Us Women...

This poem is dedicated to two friends of mine, both of whom are called Sophie and are rather amazing people and brilliant feminists!



We are sensitive subjects,

Us women

Almost as sensitive

As our pretty little bodies

Our pretty little minds...

Such revolutions

Will never interest us

Oh no, we're far too innocent

To think such thoughts

The word 'politics'

Just simply isn't in our dictionary...

No, we're much too content

Sitting here, reading women's weekly

To think for ourselves...

The names 'Joan of Arc' and 'Emily Davison'

Are all new to me

We'd rather you know

'Judith Martin' now she

Really is a real woman to be...

So don't you fret, We're not

Planning our freedom

Our... liberty...

There's just simply

Too much to do

For us to care

About such petty things...

We're more than happy

To sit the hours away,

Staring out the window

And telling ourselves

Everthing will be okay..

Growing Up

There’s an edge

On the cliff

Where we’d sit for hours

Listen to the waves

And pick the flowers.

There’s a place

In the street

Where I first learnt to ride

I fell off

But I never once cried.

And there’s a room

In my house

Where no-one would find me

I’d sit by the window

And draw what I’d see.

They say you’ve got to

Grow up now

Stop returning to these

Old memories

You’re 17 now

Stop pretending you’re 3.

There’s a field

By my old friends' houses

With trees and a stream

The water ran cold

And now it’s just a dream.

There’s a park

Down by the bridge

We used to have picnics

Sit on the grass

And hunt for crickets.

They tell me I’ve

Got to stop

And think about my future

Sit, up

And practice good posture.

I don’t care about

What lies ahead.

I just want

To go back

To a time in my head.

I used to always

Want to grow up

Who care’s

About youth?

I want wisdom and gut.

But now I

Can’t stop remembering

The past, the time

The places, the people

I always thought would be mine.

Short Poem I

What is one life
To another,
When we cease
To live at all?
For the flower we
See as in bloom
Has not yet
Perfected it's form.