Skip to main content

Sleeping Beauty Awakes

One hundred years they made her sleep!
One hundred years she could not weep,
or skip or sing or laugh or dance,
Until a prince had had his chance.

One kiss of love did break the charm!
He held her fondly in his arm,
But she recoiled back in fear
And summoned her guards to come near.

For when she woke she could not tell
That she had been under a spell.
She thought he was an intruder
And not her destined saviour.

But when they had questioned the youth
They came to know the bitter truth
That time had moved a hundred years
And then their eyes were filled with tears.

The princess and her loyal maid
Were very truly much dismayed.
Both began then to loudly wail
To hear them no one could fail.

On waking from so long a sleep
You too dear, would vainly weep,
If you realised what you wore
Was out of fashion long before!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Rat

I'm a rat, I'm a rat, I scurry and I bite, I eat what I get, And I fuck and I fight, I dodge the black crows, I run from your shoes, But I'm old or sick, you'll trample over me.

Fit

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included