Poems
by Joyce
Walker
An Angel Once Came Down From Heaven
An angel once came down from heaven,
For a holiday in Torquay, South Devon.
Dipped her toes in the sea,
Said, “It’s too cold for me.”
And promptly flew off back to heaven.
The Ballet Of The Birds
The blue tit waits for the great tit,
As branches stir in the wind.
In flight they perform a pas de deux
To the humming music of bees,
Then gracefully descend to the ground
To peck nuts, with starlings and sparrows,
While their audience, the robin, looks on.
Blue Dawn
Today I woke to a clear blue sky,
Not a cloud, just the sun, in a clear blue sky.
It made me feel good; put a smile on my face,
When I woke and looked out on a clear blue sky.
Bright was the weather and bright was my mood
When I went for a walk ‘neath the clear blue sky.
The river was covered in a silver sheen,
Dappled and shiny, under a clear blue sky.
A day such as this is unseasonably rare,
So I lay on the bank ’neath the clear blue sky.
Sapphires are blue and “Sapphire,” am I,
Enjoying my day, under a clear blue sky.
By Day, By Night
By day smart ladies come to shop
And men is suits walk by to office jobs
Children by their mothers skip and hop
To bakers, with their smell of loaves and cobs.
By night the pubs and clubs all swarm with life
And drunken fights are truly common-place,
Drug dealers replace the daytime shopping wife
Feed addicts, who are high and off their face.
Two different cities, yes, but just one street,
By night, a place that most won’t want to walk
By day, those people trim and neat,
Are not afraid, in fact they stand and talk.
Would that the night-time street would disappear
And like the day stay bright and full of cheer.
By The Fireside
By the fireside, warm and bright
On this freezing winter night
We lie in comfort by the fire
Filled with love, filled with desire,
Away from snow and winter weather
Our bodies close, entwined together,
This moment, always meant to be,
The longing as you enter me.
The fire dies and embers glow,
Our passion too, will soon be so,
But we won’t forget the pure delight,
Shared by the fireside this winter night.
Chicken
At school they called me, ‘chicken,’
Or sometimes, ‘goodie two shoes,’
Because I wasn’t naughty,
Didn’t want to be accused
Of doing all the things
My other classmates did,
I didn’t want detention,
While they didn’t give a fig.
At work they called me, ‘chicken,’
Because I wouldn’t petty- thieve
Like all my other workmates,
It’s not what I believe.
I guess I’m still a chicken,
A, goodie two shoes, too,
But I live with a clear conscience,
Can the same be said of you?
