Tag: Lesley Quayle

Toilet Roll by Lesley Quayle


By admin

My life is crap.
You tear me up,
rip me apart, piece by piece.
You want me to be strong
but expect me still to be soft,
you use me, then discard me,
flush me from your life
even though I do all your dirty work.
The others ignore me now that I’m spent,
empty and hollow, squandered, depleted.
Only you seem able to rip me off,
throw me out, replace me so easily
with another.

Toilet Roll 2 – the sequel

I’m always with you.
Wherever you travel,
I’m there, sometimes unseen,
never out of reach.
Comfort and safety
are in the bag.
I’ll dry your tears
and blow your nose,
contain the worst of you.
If you fall, I’m there
to mop you up
and dust you down,
when you bleed,
I’m strong.
When life is shit,
I’m there for you.

Lesley Quayle is a widely published poet and a folk/blues singer currently living in deepest, darkest rural Dorset.

 

Busking on Broadstairs Beach by Lesley Quayle


By admin

The night was liquid,
a sultry, heady brew
when we unlocked the music,
cool plains of sax
and smoky coils
of rhythm from an old guitar,
no rush when the song,
smooth as a dark river,
smooched the air.

Out across gold water
cruised by moon
and the whisky glow
of the promenade lights,
it streamed like sparks,
grazing sea now and then,
laidback, sighing.

From somewhere
the hurdy gurdy gabble
of a fairground organ
waddled into the night,
bumped into our busking,
made us turn up the volume
until an irate romeo chased us –
coitus interruptus –

sax and sex one summer night
on Broadstairs beach.

Lesley Quayle is a widely published poet and a folk/blues singer currently living in deepest, darkest rural Dorset.

 

Robert Burns on finding his wife standing on a chair, crying by Lesley Quayle


By admin

Whit’s up wi ye wumman, whit’s yer despair
an whit’s causing the tears an the snotters?
Ah come in and ah find ye up oan a chair
bubblin louder than thon Afton Waters.
Whit’s that ye say – a wee moose oan the flair
gie’d ye the fright uv yer life,
fer goodness sake lassie, did ye ever compare
the size of the beastie and the size of the wife?
Yer sayin that ah huv tae search the whole place,
but the beastie cud be onywhere,
och, staup aw yer greetin an straighten yer face
ye canny bide there oan a chair.
How’m ah sposed tae find it? Ah’ll no tell ye again,
staup yer girnin an get doon frae there,
can ye no see this stramash is scarin the wain,
that’s enough noo, get doon frae the chair.

Says she – “Rabbie Burns ye can go bile yer heid
For ah’m no comin doon till the bluddy thing’s deid.”

(first published on Stanza’s poetry map of Scotland)

Lesley Quayle is a widely published poet and a folk/blues singer currently living in deepest, darkest rural Dorset.