Tag: Helen Laycock

Tackling the Issue by Helen Laycock


By admin

‘Oh, please, God, not those jeans again!’ He’s got them on once more:
those baggy, beltless, ragged things that drag across the floor.

In minutes, they’ve obeyed the law of undisputed gravity,
and, as they creep towards the floor, they smack of rude depravity.

Not just a peek of buttock crack to all is now exposed,
but glorious, billowing, hairy cheeks, like dough buns juxtaposed.

Untroubled by malfunction, he potters as I watch,
his movements getting hindered by a slowly sinking crotch.

The other day he wandered in, his iPad a fixation;
his eyes were glued, his hands engaged . . . He stood in concentration.

Daughter, sweet, sat at my side, sharing time together –
that innocence of childhood, soon to be lost forever –

when suddenly a movement, quicker than a beat,
resulted in his trousers crumpling at his feet.

Startling was not the word – nay, we were traumatised,
for with the jeans had dropped his pants: AWOL, decentralised.

We squealed and covered up our eyes; his top half was intact,
but any shred of man attire his nethers sorely lacked.

He shuffled to the sofa with bondage round his ankles
to first put down the iPad before dealing with his dangles.

I waited ’til the sound of snores told me he was asleep
then felt through piles of clothing he’d left huddled in a heap.

I grasped them with a robber’s touch and slid them out with guile.
I felt the stringy, tattered hems. God, those jeans were vile.

I looked for a concealing place. Boy, was I in a fluster –
if hubby woke, that jeopardised ‘Operation Denim Duster’.

I rammed them in the wardrobe and pushed the door damn tight,
then schemed and plotted for their end. I tossed and turned all night.

The rumbles in the street outside reminded me ‘Bin Day’!
I forfeited my cleaning cloths and threw the jeans away.

He’s hunted for them ever since. I’ve repossessed composure.
The naked truth is hard to bear in full and stark exposure.

When life throws up the unexpected, Helen Laycock casts it in rhyme (much to the embarrassment of her Muse/husband). She writes serious poetry, too, as well as fiction. Details of her short stories and flash can be found here and information about her children’s books can be found here.

 

Faux Pas by Helen Laycock


By admin

‘I do not ride.’ I shook my head. ‘I want one that is slow.’
I couldn’t speak the lingo, but I’d watched ‘’Allo ’Allo’.
I felt the French girls sniggered and had masterminded fatwas.
‘You take ze ’orse zat’s at ze back. ’E’s young . . .’is name is Matoise.’

‘But what about a chapeau?’ I pointed to my head.
The girls threw back their têtes and laughed. My fate was viande dead.
Matoise was their accomplice; his eyes betrayed a smirk.
An entertaining novice! How he loved to taunt a berk.

Unladylike, I threw a leg and landed in the saddle.
My rump, untethered, slid about. I was up the creek, sans paddle.
The group set off in front of me in the languid summer heat.
I heard their chit-chat fade away as Matoise stopped to eat.

I kicked my heels as jockeys do and flapped the stringy reins,
but Matoise was on hors d’oeuvres and had yet to start his mains.
Finally, he raised his head and, like a bull, he stamped,
then took off like a thunderbolt! My muscle-mode was CLAMPED.

I yanked his reins to slow him down, but he raced with nose to sky,
and dragged me under branches which, of rider-height, were shy.
‘Stop, Matoise!’ I bellowed as he galloped t’wards a trench
. . . then changed it to ‘Arrêtez-vous’,  recalling he was French.

Finally, our leader cut through my line of sight,
raised her eyes, snatched my reins and, muttering, pulled tight.
She led us to the trekkers, still plodding at their leisure,
and she and Matoise shared a wink of pure sadistic pleasure.

The day was done, the dismounts made, my hair was in a mess,
my face was scratched, my shoulders ached. I feigned a lack of stress.
I waved adieu and thanked them all, despite my dreadful pain,
and for the next three awful days, I walked just like John Wayne.

When life throws up the unexpected, Helen Laycock casts it in rhyme (much to the embarrassment of her Muse/husband). She writes serious poetry, too, as well as fiction. Details of her short stories and flash can be found here and information about her children’s books can be found here.