Poetry from the ladyshed: March 2012

The picture is courtesy of Rick Bosman. Rick very kindly let me use this photo of a 1 metre sculpture he made

this is his site

Rick's wonderful site.

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world -

the master calls a butterfly." - Richard Bach

COCOONED

She was wrapped, trapped in her duvet..

For days she did not rise,

surprise with sighs and lies.

In her mind she was a butterfly.

She just lay

day after day.

But she was dream weaving;

scheming about leaving.

Her metamorphosis was due,

and no one had a clue.

She just lay,

day after day

When they broke down the door,

there was no trace of her

any more.

She had taken flight,

sometime in the night.

All that remained

torn and stained,

was her old duvet

brown,

ripped,

and quite crisp

like a

cocoon.

Copyright Diana Leighton March 2012

Picture is of a wolf courting couple

http://www.all-about-wolves.com/default.aspx

Hunting on a Saturday Night.

It’s Saturday night and they’re all on the town

The boys hunt for girls and the girls hunt for boys

Towering heels click on pavements of stone

The girls all whine that there isn’t much choice.

Then four hours later, money well spent?

Fall outs break out and bitching is rife

Everyone’s pissed at a nightclub event

The atmosphere’s thick with a sense of strife

The hunting gets serious; testosterone rises.

She wolves use lipstick and perfume to tempt,

the males that are prowling snaffling their prizes.

The females just sneer and show their contempt.

Soon they are circling, the music gets louder

daring each other to join in the dance,

who will be first of the baying male crowd there

to grab the first female, and not leave it to chance ?

And suddenly silence, the hunting is pausing

The rules have been broken reaction is swift

Wolves are now howling a fight has been caused and

bottles are flying, there’s blood and there’s fists.

The she wolves are watching aroused by the action

of the dogs who continue their hormone lit fight.

The females are bored there’ll be no satisfaction,

so get ready for hunting next Saturday night.

Poetry from the ladyshed

Cocooned

Hunting on a Saturday Night

The Milking Shed on the Somerset Levels.