Naughty poems
Gifts
When they had known each other a little while
he gave her a bracelet, asked her to be his lover.
When she went on holiday he gave her
a mobile phone wrapped up in silver paper
then she could phone and not forget him.
When they first made love he gave her a clock
that could tick aching seconds away when they were apart.
Once he gave her a figurine of a couple embracing,
a box of dairy milk chocolates and a blue fluffy rabbit.
Later there was a pink teddy bear he got from the city
that talked when its ear was pressed.
For their last Christmas together
he gave her a ring that glittered like her eyes
when he vowed he would never leave her.
In her drawer she still has the musical heart
he gave her on Valentine’s day that chimes
every time she searches for her knickers.
And hidden in a box are his love letters
and the appointment card for the STD clinic.
Sally James
published in Pennine Ink 2007
Thongs ain’t what they used to be.
Grandma was into big knickers when she was twenty
Mum into them at thirty
I decided forty was the right big knicker stage for me
Most likely my daughter will wait till she is fifty
my granddaughter still in thongs at sixty
and her daughter, who knows?
Maybe fig leaves will be back in fashion
and big knickers just a thong of the past.
Sally James
Tit for Tat
She likes to show her cleavage every now and again.
Like in the sunshine, the garden, or on holiday in Spain.
Let the July sun, tan her skin.
There were advantages for not being matchstick thin.
If you’ve got it flaunt it, is what some people say.
But she never could, in her hey day.
She’d be called a tart, common, parents sigh, tut tut.
At the worst, she would be a whore, a slut.
Now she parades in plunging necklines, bikini tops.
Available in all the supermarkets, trendy shops.
It’s her grandkids now who have their sway.
Wonder what Nan will wear next on holiday.
They think she’s grand, great, such a hit.
But should she really (at her age) show, so much tit.
Sally James
Man on the roof
There he goes hopping over the roof,
golden body oiled against the sun
perching every now and again
quite still, observing.
His shorts, calf length
showing a knot of muscle
as he runs up and down the ladder
ringing my bell.
Blonde hair trickling on to
bare shoulders, lips pursed
in concentration.
No sign of a hard hat.
I can almost hear the bulge
in his pocket throb
as he digs deep, pulls out his mobile
to answer his call
and whistle to his mate.
Sally James
A poet with a problem
I am a poet with a problem
I can’t pronounce my pees
It is particularly painful
When performing doesn’t please
I had thought of leaving all pees out
But erhaps I shouldn’t do that
My words they wouldn’t rhyme
And my oems would be cra
So I’ll keep the beggars in
And hope my stammer will get better
And practice pronunciation
Tilled I’m pissed off with the piddling letter.
Sally James
Gifts
When they had known each other a little while
he gave her a bracelet, asked her to be his lover.
When she went on holiday he gave her
a mobile phone wrapped up in silver paper
then she could phone and not forget him.
When they first made love he gave her a clock
that could tick aching seconds away when they were apart.
Once he gave her a figurine of a couple embracing,
a box of dairy milk chocolates and a blue fluffy rabbit.
Later there was a pink teddy bear he got from the city
that talked when its ear was pressed.
For their last Christmas together
he gave her a ring that glittered like her eyes
when he vowed he would never leave her.
In her drawer she still has the musical heart
he gave her on Valentine’s day that chimes
every time she searches for her knickers.
And hidden in a box are his love letters
and the appointment card for the STD clinic.
Sally James
published in Pennine Ink 2007
Thongs ain’t what they used to be.
Grandma was into big knickers when she was twenty
Mum into them at thirty
I decided forty was the right big knicker stage for me
Most likely my daughter will wait till she is fifty
my granddaughter still in thongs at sixty
and her daughter, who knows?
Maybe fig leaves will be back in fashion
and big knickers just a thong of the past.
Sally James
Tit for Tat
She likes to show her cleavage every now and again.
Like in the sunshine, the garden, or on holiday in Spain.
Let the July sun, tan her skin.
There were advantages for not being matchstick thin.
If you’ve got it flaunt it, is what some people say.
But she never could, in her hey day.
She’d be called a tart, common, parents sigh, tut tut.
At the worst, she would be a whore, a slut.
Now she parades in plunging necklines, bikini tops.
Available in all the supermarkets, trendy shops.
It’s her grandkids now who have their sway.
Wonder what Nan will wear next on holiday.
They think she’s grand, great, such a hit.
But should she really (at her age) show, so much tit.
Sally James
Man on the roof
There he goes hopping over the roof,
golden body oiled against the sun
perching every now and again
quite still, observing.
His shorts, calf length
showing a knot of muscle
as he runs up and down the ladder
ringing my bell.
Blonde hair trickling on to
bare shoulders, lips pursed
in concentration.
No sign of a hard hat.
I can almost hear the bulge
in his pocket throb
as he digs deep, pulls out his mobile
to answer his call
and whistle to his mate.
Sally James
A poet with a problem
I am a poet with a problem
I can’t pronounce my pees
It is particularly painful
When performing doesn’t please
I had thought of leaving all pees out
But erhaps I shouldn’t do that
My words they wouldn’t rhyme
And my oems would be cra
So I’ll keep the beggars in
And hope my stammer will get better
And practice pronunciation
Tilled I’m pissed off with the piddling letter.
Sally James