New poems by Mary Cresswell
From the footpath of my middle age
I wandered oer the grassy verge
to woods where worldly passions rage
and few folk live past middle age.
I took up pen and ink and page
and thought to write a wondrous dirge,
but I am in my middle age
and have ipso facto lost the urge.
The Food Reviewer Aviods The Issue
Your cookbook surpassed all expectations.
I read it all with tongue in check, so I could taste the relish.
(Your e-mail caught me on the hop
when I was feeling peckish.)
No time to write, its time to eat. Im caught out,
a player at the gaming table, like the Earl of Sandwich.
Do you really see a need to write a word tonight?
Ah. Ill explode into action, like Popeye after spinach.
Beer, bread and butter, and a bowl of radishes
Remind me that Im civilised. My tastes are never savage.
I take my ease appropriately and take my choice of baths
My moods unmitigated sweet, so tonight Im going Turkish.
In dreams, the house is a stand-in for the psyche:
Do you think perhaps my kitchen could use a major furbish?
(after Emily Dickinson, Success is counted sweetest)
My fingernails are purple,
my lips are all-day glossed,
I claw my way to pinnacles
undreamed of by the most
of those who miss my turning
and drift in lesser paths.
We never meet, those folk and I,
we never joke or laugh.
Far overhead youll see me
where underlings cant climb:
unloved and so unlovely
tall mistress of my time.
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