The Flower of Womanhood

I am well and truly over
This annoying, messy phase
Where I daren’t wear pale fabrics
And I shower thrice a day

All protective products pointless
As it oozes t’ward my feet
I awake to pools of gruesome
Craving sleep without red sheets

When my skin feels slick and shiny
With more oil than fries a bird
I anticipate resignedly
Soon the flag will be unfurled

I shall suffer through the heatwave
Of my ovaries in bloom
As they fire off a salvo
Twinges presaging the gloom

Days of darkness, swathed in layers
Extra undies in my bag
At each trickling sensation
Quick! Hi-tail it to the lav’

To expunge in corporate bathroom
All the evidence of gore
I ignore my bio function
Still, my womb knows what it’s for

With the monthly mad reminder
That just living hurts like hell
As my tender flesh needs kinder
Treatment than it gets; oh well.

From the first time I encountered
This botanical event
In my leotard and dance tights
Feeling put upon and spent

To the day I see my organs
Ripped hysterically from me
Doctor’s orders and direction
Leaving nothing more to see

I must buy, gift-wrapped in plastic
Wads of cotton, scented ‘pure’
Knowing no tidy blue fluids spilled
From beakers will ensure

Any comfort, fresh or dryness
As I waddle through the day
Too resentful, bloody, mindless
Forcing cervix to obey

Hope another piece of plastic
In my battered, spattered jeans
May exceed historic precedent
Protecting seat and seams

But the flower swells within me
And it cannot be denied
I’m a woman, well and truly
Scrubbing gussets ’til I die

Experiencing technical difficulties

There are few sights so funny
Or nearly as sweet
As watching the press
Sweep themselves off their feet

Ungainly gyrations
He twists on the grass
While Parliament Square
Tries it’s best not to laugh

The crew with the camera
Are shaking with mirth
While he wrestles dramatically
Down on the Earth

A bollock is trapped
Thus it must be adjusted
He grasps at his crotch
Sober-suited; move busted

To jiggle the crown jewels
Tips over again
While tourists and MPs
Are showing the strain

With faces like dough-balls
Left baking too long
All set to explode
At the stroke of Big Ben

The Pearly Gatekeeper

I confess this is one poem written, tongue-in-cheek (or just cheek if you prefer) satirising a recent political issue arising across the pond.

Patriotic, patriarchic
Fearing feathered laps and more
Worrysome, these wombs, anarchic
Labelled evermore a whore

Prodding, probing legislation
Teach our daughters how to face
Tomorrows from a wealthy nation
Focussed on their private place

O, Vagina, queen of secrets
Whose great gifts on Earth we’d bear
But still run from smelly prophets
Who’d uncover what lay bare

Life is sacred, while it’s cooking
Time each egg to see the joke
Thicken sauce with lack of looking
Scald the chaste and thoughtless yoke

With our bras and pants still burning
Such great liars will become
Our legislator’s dirty washing
Aired in public prosecution

Heartsick and pro-life no longer
Lebensraum or yummy mums?
Lively movements, stepping stronger
Feel the beating of the drums

Give abortionists the finger
Only virgins may protest
At the well-trained careless bringer
Of invasive tissue tests

Rights to think and feel and ponder
What it is that makes a man
Or woman out of spit and thunder
Prosecute such sticky plan