Writings and Witterings


Yummy Mummy

Yummy mummy sitting
in a traffic queue;
child’s hands over ears,
and tell me who
wouldn’t cover eardrums
when the car is jumpin’,
reverbs echoin’,
tyres and chassis bumpin’.
Poor little kid,
her ears bleedin’.
Poor, poor mama,
she’s not heedin’
the needs of her kid,
she wants to be funky
with her white blonde hair
and her music sundry.
Of course, it’s hip-hop,
or call it what they may,
this was what hit me
on a walk today.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Yummy Mummy car Acknowledgements to stevenjones.blogspot.com

Yummy Mummy car with acknowledgement to stevenjones.blogspot.com

Yummy Mummy www.iwantthatsign.com

Yummy Mummy with acknowledgement to www.iwantthatsign.com



War…nothing great about it.
Great smokes. Great blokes
smile as they march to fight,
wave for the cameras;
excited, naive,
their stomachs heave.
Marching, marching.

War…nothing great about it.
Great coats, great jokes,
the loss of great folks.
on a sheet.
Telegrams neat.
Marching, marching.

War…nothing great about it.
Divide and conquer, divide the spoils,
divide the family, divide the nation.
Women thrust white feathers
at those who do not fight.
Boots unfit for purpose
—our boys’ plight.

Polly Robinson © 2014

For MarinaSofia’s prompt at dVerse Poets Open Link Night

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden


Open Door

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden

Keeper of Keys – Brooke Shaden

The keeper of the keys
to worlds we wish we could live in,
where secrets float,
where the impossible becomes possible.
Everyone has a story to tell,
something on their mind.
There’s a light
to show the way
on the bleak bare shore
of existence.

Polly Robinson © 2014

Written to dVerse poets prompt by Grace, who features the photography of Brooke Shaden


Autumn Equinox

The Welsh God, Mabon, celebrates
when day is equal to night.
Days grow darker,
nights grow longer
the sun’s power dies away.
Vermillion leaves yellow and fade
to amber.
Soak the leaves with paraffin,
inscribe with runes
-set them alight-

Dusk burns
with meadowsweet and myrrh.
Heavy vines, hefted by marching men
soft through town.
The harvest moon illumines
the harvesters’ way
to plentiful bread
and wine, carmine red.

‘Here’s to us and times a’plenty’.

Apple cider cinnamon days,
icy grey pale whey days
to All Hallows’ plight
eating soul cake through the night.
November comes,
gives way to spring,
when young
replenishes old,
the moon will rise twice and more

Polly Robinson © 2014


Indian Givers

Indian givers give things and snatch them back. Tingos borrow things until nothing is left to borrow. Martianism, an anagram, describes everyday things from unusual angles.

Indian Givers

They reach the edge of the desert
and send a postcard home,
see a one-eyed orange porpoise
dancing on the tarmac
in estranged sneakers
borrowed from a camel;
they know
there is no more.
Perfection is another’s domain.

Polly Robinson © 2014

orange porpoisesneakers


Around Four

03:44 lorries trundle past
03:49 someone in the bathroom
03:50 get up, close windows
03:51 taste breath, drink water
03:55 clean teeth, take para
04:00 lights out, settle down
04:20 get up, make tea
04:21 moth fluttering in lamp
04:23 drink tea, hear lorries
04:25 write this, settle down
04:26 damn, awake now

Polly Robinson © 2014



around the waterways
of Worcester.
No bodies fall in the wash
to be swept downstream,
chill, clammy, broken,
to pass through the estuary
at Bristol, into the briny,
cold currents rushing them further
to the Atlantic Ocean
and across to visit friends
in America.

Polly Robinson © 2014

For Gabriella’s first post in Poetics – Travel Poetry at dVerse poets pub