Television, radio, pancakes and God

1 Comment

 

Selected poems

 

Television

Looking at this television

Certainly gives me a view of life

 

Radio

The radio

Turns me on

With its deep male voices

And horny songs

 

Pancakes

Losing a stack of weight

Is better than stacking on the weight

However I can't eat a stack of pancakes.

 

God

You were my god

Now you're only a hot bod

Which I use only occasionally

 

Train

Sitting here waiting for the train

In this station

I feel as static and automatic

And even as erratic

As this unreliable train

 

Pen

With this cheap yucky pen

I stain the page again and again

Almost causing it pain

 

Tools

Even when you give me tools

As part of my survival kit

I still feel like a fool

As I drool all over you and don't know what to do

 

Bossy

Sorry to be so bossy

I would much rather

Be taken as sassy

Or even classy

 

Sentence

How I hate this terrible sentence

Where my lips are sealed

And I can't even string a sentence together

 

Cut

I feel cut

As you give me many buts

Leaving me in a total rut

 

Bed

In bed

My hair turned into dreadlocks

My skin dull

My hair almost thatched

I can no longer catch your stare

When all was fair

And we looked like quite the

Star pair

 

Puzzle

I feel even more puzzled

Trying to put together

This awkward jigsaw puzzle

Wishing I could make it all dazzle

 

Palace

How I hate this place

It is no palace

And fills me with malice

Giving my life no balance

 

Hope

High hopes

High expectations

However the only dash of hope

I get is the splash of milk

In my startling coffee

 

Vending machine

As I go past this fattening vending machine

I vent all my anger out at all the bad junk food

Staring me right in the face

I feel it pushing all my buttons

How I wish it would come crashing down

And even go underground

 

Slow

Slowly getting a feel for things

Even when I am off keel

And literally getting around on wheels

While trying not to slip on banana peels

 

Hands

Too much time on my hands

Is getting out of hand

 

Tired

So so tired

I can't keep up with anything

Too tired to fight

Too tired to use all my might

Even to pull my baggy knickers up

And belt in tight

I certainly do not feel myself

Getting everything right

 

Flower

Looking at this little flower

Which you carried from the outside world

And pinned on my blouse

I want to really get into nature and

Even rapidly mature as a person

 

Limbo

In limbo

Feeling like a bimbo

Wishing I could go out on a limb

And climb out of this deep hole

Which I have created for myself

 

Silence

As I sit here in the silence

You give me no license

To be myself

 

Quick

I'm too quick for you

Even when giving you a quickie

However at other times

When we make love slowly

It feels so holy

 

Stairs

Climbing these stairs

I no longer feel in despair

About falling down these stairs

And even do it with flair

I can feel myself almost walking on air

 

Wing

Loving being under your wing

You don't miss a thing

 

Well

You know me so well

And even wish me well

 

 

Isabella FelsIsabella Fels is a Melbourne poet and writer. She has been published in various publications including Positive Words, The Big Issue and The Record.

Topic tags: Isabella Fels, poetry, health


 

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Existing comments

I love your work Isabella. This time I read not only a clever play on words, but an expose of the trivialisation of mental illnesses that is currently trendy.
Sheelah Egan | 25 October 2017


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