THE ARTIST

The artist is a liar
About painting only what he sees
In front of him.
Slick lies of seduction slipping from his lips,
Falling from his tongue,
Like leaves falling from a wintered tree.
He tells so many lies
It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind.

That naked breast she offers
On fingers thin and sharp as boning knives
Is not offered for free.
Painting the aureole so dark
Only the juice of damsons could create
Such a full, rich, bruising.

This dance hall dame, remote and lethal,
Puts no value on any part of her body.
It’s all for sale
For a wad of the folding stuff.

The artist rhapsodised about her hair,
Her eyes, her implacable face.
But no-one on earth could mistake
That sullen, knowing mouth
For the mouth of a woman
Who has given in to seduction.

I’ll say!
That’s the mouth of a woman
Keeping her trap shut
And counting the money.

The artist is a liar,
Telling so many lies
It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind.
Certain that his painting is so beautiful
People will fight to have it on their wall.

When, all the time, he knows he has painted
Her ancient and watchful soul,
All bandaged about with suffering.

                             ©2019 Gwen Grant

THE MOON COMPLAINS

The moon doesn’t want to come out tonight.
She doesn’t want to shine either,
Or put her best foot forward.
Really, she couldn’t care less.

After all, what did they do
When she was shining?

Blow things up, make tremendous fires.
Send people into hiding.

What was the point,
What?
Of being a moon in June,
A friendly moon of kindly light and roses,

If this was how she was going to be treated.

© 2026 GWEN GRANT

In these times of great trouble and pain, we are
thankful for the poppies amongst us.

POPPIES

Lately, poppies are in the fields,
Beaming amongst the yellow corn,
Smiling in the tall tangle
Of wayward grasses and nubs of moody ragwort
In the hedgerows.
Careless, it seems, of the close threat
Of the dark, the bitter nettle,
Crowding their calm loveliness.

When rain comes, the nettle rejoices
As those lovely heads are beaten into the dust.
For a while, all seems lost,
Until they rise again.
Their scarlet pennants trembling
In the powerful forces ranged against them.
Trembling, yet standing firm.

Frail and beautiful, their petals
A flick of red on the painted air.
Beautiful and frail, as are all who stand guard
Against the nettled strength waiting its chance
To crush that which is fragile.

Yet the nettle has always misjudged the poppy,
Seeing only its frailty,
Blind to its endurance.
And this world is full of poppies
Shining their bright and lovely defiance
Into every place where darkness seeks dominion,
Their crimson glory forever seeding the earth with hope.

  © 2018 GWEN GRANT

First day of the New Year and here’s wishing everyone
peace and tranquillity.

UP TOWN ON A SATURDAY MORNING

This morning,
When the old ladies
Wearing their duvet
And bad attitudes
Banged their walking sticks
On the hard pavements,
Complaining about the cold,

The old men
Fastened up their jackets
Trying to work out
How they had got so old
Without anyone warning them.
Every now and again
Hustling into the Bookies
To place a Bet
That, ten-to-one, would win them
Enough to buy back
Their days of being young
And meaning something
In the world again.

Well, this was when
That lad and his lass
Began to sing,
Coins rattling
Into their empty money hat
Lying on the cold ground
In front of them.

Enough to buy them hot coffee,
A slice of warm pizza
And a bit of encouragement
To keep going, anyway,
Until they were well past
Any danger of growing old
With lined and cheery faces.
Or not.

For ‘old’ was a word not in their lexicon
And they had no intention
Of it ever claiming their attention.

As if!    Eh?!!  As if!

I don’t think so!

                     ©2023 Gwen Grant