Author: idiotwriter

'I am not a wise old lady, who can tell a grand life story, or a person whose story deserves to be told - I only have my voice… Perhaps my voice can reach into your heart and make it smile for a few brief moments in time.' Child; Wife; Mother; Artist; Poet, journeying home….probably in that order. Grew up in Africa-my home for 35 years, now live in a little Village in England.

Forward to Clarity

This is just a white wall to say,

‘I’m working, painting,
strumming, singing, and
writing, through confusion –
toward clarity.’

IW

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Her Summer

Not a murmured breeze rustled leaves on the great palm above her lasciviousness.
Air dank in tequila and orange on her breath, exhaled from the long deep glow on the end of her fag.

She motioned small circles above herself toward the sun scorching her not so baby soft skin; years of sun-beds and liposuction fold in small ringlets over the top of her stretched pink side tied, bikini bottom.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ her lips mouth to the clear skies of siesta, and
glistening forms on sandy patches who won’t notice waves that don’t crash.

Her eyes glaze, and quiver, half shut in anticipation of what the heated hours ahead may deliver her alcohol soured blood.
She closes her mind to the images, in a shake of her head, and grips the side of the fluffy ‘Minnie Mouse’ towel with a significant sigh.

She sits, applies sunscreen (you know the fancy one that comes out in a fine misty spray?) too near her face, behind larger-than-average-sunglasses.
They, languid on white towels, crane
in her direction,
and resume satiated dormancy under colourful hats –
there is nothing much of interest to see.

She blinks the mirage from her eyes as the sting deepens,
burns through her flesh, her mind, into her heart.
And she closes them.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she gestures at the setting sun wrestling a sexy floral beach-cover-up over her hot body;
Tonight, as all nights, she will sleep in a fever.

IW