(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNKL9onYB_8)

We’ve had two mango Frujus
because ice-cream is a no go
due to a lactose intolerance

I’ve cooked fresh fish with
steamed rice and seaweed 
plus an egg because well

my granddaughter is staying
we’ve swum half the day
and eaten up the rest of it

she’s in bed glued to a small screen
fighting sleep on granddad’s 
side of the bed - he’s away

she sleeps sideways and even
in a Super King, I am on the edge
covered in love and kicks

A man on Insta is telling me
alcohol will ruin my complexion
I refuse to believe him

I’m two wines in listening to
‘One Toke Over the Line’  a hit
from the early seventies

I know all the words and
I’m transported, in my twenties
instead of my seventies

marvelling  that I’m a Nana
hoping that last egg and
extra bit of fish does the trick

Or will she be bolt upright
eyes glazed fixed to the cartoons
and waiting for me refusing sleep

I’m two wines over the line
and my complexion is no longer
something I care a hoot about

She’s two Frujus and four pineapple
lumps in, plus I forgot to mention
those mini strawberry macarons

I’m in two places, singing with those
chaps, I know that shirt, I've kissed
that moustache, several different ones

pouring wine two pours over the line

(I need a disclaimer with this poem... a young reviewer of 'Formica' in an otherwise affirming review, hinted that two of my poems were sort of ... smug...oh dear

(Second disclaimer: A fellow poet posted a summary of her mammoth efforts in 2023, poems written, accepted, rejected, etc, and so I felt inspired and inclined to try and measure up...)

(Third disclaimer: Right now, nothing any poet dares to write will measure up when we allow ourselves to think of the children in Gaza)



Twitter is full of people 
bemoaning their fate
usually of which they
appear to be the author

A pregnant journalist
tweeted surprise her hands
ambushed by carpal tunnel
Oh I was instantly empathetic

Sweet memories of my first
pregnancy, making do with
Time Magazine rolled tightly
tied like splints to both wrists

plus the unsalted peanuts
In a drawer at work where
I scrambled feverishly to
avert nausea, face clients

Endless night trips to the toilet
plus a free stylish UTA airline bag
ruined when my urine sample
lost its lid and leaked full tide


Not to mention filling six or
maybe seven sick bags on
TWA New York to London
I’ll whisper this – first class

An upgrade, we hadn’t paid
the hostess was appalled
I’d eaten so much breakfast
Quite sniffy she was about it


But my best kept secret
Hush, don’t tell anyone
I’ve tried, no-one believes me
I loved giving birth

So there ,,, Time Magazine
for makeshift splints
but when the big cramps came
I sang deep and out of tune

Like a surfer, I sang through
every contraction, so focused
knowing a baby was arriving
and it was up to me to push


I made the mistake once of
telling a newly traumatised
mum that I loved childbirth
I’ve learned my lesson