Mothers’ Eyes

Reposes she

With cheeks and brow so fair

Image framed

By skeins of flaxen hair

Puckered lips

Forming glowing pout

Recumbent God

Seen without one doubt

 

Lashes flutter

In dreams of golden flight

Tucked into bed

Safe love secures her night

No demons here

No haunted childhood psyche

A child at rest

All should have her like

 

Portraits of injured innocence

Suffuse my working hours

Souls may keen

At battles without power

A helping hand

From those who know the just

Love them all

As adults we most surely must

 

 

A little one

Though worldly without wise

Compassion demands

We see all through mothers’ eyes.

Trashed

Two hours to muse

And trash, peruse.

Mags that dish the dirt.

Callous words and pictures,

Designed to cut and hurt.

 

Celebrities, I know not names,

Their efforts grant

Esteem and fame

And public humiliation.

 

Her hair’s a mess,

Look at her dress,

What a fright she looks!

Women mostly, though

Some men, warrant

Inclusion in these books.

 

I never see these mags at all

Except when hair needs gutting

Colour, style and, all the while,

Not just my hair gets cutting.

 

I know that some seek publicity,

Any type at all,

So, fair game seems to be the name

Of reporters; a free-for-all.

 

Rebuke and trash,

Cameras flash,

Perhaps they’re photoshopped.

I’m just so glad

That I’m not one whose name

Is lifted and then dropped.

 

An awful life,

Though some may think

Fame is worth the fortune,

But picked and prodded,

Talked about

Would be my cup of poison.

 

Mr Wilde was wrong.

 

Video reading Trashed