I am not sure whether it was The burnt banana bread Or the under-spiced Over-baked biscuits That did it But I am thoroughly Sick-as-a-dog Fed up to the back teeth And beyond With the schoolyard B*llsh*t bakesale Not just the politics The cut and thrust Of who gets to bake And who gets to buy At the thrice termly Repeating misery That is the fundraiser Conspicuous, competitive, Consumption For a school committee With more money Than common sense Soliciting donations: Baked goods; sweets; Good-as-new toys; Dictating requirements: Own clothes; costumes; Odd shoes; socks; Random coloured shirts; Hair ribbons; headgear; We all pay for a day Out of uniform Or suffer culinary torture Face it, ladies I can actually cook But my kitchen will never be One hundred percent Gluten or nut-free I don’t want to poison Anyone (by accident) And I resent the waste Of good ingredients This charade entails Let’s just forget it The whole in-crowd Phenomenon What are we, twelve? Phooey to the PTA! Us working mums have Bigger problems Than dusting off a dirndl To play at housewife On a weekday afternoon Though what you choose To do with your own time Is none of my business. And that was my Considered, rational, Personal perspective Before we ate the Glitter-encrusted Muffin of doom That somehow gave The entire family Galloping gut rot (Even the cat) Don’t ask me how I no longer care We have run out of Buckets, bog roll, And fresh underwear Seriously, Screw the whole thing! I am switching to Online donations At least they don’t Require that I provide Correct change Nor that I invest my Hard earned paycheck In industrial quantities Of bathroom bleach And antacids Only to be sneered at By the clique of Suzie home-maker And sycophants Holding court At the school gate Judging me and mine For our contribution To the latest cause
Relationships
Published by The Milk House
You can read my poem “We Passed Over the Sky” here:
https://www.themilkhouse.org/we-passed-over-the-sky-by-katherine-shirley/
The girl I wanted to be
I envied you your freedom
To wear short hair
Pierce things
I had only seen
On TV
Fall off your motorino
Breaking a wrist
With such impunity
Unafraid of the
Consequences
Approaching exams
Short skirts
Body paint
Cool for days
I didn’t see
The things that
Frightened you
Kept you acting
The social butterfly
To avoid authority
Running from those
Who demanded things
You could not bear to give
How could I?
With my own demons
To manage
In my long skirts
Flat shoes, subtle
Silent screams
Haunting adolescence
Like a will-o-the-wisp
We are similar now
Grown treading different
Yet parallel paths
Outlasting our pursuers
Ignoring our denigrators
Fiercely seeking our own truth
In a sea of snake oil salesmen
We were never friends
Yet hardly enemies
Mere acquaintances
Each wrapped up in
Our own, private concerns
On nodding terms
Barely aware the other
Existed, but rivals
For all the wrong reasons
I wish you well
Perhaps one day
Our minds may form
A greeting longer
Than the casual nod
We spare one another
From across the room
At some ghastly
Virtual reunion
Organised by those
Who peaked in high school
And want to compare
Their declining ambitions
In a club house
After dark
Like giggling teens
While the next generation
Smokes round the back
Of the toilets
Hoping a mint
Will disguise the smell
As parents pretend
Not to recognise
Their own poor choices
In their offspring
Still single?
Deserted?
Divorced?
Half dead?
Any rugrats?
Really?
Same. Or nearly.
Deep scars from wounds
Old and new
Here’s to us
And all those like us
How about it, Fay?
We happy few
Still standing here
Upon this day
The Worst Best Years: A Student Life Anthology
I have just had a poem about my student days published in a new anthology by Acid Bath Publishing. Copies of the anthology can be ordered online here:
https://www.acidbathpublishing.com/shop/worstbestyears
Shy at retirement
The happy ex-executive
Is finished with their woes –
May quaff another malt
When curling up with slippered toes
Can sit and read the papers
Take his breakfast pipe in bed
And when the press come calling, say
‘Ask someone else, instead!’
The happy ex-executive
Has set his suits aside
To walk the dog in comfort
With no other plans to hide
The boardroom doesn’t matter
As he mutters through his day
No longer forced to listen
To the nonsense some might say
The happy ex-executive
Has time to count his chicks
Now grown and flown and flapping hard
For mortar board and bricks
He sits and sips his coffee
That no secretary bears
And wonders why the future
Hangs so often round his ears
The happy ex-executive
Now pastured and put out
The boredom that keeps looming
Moulds his frown into a pout
At four a.m. deciding
That enough’s enough, ‘tis done
It’s time to join a panel;
Find some new oblivion
The happy ex-executive
No longer sees himself
As more than the reflection
Over mantle, mirrored wealth
And what was it he wanted
When he first took on the role
But to see himself rewarded
For team efforts, on the whole
The happy ex-executive
Is feeling somewhat lost
Unsure that it was worth it
Pensioned off as ‘managed cost’
The marks of market forces
Take a little time to fade
But happy ex-executive’s
Already got it made
Zarafa, my love
With your tiny fingers and toes
Nails so sharp to rake new lines
In your young cheeks
With the fresh sensation
Of shock and awe
We welcome you to this place
Unknowing how to tell you
But with soft touches
Gentle words and careful
Rubs to soothe your stomach
As it navigates for the first time
Those aspects of life
That are harder to swallow
If we are not perfect
Trust us when we swear
We will try ever harder
To understand and be present
For and in all things
That matter to you
Please know that
You are wanted, and needed
And best of all,
You are loved
Three Little Lines
Do you hear me now
Or do your ears still suffer
Whispering silence?
Feathered Misfortune
What came first, the bird, or the egg?
Well, I spotted the dead pigeon on Monday night
As I was walking down the embankment
Trying not to breathe too many fumes
Still shivering from an over-chilled office
And shocked at the sight of mangled grey feathers,
A broken neck and damaged wings
I wondered if it had been hit by a vehicle
Or disorientated, had flown beak-first
Into a mirrored tower block
Before plummeting to the pavement below.
I had no answers. Nor did anyone seem
Too interested in the fate
Of an earthbound, flying sky-rat.
I walked home, pondering
The funeral rites of a feathered pest.
The next day, passing the other way
I saw it was still there.
Must have been missed by the road sweepers
Or deliberately ignored as someone else’s problem.
That evening, Tuesday after work
I felt sure someone would have mentioned it
And had the bird disposed of
But no.
Nudged off the pavement into the gutter
At the side of the road
Still a crumpled heap. Grey feathers dirty
From the road dust and oil residue.
I walked on.
By Wednesday evening, the bird was gone.
This morning, I took a different route to work
Staying on the bus to the museum
Then walking the few blocks North to the river.
As I passed under a bridge, I saw an egg
Shell cracked, yolk scattered on the ground
Dirty down feathers floating
While trains rattled above, shaking the shadows
A lone pigeon fluttered overhead
As if mourning their loss.
Winnipeg
Cry me a red, red river
A river of dust and bones
Of hearts that bleed and shiver
From broken and bruising homes
Blow me a kiss of willow
To echo a mourner’s moan
The ache of an empty pillow
Another child’s fate unknown
Cry me a red, red river
To fold me within its bed
And comfort the cares that slither
Through thoughts of unending dread
Bring me a message, finding
Too late what you had to face
My anger a knot, a binding
A coiling of thoughts that race
Cry me a red, red river
Reflecting a distant star
A chorus of souls, a quiver
That calls to me from afar
Paint me a cold moon rising
Surrounded by frozen waste
Still warmed by a hatred, blinding
For victims that leave no space
Cry me a red, red river
From words that no longer mean
An end to the dreams that linger
Its path a forgotten scream
Soothe me to sleep through Winter
To wake in the roar of Spring
With gifts that are carved to splinter
Where birds cannot bear to sing
Cry me a red, red river
And lay there upon this shore
The past where I long to wither
And hold you again, once more
This was written for the Red River Women.
A Little Number
Before I was born
Just a twinkle
In the universe
Of possibilities
Reflected in eyes
Both bluest grey
And olive green
Did you know me?
Or was the I of me
And mine all one to you?
My seedling promised,
But unplanned
Was a meeting of
Hearts and minds
Foretold in song
To bardic strains
Or merely Cast
Upon the plain and
Simple lines
That sprang and pranced
This two-fold dance
Of fire and ice
Your foreign couplings
Kept apart
By Mother Earth
Who did not dream
Of feelings torn
From the widening
Womb-like walls
And shallow shores
Of an underground
Kingdom
Nuts and Colonels
Carried away
With crowns of pine,
From slender hopes
To careful, caring
Tender traps in
Wadded cotton
Whose snoring sheets
Wedded Pluto’s
Darker dreams to
Persephone’s Oblivion
Before there was me