The Singers Tale Creativity & Ageing – Writing. Random thoughts

The Singers Tale Poems & jottings from my head. 4. 2019 ©

Please deposit you feelings in the waste paper basket provided. Any sign of weakness, such as tears, sucking of teeth or deep sighing is serious, and a fine will be levied. Any protestations will be punishable by withdrawal of chocolate, with immediate affect.

Busting through that fourth wall. 

Hello audience!

Look my eyes are open.

I am looking at-cha. 

Talking to ya.

Singing for you and for me

You don’t know this, but it’s a big thing for me.

Singing for you and you and you.

I’m drowning not waving.

I’m sinking, not thinking – about how I can swim –

– my arms are frozen.

I’m drowning .. have I chosen to disappear?

I’m drowning, not not craving a helping hand.

Not looking for land beneath my feet-  

all I find is quick – sand.

I’m drowning, and the Clown in me is dying,

Where  is she?

Who was she?

This is an ocean- not the tears from my crying-

Is this how Alice felt?

I’m drowning, my head is under, not over the water-

The waves are getting bigger and taller.

I am smaller and smaller.

The Water Giants are about to submerge me

I really ought to swim to the Shore-

My feet cannot feel the bottom,

I’m drowning. Drowning in Gin?

Mothers ruin?

What do you want?

Who am I speaking to?

When the cold calls come-car accidents when I own no car 

Microsoft when I use a Mac.

Windows, kitchens 

Who am I speaking to? 

My mother with whom I never had anything like a conversation

A father who I never met?

Those who did not take me seriously?

Imagined or otherwise.

Those who practically knocked me over in the rush to be –

seen, heard and given the so called glory?

I think it is the many women like me

who struggle with insecurity struggle with lack of identity-

with a lack of confidence and belief

But like a Dog with a bone about to be stolen by a very large Cat-

I do not give in. I am made of London Brick.


Home, where do I belong? Identity?

Why is this crucial to us, to me? 

Finding that place as you age is more potent than ever.

Fuck’s sake does it matter? Why?

And then shit hits the fan. I better sort it out.

I don’t know where I’m going.

Hells fire or heavenly cloud of choirs and Angels!

Or, a nothingness a void? If so,

no point in the worry, the stress and chaos. 

Am I a scum bag? 

I wonder about the Implausibility of gnus

warrens of wombats.

Am I afraid of a mob of Wallabees?

a generation of vipers

a trip of sheep

a bevy of quail

a pit of snakes

a mischief of mice?

Let alone a murder of Crows!

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