Poem 10 January 2017

The fact of my invisibility as a woman in her mid-fifties

is proved beyond doubt today

when I send out a carefully-worded email

and even underline the explanation

I know everyone will ask me about

but the first question raised

concerns the fact I’ve already answered.

My theory is confirmed

when I respond to a question in a meeting

but nobody pays attention

until the person next to me

(a man of course)

repeats my reply,

and then of course everyone thanks him.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen

if one day – delicious thought –

I left all the pointless emails unanswered,

abandoned the endless meetings

to their self-congratulating whirlpool

of managerial lunacy and,

leaving behind every meaningless thing,

walked briskly away

into sunlight.

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Poem 8 January 2017

I write my poem in script

because it’s beautiful

and I have nothing useful

to say to the world today,

so it may as well be pretty.

For I’m thinking of starting calligraphy

as it will reintroduce me to my pen

which I’ve not seen for a while

due to the rhythmic drumbeat of my keyboard

while it onwardly drones unceasingly.

Even if I have nothing to say

on the lily-soft page,

the enticing swirl of the letters

may cause something to resonate

or even be set free

in the viewer’s jaded eye.

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A lucky escape

Dark rain fills up

the night’s heady breath

and all I can see

is the faint impression

of distant tail lights

as I speed homeward

at the day’s bedraggled end


when from nowhere

a parked-up vehicle

on the side of the verge,

back wheels

skewed across my path,

looms before me

like a quiet dragon

or an omen of disaster


so all I can do

is veer, cursing,

into the fast lane

and wait for the inevitable

crunch and jolt

of the accident I’m bound for.


But there’s nothing:

the only sound

is the pounding of my heart

and the bleak patter

of rainfall on my windscreen


as the abandoned car

disappears behind me

into its own unknowable history

and I am safe again.


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The Invisibility of Women

When I was young and golden haired

I longed for a cloak


which when I wore it

nobody would see me in.


Now I’m fifty and rather greyer

that invisibility cloak


clings to me curiously

like a second skin.


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Retiring from Retirement

Just when I thought

giving up work


might be a mere

snap of a finger away


some pesky

government official


says that seventy-five

is our new sell-by date.


People, we’ve been

lied to


and the shimmering dream

of lounging in our gardens


sipping champagne

from a crystal glass


carried to us on a tray

by a nubile young butler


is nothing more than

air and bubbles;


instead, our wizened fingers

will be tip-typing away


until the skin

slips from our bodies


and all that can be heard

in the office


is the eerie rattle

of bone on keyboard


and the faint scent

of decay.


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Evening run

Tonight my head torch

is a smaller moon


as I run in darkness

along the common’s edge


and hear the rustling

of mysterious creatures


in the bracken beyond the path.

My foot falls lightly


on softened earth

whilst my breath


laces the air

in a night


dancing with stars.

And beyond me


only a faint glimmer

of branches.


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The Memory of Pears

Peeling the pears

for my crumble


the silky juice

saturates my skin


so my fingers smell

of sunshine and childhood


and how it takes me back

to my father’s farm


and to the first freshest pear

I ever tasted –


small teeth biting

into yielding flesh


and that startling burst

of scented juice


pouring its warm bounty

over my chin:


a bright tide of laughter

to keep the memories in.


Anne Brooke Books


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My Ghost

Last night I dreamt of my friend who died again.

She was sitting at a table and talking to me

as if nothing at all had happened

between the day I saw her last

and now.


The table was dark wood and the background black.

I could see her yellow hair falling

just beneath her chin

as if the disease that ravaged her

had not taken each strand

and cast it into nothing.


She was talking in the way she used to,

about politics, foreign films and German art,

her familiar enthusiasm melting the time

and casting even history into doubt.


I wanted to listen, to be caught up once more

in the friendship I so much relied on.

Instead, in my dream,

I lean forward, take her hands in mine

and tell her there’s something important

I have to say


and when I tell her the truth

of the world beyond this strange dream,

her smile fades

and her presence shimmers,

starting to blend with the darkness

beyond the table.


I blink back tears which suddenly arrive

in a way they have not been able to in my waking life.


When I open my eyes again

she is truly gone


and my hands lie empty and alone.


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Knees and sunshine

The sunshine beckons me to run

but these old knees hurt,

you deceitful orb of yellow,


and no matter your blandishments

I am staying put today,

that is, if I don’t want


to spend the next week

stumbling over nothing

and cursing the call of spring


or maybe it’s my age

and I should have considered

health and exercise (perish the thought!)


in my younger days

but you were hidden then, oh sun,

and I didn’t want to run.


Anne Brooke Books



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My Grandfather’s Clock

was always the tune
my grandmother sang to me

when she blended
the butter, rum

and deep brown sugar
to make a delicacy

fit for an angel’s tongue.
It kept a young girl

mesmerised for the way
the song became

the food and the food
the song so when today

I blend the butter she taught me
in my far colder kitchen

the music is the recipe
that makes the magic dance.


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