Moira Hyde ~ Disguise

Disguise

 

It’s not too much to ask, is it?

A kiss that means it,

A kiss that starts soft and quite still

Then tantalises, teases, tingles,

Lingers, leaves moments of stillness,

Soars back , searches,

Sends shockwaves down the spine.

 

I found that kiss with a man at a fancy dress party.

Dracula wanted to do things to me

urgently, wildly.

But he had a girlfriend

and I was dressed as some strange nun.

 

Exactly a year later, at the same house,

a satanic pop star lifted a widow’s veil.

It was the same lips,

disarming, urgent, wanting more!

The shed was suggested

But moral rectitude raised its armour

yet again

Sending me home like a thief in the night

without a prize.

 

Would I even recognise the man

at the Somerfield check-out?

Or will we pass each other in the street, unrecognised

into our sixties and seventies,

Perhaps meeting again at a fancy dress party

for octogenarians?

 

Moira Hyde, November 2004

Sue Grogan ~ New Year CCTV

New Year ~ CCTV

 

Superman and Lois Lane

Argue for their future

His new mobile

Pierced by her stiletto

Too many kisses on a text message.

 

Elvis spews across the pavement

Clutching his blow up guitar

Rhinestones ruined.

A cowboy in a passionate embrace

With a kerbstone,

Wakes sleepy streets

As he slurs his lament

To a flowerpot.

 

Snow White waits

As Prince charming multitasks –

Scoffing his kebab

Whilst pissing in a doorway.

Two Lieutenant Uhurus

Walk in a straight line

Looking nearly sober

Save their wonky wigs

And smeared make up.

A gorilla hails a cab

Gives it the finger

Then runs when the cop car slows.

Little pixies cling to pushchairs

More stable than their fairy tale folk.

Lois throws her final punch

At Superman.

A dog has his first crap

Of 2008.

 

Sue Grogan

Diane Langford ~ Breathing

The kids woke to snow drifting past their bedroom window. It was so cold they could see their breath coming out, even inside the house. They bounded out of bed and found their mother already moving round the kitchen in her dressing gown and thick socks. Cigarette smoke curled to the ceiling as she one-handedly lit the gas and put the kettle on for tea, transferring the butt to her mouth before cracking eggs for omelettes.

            ‘Mum,’ the kids screamed, ‘look at Meanie.’

 Meanie, the cat, so named for his habit of pulverising the ducklings that lived in the stream at the bottom of the garden, was sitting on the windowsill with his face pressed against the glass. His ginger fur was radiating like sparklers around his head, spikes of frost forming an icy collar. His tail stood upright, a furry popsicle.

            ‘Is he breathing?’ yelled the girl, jumping up and down. ‘Of course, he’s breathing. Why wouldn’t he be?’ said their mother, blowing out smoke.

            ‘Open the window, open the window,’ they demanded.

            ‘And let the cold air in? Are you crazy? Do you wanna freeze to death? He’s perfectly OK. He’s a cat. Cat’s survive. It’s what they do.’

            ‘He’s not breathing,’ snivelled the boy.

            ‘He is so too,’ said their mother and rapped on the window.

            ‘Bugger off, duckie-killer,’ she shouted.

            Meanie swayed like a tenpin about to fall. Then he did fall.

 

 

Diane’s homework, 4^th June 2007

More of Diane's prose at http://talkingcompetition.blogspot.com/

Diane Langford ~ Apology

Apology 

Sorry for the leg irons, sorry for the chains, sorry for the aches and pains

Sorry for the slave ships, sorry for the plague, sorry for the bodies in the sea

Sorry for plantations, sorry for the whips, sorry for Simon Legree

Sorry for lynchings, sorry for the stocks,

missionaries

And fast-loading flint…locks.

 

Thank you for the diamonds, thank you for the gold, thank you for the sugar and the rum

 

Deepest condolences for your very sad loss

Was it sixty million souls or sixty one?

 

Introduction to the Whitstable Women Writers' Group

This blog has been set up as a platform for members of the Whitstable Women Writers' Group to showcase our work for invited visitors to the site as well as for casual surfers and fellow writers.  

We meet once a month in Whitstable to exchange work, provide creative, constructive criticism and praise, and to plan public events and projects. We are poets, writers of fiction and non-fiction, screenwriters and magazine contributors, published and unpublished. 

At our meetings, we set targets, exchange news of competitions and events, suggest homework topics and do writing exercises. We have a small collection of books about creative writing available for loan. Our members have participated in local readings in aid of a Tsunami charity.

Currently we have a membership of around 18, though not everyone attends every meeting. We will shortly post a contact number for women writers interested in joining us. As we are approaching our maximum in terms of membership numbers, we are considering setting up a second group which may be for men and women.