled
And pitied the people around her who struggled.”

“She was sure you say, and even serene?
Then just over here, this woman I’ve seen!”

“No no no – that’s a bat!
(It’s asleep upside down, you fluttering twat!)
Why, oh why are you getting it wrong?
Can’t you see that my patience is no longer long?
I did say she had wings – so that’s a good call,
But even in those days she wasn’t that small.”

“So your woman is big – let me think…
She’s down by the river having a drink!”

“No NO NO! That’s the elephant again!
(As a therapist I’m scoring you 0 out of ten)
Butterfly, Butterfly can’t you see?
None of these creatures have EVER been me!”

“You never said the woman in question was you!”

“Of course I did! And I thought you knew!”

“I didn’t know, I couldn’t you see,
I’m just a butterfly – why talk to me?”

“You’re right, my annoying wee fly of butter,
(And clearly round here you’ve monopolised nutter).
Bugger off now and go drink some nectar –
You’re not qualified for the counselling sector!

“I may be a-flailing but I’m not yet full-drowned
I may have lost someone, but something I’ve found –
That my heart holds more love than I knew existed;
That I’m strong in more ways than could ever be listed.
That happiness isn’t a night on the tiles,
And no one’s immune to a baby’s first smiles.

“She’s definitely lost, that woman before –
But I think if I found her I’d find her a bore.

“Yes she had continence, self care and career,
(While I still have bowel hanging out of my rear),
But did she have snuggles and cuddles and gurgles?
Could she interpret what’s meant by the faintest of burbles?
Could she soothe any hurt with merely a kiss?
Was she somebody’s everything, all they could wish?

“She could wee on her own – and that might be nice
She could stay up past ten without thinking twice.
But she didn’t have small hands to hold in her own
Or endless play phone calls to make on play phones.
She didn’t hear ‘Mummy I love you, you know’,
Or ‘Mummy, you’re funny, come on, it’s your go’.

“I’m afraid, on reflection, she must remain lost
That woman I knew, who still coiffed and flossed.
She wasn’t as tired but she wasn’t as blessed –
And maybe that’s why I was put to this test.

“So you did help me Butterfly, after all,
To see some of the good stuff I couldn’t recall.

“Maybe she’ll come back one day in the future
But right now I’ve found being me now is SUPER.
I’m no longer puzzled and I’m no longer lost –
Lepidoptera advice? I’d rather get sloshed!!”

And with that I turned and sashayed to the door,
(An exit marred slightly by the toys on the floor).

Mumonthenetheredge