A Coffee and a Cake in Costa

I Feel as though my poetry has been getting a bit heavy, political and depressing lately and that’s not the kind of person that I am, so here’s something a bit lighter…

I’m getting rather larger
My sugar is getting as high as a pensioner on weed
Or a gang of middle aged women, experimenting with speed
If I cut myself it would be glucose that I would bleed
And I’m acting like a politician with the gluttony and greed.

It’s my weekly trip to Costa
Which usually feels like a luxury
With my two shot latte and slice of carrot cake
And side of cream, calories of excessive buggary
But with this atrocious health scare discovery
And this blood test, blood test drudgery
Eating their cakes feels like wanton adultery
Its hell, starving myself, trying for a miraculous recovery.

So a two shot latte and a plate of nothing
Fresh air does not care how you fare
But my fat butt says ‘do it, you dare’
And my tummy agrees
As it sits on my knees
Citing weight watchers fees.
But I wear baggy clothes so its baggage that nobody sees.

I don’t do it for you, or for them
Or for notions of beauty or size, though my form does capsize
In the pool, though most people are nice
I don’t do it for the Instagram filter, duck pout prize.
Imagine if filters showed the ugliness of people, now there’s a surprise.

I’m doing it for me
For my kid
For the dangers to my health of which I want rid
I don’t want a ‘mum has died of diabetes’ kid
A ‘mum who is too obese to go outside’ kid
An ‘other kids take the piss’ kid
A ‘mum laying on a mortuary slab’ kid.

I’m doing it for me
And my kid

©2020 Sarah Drury

Great Poetry Gig coming up in Scunthorpe…

On Feb 7th I am really excited that I will be part of a spoken word poetry gig with the amazing Salford poet JB Barrington and the awesome Hull poet Jim Higo.
It promises to be a funny and poignant night with some brilliant, gritty, real life poetry.

It’s at Cafe Indiependent, Scunthorpe on February 7th, 7.30pm.
It’s a ticket event and tickets are £8, available at:

https://www.ticketsource.co.uk/whats-on/169-173-high-st/caf-indiependent/jb-barrington-lacking-poetential/2020-02-07/20:00/t-ryqlpd

Miracle

My husband had a failing heart, I have a serious mental illness. When I found out I was pregnant, we weren’t going to go through with it. But when I had my first scan and saw that little heart fluttering, I knew I was going to be a mum. Sadly my husband died when our son was three and a half, and i was left to be a single mum. My son is now twelve and has been the making of me.

Miracle

We were in a soap opera style medical dead end dilemma
You with your broken heart and me with my broken mind
And you, my little miracle with your tiny butterfly heart beat
Fighting for your right, fighting for justice, fighting for life
Before your valuable life had even begun
Before your life was rife with strife
Before your life was gold plate on the end of an artist’s knife
Before we saw on that tiny screen that you were real
Before your life was LIFE
OUR LIFE.

The room was dark, the air was rank with the taste of expectation
The stench of not wanting to bond, not wanting to get fond
The nurse was alert, we were terse, all those feelings we hadn’t rehearsed
All those barriers made for tearing down
And that tiny heartbeat, fluttering like an angel’s wings
Spoke to us, spoke of things, of family rings, of a child raised finer than wise kings.

We were the merry three, we never did foresee
That we would one day be the hurting two
When the beat of your broken heart became silent like the morning dew
When we had always looked up to you, loved you.
But we made the most beautiful duet, even if as a mother I had little clue.

And now our son is twelve.
He has his kingly ways, the face of an innocent angel
Yet there are those testing times he tries to pray
For his long gone daddy, for the fun time family days
The childish pictures on the fridge of the happy family three
The stories at school he tells of sitting on his daddy’s loving knee
Of teddy bear’s picnics and sharing with his daddy cups of lukewarm tea

But he knows his daddy’s love will always be here
For love is a memory of an angel in heaven, a star in the universe
Love is a fleeting feeling, love is a beautiful prayer
And his daddy is always here
Beating inside his little heart
His daddy is always right here…

©2020 Sarah Drury

The Lobby

We’ve had a bit of a problem in our block of flats. People keep getting in the communal entrance (which is supposed to be locked) and smoking drugs. The other night (at midnight) it was so bad the thick smoke set the fire alarm off! It inspired this poem…

Another night on my ramshackle estate
As the moon laments this shitty, bitty, gritty town
Its silver veil a smokescreen for the shady underworld
The illicit drugs, the criminals doing their small town dealing
affirming the government statistics
that the wounds that aren’t healing, the budget stealing
in this festering underworld, doing good isn’t appealing.
They said it was safe and secure, my second floor flat
But I beg to differ
With the random riff raff gathered in the foyer below
Smoking, choking themselves into silver plumes of dead aspirations
Coiling around the redundant dreams
Of unrealistic YouTube celebrity expectations
Picking up chicks and pseudo sexual conversations
A sad perpetuation of the failures and fuck ups of generations
Each puff inhaled, the deadening of a painful sensation.

They don’t make much noise, these kids
Maybe their empty voices have little of value to say
Or maybe they’ve learnt that their vacant words are as meaningless as a drug free day
That their song is suicidal, that their record is one that will never play
That the language they speak doesn’t have any colours, just black, white and grey.
And what happened to you, long lost kiddo?
What tattered, shit hand did life deal you so young?
With your fucks and your shits and wankers and twats
And your profanities dripping off your streetwise tongue
An opera in the gangsta hood gone unsung
An invasive cancer on a no hope, blackened, smoke-stained lung.

Playing games with the tragic three little pigs
And the big bad bullshit wolf
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow
And they forgot the house as the blow made their minds slow
As the smoke curls elegantly upwards and flows
And their feelings of detachment grow
And the seeds of futlity and hostility and disability they sow
And where will it all lead, where will it all go?

Another night on my ramshackle estate
With the spliff head kids, always high, always low.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Butlins

It’s holiday time, we’re going to Butlins
Only fifteen sleeps ‘til our only break
From this grimy, shitty council estate
This holiday made of fine gold plate
It’s going to be great, it’s a break from depressing
It’s going to be bloody great!

Two little girls in the dodgy hood
Council kids but our manners are good
Journey to heaven in the clapped out car
Two cheery fingers to our neighbourhood.

Holiday paradise in concrete banality
Chalets which challenge your standards and sanity
But fun filled, paradise days ahead
Contests that challenge your dignity and head
Wrecking your arse at the donkey derby
Saddle sore, bum sore, wallet sore, pride sore

And how lovely are your lanky legs?
Will you win a cheap prize for your nice shaved pegs?
Lusting red coats drooling, sexist society dregs.
Wanting some sex action, wanting to beg.
Deluded kids paraded along in a beauty frenzy
Back in the day when our clothes weren’t trendy
Forced to look ‘pretty’ with fake smiles plastered on
Along with mascara that weighed a ton
With spider lash eyes and blood stained lips
And a quirky walk with swaying hips.

But my favourite was the knobbly knees competition
Half of those blokes should’ve seen a physician
With their bones sticking out like a medical condition
And we laughed and we mocked, making cruelty our mission.

And the treats and the candyfloss, toffee apples and junk
And the swimming pool after, we should really have sunk
Feel the water around us, not council land concrete
As the happiness choked us, to smile was a treat
And the fun of the fair, the lofty big wheel
Bravely swinging the carriage, nerves made of steel
And to some it was nothing, but for us a big deal.

And the beach and the beach and the beach and the beach
Feeling the sand beneath our working class feet
Thermos flask ready, not warm council pop
(when there was no money to go to the shop)
And sandwiches gritty with traces of sand
Which stuck to your fingers, wouldn’t wash off your hands

Lunches in dinner halls, military precision
Lukewarm and beige, with no varied decision
Warm, canned fruit cocktail with a smidgen of cream
Or pink, firm blamanche like a traumatic dream!

Whiling away hours in cash hungry arcades
Pennies to spend, simple games to be played
50p limit, we’re not made of money
While the rich kids scoffed and thought it was funny

The memories, the memories, the Butlins of old
They were my best times, my moments of gold
And the council kids were jealous no holidays for them
I wished I could take them, the great Northern gem.

©2020 Sarah Drury