The two offerings today are the result of my attempt to stick out a whole evening at poetry and book reading evening last night. It was originally set to be in a theatre and was changed then to a studio and finally to a bar in the theatre. I don't go in bars very often but that is not to say that I don't enjoy a glass or two of wine with a meal. This evening was on a sweltering summer evening in an upstairs room into which the sunlight was pouring. There was a room full of people that I did not know and I was alone. I thought I was going to pass out and make a scene but thankfully I made it to the interval when I made my getaway. By the time I got home I was sweating in an unladylike fashion, my ears were ringing horrendously and I was glad that Steve presented me with a large strawberry ice cream to cool me down.
Panic
Panic
Floods my being
Hearing the buzz and seeing
The group of people gathered there
In the theatre bar to where
I now feel I have mistakenly come
By my normal measure and rule of thumb
Panic
Almost has me on the run
There is no way I will find this fun
Torturous feeling have taken hold
Hidden at the back not comfortable in this fold
Panic
In case somebody comes over to talk
If I see one coming I’ll run not walk
Stay for a while and give it a chance
Dare I look up and catch a glance
Shelter
I am just a child
Not much more than a toddler
Where I sleep is in what they call
The front room.
My bed almost fills the room,
An old standard issue iron air raid shelter.
Upstairs I have a room where I can play
My toys are there
The bed is not made up, bare.
Once I am bathed
And in my flannelette nightie
Mother pulls the blackout curtains
And lights the gas fire
Turns it down low for a while
She must turn it off later
When she goes to bed.
Sometimes I hear the siren
It goes off in the night
Mr. and Mrs. Taylor live next door
I hear them through the adjoining wall
He shouts very loudly to his wife.
“The bombs is droppin’ mother
Have to go down to the shelter”.
“What d’ya say”? She shouts back
Her voice all trembly.
“The bombs is dropping mother,
THE BOMBS IS DROPPIN’.
The bombs were dropping.
My mum and brother
Have come downstairs
They get in bed with me
We all cuddle each other
That bit is nice.
My dad isn’t there,
He is a soldier,
A sergeant in the army.
He comes home sometimes.
I wake again and they have left
And its quiet.