More personal stuff here, some venting, but hopefully with some humour too.

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Anti DepressantsAnti Depressants
Consider a bottle of anti-depressants,
Of anti-anxiety, happiness pills,
You pop one at mid-day, then six, then at midnight,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

They don’t turn the clock back and stop him from hurting,
They don’t stop his mistress enjoying the thrills,
They don’t make you younger or stronger or lovelier,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

They don’t stop your friends being faithless and fickle,
They don’t stop your boss underrating your skills,
They don’t stop you feeling you’re worthless and dirty,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

They don’t stop the heartache but stop it from showing,
They don’t cure your nerves but the twitchiness stills,
They don’t stop his cruelty making your heart break,
They dry all your tears up and cure all your ills.

Consider a bottle of anti-depressants,
Of anti-anxiety, happiness pills,
You pop one at mid-day, then six, then at midnight,
They dry all your tears up and hide all your ills.

© Lynne Joyce

2014 Policy Statement

Self HelpSelf Help

I’ve given up massaging egos,
I have found it a waste of my time
For while I was massaging others’
No-one was massaging mine.

So if you come to me for a massage
In the hope that I’ll make you feel great,
I’ll tell you that I’m much too busy
Attending to my ego’s state.

I have no doubt that you’ll be bewildered
For you’re used to my ego massage,
Taken without giving credit,
Because I made your ego too large.

I fear that you felt quite entitled
To more ego massages, free
From gratitude or obligation
To give the same service to me.

Maybe undermining my ego
Made yours, by comparison, huge,
But I have no more room for people like you,
A draining emotional Scrooge.

So I’ve given up massaging egos
For all those who used me for free,
So go get it massaged by somebody else,
‘Cause you won’t get a damned thing from me.

Lynne Joyce 05.09.2014

A Thousand Lovers.

I have got a thousand lovers
Who share my body, soul and mind,
All are tall and strong and handsome,
Gentle, generous and kind.

Some are charming and amusing,
Some are deadly serious,
Some are working class and earthy,
Some wealthy and imperious.

Every one is proud to know me,
And happy to be seen with me,
All like my acid wit and humour
And love my personality.

Each one is very sensitive
And gives emotional support,
All are indulgent of my failings
And lenient when I fall short.

All have the physiques of athletes
And faces like the Gods of Greece,
Every one, a sexual athlete,
Makes love into a masterpiece.

All of them, so very funny
They make me laugh until I ache,
But never demean anybody
Purposely or by mistake.

All are absolutely right-on
Each is politically correct,
None of them are ever jealous,
All have superior intellects.

I have got a thousand lovers
Each one is generous and kind,
All figments of my loneliness
Locked in the boudoir of my mind.

© Lynne Joyce, 11-4-1994.

All The Wrong Places

I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places,
Yearning for closeness in vast, empty spaces,
Craving for care from the hard and uncaring,
Wanting to share with those not fit for sharing,
Looking to hard-hearts for signs of affection,
Asking the lost for a sense of direction,
Searching for passion from cool egocentrics,
Fighting for fondness from crazy eccentrics,
Pleading for warmth from the cold and unfeeling,
Expecting the truth from those used to concealing,
Seeking intimate contact from vague, distant men,
Then being frustrated again and again.
I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places,
Putting romance-less losers through romantic races,
I’ve been having a tough time with difficult men,
So I’m not going back to those places again.

© Lynne Joyce

Big City Blues

Expatriate ManExpatriate Man

This was true at the time of writing. Fortunately I am now well past it, whatever 'it' may be!

I invariably score in big cities,
But not with a native born man,
In London a Cypriot wooed me,
In Paris an I-tal-i-an.

No doubt, if I visited Kingston
I’d be hotly pursued by a Greek,
In the heart of Tehran, a Portuguese man
Would follow me round for a week!

In Jaffa I’d pull a Jamaican,
In Cairo an Israeli Jew,
But when in Vienna, I bet you a tenner,
A man from Berlin would pursue.

In Malta I’d go to the altar
With Valettan policemen on guard,
Amazed that I’d caught an Egyptian
In their anti Islamic back yard.

In New York I’d manage a Cuban,
In Havana a Senegalese,
While my sightseeing trips around Zurich
Would send a Pole weak at the knees.

A Magyar would love me in Brussels,
In Dacca I'd pick up a Dane,
On tour in Granada, a Latvian's ardour
Would put the hot Latins to shame.

In Singapore, French men would court me,
In Warsaw a man from Sudan
Would respond to my fatal attraction
To lonely, expatriate man.

This dubious, romantic talent
Is fun, so I really can't moan,
But isn’t much use when a light bulb has blown
And I’m struggling at home on my own!

© Lynne Joyce, 30-1-1994.

Bring On The Snow

Snow BabiesSnow Babies

Winters come and winters go
In different shades of dreary,
But winters that aren't blessed with snow
Make my two dogs weary.

Snow can turn the winter gloom
Into a thing of joy
Lifting the chill and sense of doom
From my canine girl and boy.

No need to clean off muddy paws
When there's lots of snow,
No cat pooh prised from clamped tight jaws
'Cause they can't smell where cats go.

No need for frisbees, toys or sticks
To concentrate their minds
For snow provides a wealth of tricks
And games of many kinds.

No matter that their human Mum
And Dad are freezing cold,
Obedience at the minimum
They won't come in when they're told.

Winters come and go again
In different shades of grey
But Winter's really joyful when
It's a bright, white, snowy day.


Chocolate for Breakfast

Comfort FoodComfort Food

Sometimes you have to eat chocolate for breakfast,
Anything sensible just would not do.
Sometimes you need some Champagne for elevenses,
When you’re lonely or angry or just feeling blue.

Champagne and chocolate are great for repairing
Your wrecked self esteem or your disheartened soul.
Muesli or cornflakes, they simply can’t cut it,
You really can not get good cheer from a bowl.

Chocolate and champagne can massage the ego
At times when a massage is just what you need.
Luxury items that nurture and treat you,
When you are in need of much more than a feed.

So make sure you have lots of chocolate on standby,
Make sure that its tasty and sticky and nice,
And when you decide you need chocolate for breakfast,
Go for broke and make sure you have Champagne on ice.

Lynne Joyce, 25.04.2007

Clearing The Detritus

Moving AlongMoving Along

I’ve decided to sort out my life,
Make the house look clean and neat,
Redecorate, revitalise,
Take the lead boots from my feet.

I’ve lots and lots of messages
Saying “We must meet”
They’ll wallpaper the living room
And halfway down the street.
For stacks of empty promises
Serve no good use at all,
So they’ll serve well as reminders
In the lounge and in the hall.

Those friends who turned their backs on me
When I was no more use,
No longer served their purpose,
And made me a recluse,
My address book notes each one of them,
Where they live and what they do,
So I will use its pages
As tissue in the loo.

The many, many favours
Given but not returned,
Give evidence of times when
I had my fingers burned,
So I will write out IOU’s
Bills, accounts, invoices,
They’ll wallpaper the stairwell,
With each step, rising prices.

With people who have wronged me
By slander or by deed,
All of those who used me
As useful gossip feed,
Those who lied, the insincere,
Those who never made amends
Their names upon the cellar wall
Will be where their power ends.

I’ll decorate the whole house
With those who did me wrong
Then burn the bloody house down
Then unencumbered, move along.

© Lynne Joyce 05.03.2013

Contented Loner

I'm a loner and content with it,
Happy with my own company,
And a small group of close friends,
Who share my razor mind and wit.

I never try to please the crowd,
I see no need to compromise
My values or my politics,
I challenge bigotry out loud.

Some say I'm very short on tact,
But I see tact as compromise,
I tell the plain unvarnished truth,
And never try to gild a fact.

I don't accept a woman's place
Is in the home or second class,
And men who try to cower me
Get my venom in their face.

Some people think, because I'm old
That I should be invisible,
I've got no time for ageism
And so, though wrinkled, I am bold.

Solitary souls like me,
Content with their own company,
And happy with a few good friends,
Are needed in society.

We see through all the social rules,
The bullshit and the niceties,
We never compromise to please
We challenge idiots and fools.

So don't complain when I decline
To fit in with your social herd,
I make you feel uncomfortable,
But that's your problem, its not mine.


Demolished Past

My past has been demolished,
Every brick and every stone
Of houses I once lived in,
Broken, torn down, gone.

The hospital where I was born
No longer offers care
To Army wives and mothers,
Now lunatics live there.

My first home here in England,
Though not my home for long,
Was torn down so a motorway
Could let cars speed along.

My second home, a dreadful place
Where grandfather once stayed,
Is now completely flattened,
His injustices repaid.

My third home, though newly built
When I was just a child,
Was wrecked because the area
Was constantly defiled.

Three primary schools where I went
As all small children must
All victims of the bulldozer,
All crumbled brick and dust.

My grammar school, it’s corridors,
Its classrooms, fields and halls
Now has Ragwort growing
Where once were office walls.

The buildings from my past have gone
Their function gone or changed,
But that does not make memories
Erased or rearranged.

Brickwork can be turned to dust,
Streets to vacant space,
But memories can linger on
Without a carapace.

Those homes live on inside my head,
The schools inside my mind,
Some in glowing colours,
Some deep, dark and unkind.

With some of them I wish that I
Had lit the dynamite
And watched exploding shards create,
A liberating light.

But now at last I realise
That painful memory
Can only be resolved by
One person, and that’s me.

Lynne Joyce 19.07.2013

Erect Cheque Book

Ode To A Former Friend Who Ran Away To Romance, But In The End, Just Ran Away.
Lynne Joyce, © 6-2-1996.

I thought that you had fallen for a massive erect cheque book,
Whose yearly profit figures were the things that turned you on.
I really thought that you’d sold out on hope of love and romance,
And swapped it for security as a rich man’s number one.
I was absolutely sure your primary motive was his money,
And your secondary motive was his status and his power,
Then I saw your poison tongue turn into one that dripped with honey
And I thought that you had finally achieved your finest hour.

I watched you as you blossomed in the Springtime of your romance,
Like a sweet magnolia flower, open up and show your heart.
When I saw you both together in your close entwining slow dance,
I believed it was impossible to break you two apart.
It was wonderful to see the sexual sparks that flew between you.
I was just a little jealous of the love you seemed to share.
He seemed to love your womanhood without wanting to demean you,
And you loved his masculinity with its softer sheath of care.

I convinced myself you’d realized your ultimate ambition,
To be complete within, but have a mate to share your life.
I had even come to terms with your projected new condition,
That of a sweet and dutiful, devoted, loving wife.
I forgave you for your thoughtlessness to those you left behind you,
And your unreasoned expectations of the child you took along.
I was loyal supportive and I really didn’t mind you
Rewriting your own history so you were never wrong.

I watched you as you moved away to your new situation.
I was sad but not astonished when you turned away from me.
True friends should know when to let go without recrimination,
This was your time for moving upwards, onwards, guiltlessly.
I heard your plans for your new life in which I would not figure.
I saw you fold and press and pack your feelings and your past.
I was thrilled to see you blossoming and living life with vigour.
I wished you well, and hoped to Hell that this new life would last.

Well so much for the cheque book, and so much for the romance.
With his profit figures under threat, your ‘New Man’ ran away.
The winner of the contest between endless love and finance
Was decided when his floating shares were floating the wrong way.
He ran back to the security of his suburban mousewife,
And his fully paid-for mansion in the leafy countryside,
To his former life of comfort, the respectable, the good-life.
Without any guilt or conscience, he simply cast you to one side.

Where are you now, my former friend, alone? In isolation?
I hear the faintest echo from you, briefly, now and then.
Your former life was wrecked forever in the devastation
Of your Knight in Shining Armour who came then went again.
Does he know how bad it feels when you are needed then deserted,
Cast aside just like the packaging that we no longer need,
And if you, or I, should tell him, would he be disconcerted,
Or would he, as with all life, let his conscience be his greed?

Eternal Outsider

I have spent a lifetime
Living on the outside,
Outside every social group,
Watching people on the inside
Belonging, interacting,
Enjoying, fitting in,
While I stood on the outside
Observing those within.

It's chilly on the outside
Inhospitable and cold
There you only have yourself,
Alone, outside the fold,
No one to give you guidance,
No encouragement or care,
Only strength and self sufficiency
Let you survive out there.

But living on the outside
Is not completely bad,
No insiders to pressure you
Into doing something mad,
No compromised integrity
To fit in with the herd,
Outside you are free to be
An oddball and a nerd.

I am proud of my survival
On the outer edge of life,
Beyond trivial conflicts,
Arguments and strife,
And to others who survive it,
Wear your solitude with pride,
For we view human frailty
Safely from outside.


Friend In Need

Friend In Need

A friend in need is a friend indeed,
How very true,
This is the friend you turn to
When troubled or blue,
This is the friend who counsels you,
Gives good advice,
The one you need when you're in Hell,
Not paradise.

But what is it like to be that friend,
That friend in need,
The friend you only turn at times
When you hurt or bleed,
The one who only ever hears tales
Of misery,
The dependable dry shoulder friend
Who is judgement free?

Where is this friend in need when you
Are having fun?
Is s/he there when the cakes are handed round
And the kettle's on?
Is s/he there when you're at the theatre
Or cinema?
Is s/he carousing with your other friends
At the local bar?

Or is s/he at home alone because
You forgot to ring?
Is s/he the one who is never part
Of the social thing?
Is s/he the one you meant to call
And then forgot?
The one for whom the coffee never gets
Out of the pot?

A friend in need is a friend indeed,
How very true,
Kept in a cupboard until you feel
Troubled or blue,
So think on why, my needy friends,
As think you should,
S/he's your friend when things are bad,
But not when they're good.

Lynne Joyce 21.03.2014

Group Dynamics

I watch the social dynamics of a group,
I work out who is inside and outside the loop,
Observe those who dominate and who
Sits outside the inner circle of the chosen few,
See the body language of those who try
To be approved of but who wonder why
All their wasted efforts are as nought,
Leaving them isolated and fraught,
Made to feel that they are outsiders, losers,
Neither the chosen ones or the choosers.

I watch the social dynamics of a group,
Sooooooo grateful that I am well outside the loop!


If Romance Were Measured In Litres

Romance MeasureRomance Measure

If romance were measured in litres,
What a wonderful world it would be
Then women could do their man-shopping,
On the basis of li-quid-i-ty.

A Frenchman would score fourteen litres,
A Belgian would score only two,
But an Englishman stressed by six hours in a press
Might just manage a sprinkling of dew.

A Dutchman would give a large glass full,
Well disguised as a Heineken beer,
An Italian would give you a bucket,
Plus a pinch on your bum and a leer.

The cold and phlegmatic Norwegian
Would give ten millilitres of ice,
Whilst the serious Swede would obviously need
Some romance transfusion advice.

A Cretan would ooze it through sweat glands,
A Rumanian fill up a sink,
Whilst the noble Magyar would fill a large jar
Call it Bulls Blood and sell it as drink.

A hard-nosed, hard bitten New-Yorker
Would acquire it the Bloomingdale’s way,
Bought in gorgeous 10 fluid ounce bottles
Labelled D.K.N.Y. or C.K.

A passionate, hot-blooded Latin
Would have no trouble filling the sea,
Whilst a raunchy young macho from Rio
Could fill up an Ocean or three.

The problem I have with this measure
Is that West Yorkshire’s where I man-shop,
And put two thousand Tykes in a juicer
And you wouldn’t come up with a drop!

© Lynne Joyce, 31-1-1994

Making Sense Of The World

Self CounsellingSelf Counselling

Some people have family to guide them
As the path of their life is unfurled,
Others have friends who can give them their time
To help them make sense of the World.

But what does one do in the absence of these?
How do your issues get heard?
In my case I write down all of that stuff
And learn through the power of the word.

People I see are amusing
Some silly, some funny, some weird,
I capture them in comic verses,
So their value has not disappeared.

I illustrate all of those verses
With pencil and paint and with ink,
Thus capture the characteristics
That caused me to laugh and to think.

I re-read my comical verses
In the midst of a dark, sleepless night,
And remember the things that inspired me,
Laugh and then once more I write.

When troubled with gloomy depression,
When a black cloud mars my mental health,
I write it all down and then later
Read it all back to myself.

It's surprising how very cathartic
Writing your troubles can be,
Because nobody else wants to hear them,
So I've made my counsellor me.

Re-reading this stuff much later,
On a calmer and less troubled day,
It makes so much sense and I see there
How to solve things the positive way.

In the absence of family to guide you
As the path of your life is unfurled,
In the absence of friends who can give you their time
Let words help make sense of the World.



I'm a maverick, not a herd animal,
Group stuff is just not for me,
And while others find it convivial
I prefer to be soli-ta-ry.

Pack animals always amuse me
In order to fit with the crowd
They adapt their behaviours and values
Then proclaim the crowd values out loud.

Herd animals dress in herd costumes
Like livestock you find on a farm,
They're always in groups, never single,
Like they fear the lone path leads to harm.

Herd animals really can't venture
Outside of their own comfort zone,
When they travel they take the herd with them,
They simply can't do it alone.

Herd animals have herd behaviours,
Herd clothing and food and routines,
They exist within safe local boundaries,
They define what parochial means.

Herd animals feel very threatened
By maverick people like me,
The fact that we're fine on the outside
Seems to threaten their identity.

I'm a maverick, not a herd animal
I'm a loner who thrives on my own,
And while herd members need other people,
I'm perfectly happy alone.

Lynne Joyce 05.02.2014


Macho men,
Make growling, grunting, howling noises,
Use obscenities and demeaning phrases
To prove they have a right
To get inside your knickers.

Right-on men
Are careful to make all the right noises,
And use politically correct phrases
To insinuate themselves
Into your knickers.

Wimp men
Make a few apologetic noises,
Mumble incoherent phrases,
Feeling that they ought to want
To get inside your knickers.

Pompous men
Huff, puff and gruff stuffy noises,
Vacillate, use obfuscating phrases.
They really don’t want to know
About what’s in your knickers.

Married men,
Make secretive, suggestive noises,
Imply adventure with their tired phrases,
Attracted by the novelty
Of what’s inside your knickers.

Intellectual men
Make obscure, polysyllabic noises,
Use convoluted, high - flown phrases
Trying to express original thoughts
About what’s in your knickers.

Drunken men
Make slurred, sexually explicit noises,
Use incomprehensible phrases,
Are totally incapable of even finding
What’s inside your knickers.

Dirty old men
Make sad, embarrassing noises,
Use sordid, dated, reminiscent phrases,
As if they were still capable of thrilling
What’s inside your knickers.

Continental men
Make delightfully erotic noises,
Use eloquent, romantic phrases,
Promising a magic time
If they get inside your knickers.

Homosexual men
Make coded, camp and crazy noises,
Use bitchy, funny, in-group phrases
And don’t think your value rests
Entirely in your knickers.

Men you really fancy
Don’t make any bloody noises,
Or use seductive words or charming phrases,
Are tragically indifferent
To what’s inside your knickers.

Men are all over the place!

© Lynne Joyce 14-9-1993

Moving Forward

I don’t have a rear view mirror,
I don’t take a backward glance,
I am not a past reviver,
I don’t give yesteryear a chance,
I am very forward thinking,
I don’t take a rearward view,
I’m not trying to be awkward,
It is just not what I do.

I don’t do retrospectives,
They’re just not my cup of tea,
Reminiscence and nostalgia
Hold no appeal for me,
I don’t tell of past experience,
Or dwell upon what’s gone,
I look forward to tomorrow,
Live my life, learn and move on.

The real joy of the future
Is that it is full of hope,
Whilst the past cannot be altered,
And there isn’t any scope
For going back and changing
All the things that weren’t quite right,
So I look forward to the future,
For the future’s always bright.

Lynne Joyce, 29-04-2007

My Cup Of Tea

My cup of tea has magical properties,
Laws scientific just do not apply,
One moment its so hot it makes my lips blister
Then its too cold in the blink of an eye.

I cannot drink tea that is scalding or tepid,
Nice and hot but not scalding is what I like best
But my cup of tea never gets to be perfect,
Its either not ready or well past its best.

I think that I’ll have to become an inventor
Of a mug with a thermostat, heater and such,
Then my cup of tea will always be just right,
Neither too hot or too cold to the touch.

But what if my cup of tea’s magical properties
Transfer to my newly invented device
Bypass the heater and thermostat widget -
They tell me that iced tea is terribly nice!

©Lynne Joyce 11.03.2013

My Phonetic Alphabet

Alpha Bravo Charlie Delta Echo Foxtrot Golf Hotel India Juliet Kilo Lima Mike November Oscar Papa Quebec Romeo Sierra Tango Uniform Victor Whisky X Ray Yankee Zulu

The NATO phonetic alphabet
Is permanent and fixed
Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo,
And the rest of that tedious mix.

But just using those words isn't much fun
So I made one up for myself,
One that fits in with my own set of needs
And you can do one for yourself.

A for Asshole, I've known lots of them,
B for the Bastards who
Are all C for Cowards, the spoilers in life,
D for the Dastardly things that they do.

E for near Empty, the stock of good friends
Who are there for me when times are tough,
F is for family who ought to be there
But who simply do not care enough.

G for Grief when I'm lonely or sick,
When family and friends disappear,
Too lazy or busy to pick up the phone
Too selfish to bother to care.

H is for Happy I've made up my mind
To cut out those family and friends
Who insist on receiving but don't give respect
Because this is where using me ends.

I for Important, I must look after me,
And sod all the folk who neglect.
J is for Justice when I see their pain
When I say they don't merit respect.

K for Kleenex, much needed when
I'm down in the dumps and in tears,
L is Lessons not easily learned
When your mind is distorted by fears.

M is for Mother whose mothering skills
Were dubious even at best,
N is for No when she demands
Forgiveness before she's at rest.

O for Obsessed like my mother-in-law
Obsessed with herself and her wants
P is for Piss Off and that's what I'll say
When she starts on her "Me, me, me" rants.

Q is for Queen, the male mother in law,
Who won't even answer my mail,
"Too busy" he claims to send me a text,
Words for him totally fail.

R for the Rubbish who claimed to be friends
When they were in need of support,
But failed to come through when I was in need,
Well I'll shoot them all down just for sport.

S is for Shitty and that's how I felt
When I was let down by these shits,
People, in theory, close to me but
In reality simply the pits.

T for Triumphant because I've pulled through
A horrendously difficult time,
And the fact that I did it in spite of the fact
That some people impeded the climb.

U is for Useless family and friends
Who aren't worth a space in my life,
V is for Vacant and that is the space
They have left because they caused me strife.

W is for Wankers, X for X friends,
Colleagues and family too,
For now I've decided that I have no room
For people who make me feel blue.

Y is a letter and also a word,
So why did I give these folks time?
Z is for Zero tolerance now
That I've buried these bastards in rhyme!

Lynne Joyce 24.09.2014

November Train Journey

Metrotrain too brightly lit
To flatter my middle-aged countenance,
I sway rhythmically
To its high-speed vibrations.

People-packed at 5-45,
It reeks of purposeful beginnings
To family and social evenings.
I am very lonely.

Bonfire parties punctuate the ride
Surrounded by glowing faces.
There are no home fires burning
To welcome me.

Young man stares at me,
Face curious and compassionate.
I catch his glance and wonder,
Can he see my pain?

Train draws into my station.
I hang on against the jolting brakes,
Alight, leaving cheerful anticipation
To return to an empty house.

© Lynne Joyce 5-11-1993.

On Being Offered A Counselling Appointment At City Hall Bradford.

There are places I don't want to visit,
There are people I don't want to see
There are are ghosts I don't want to encounter,
They are all much too painful for me.

My psyche is terribly fragile
My burden of stress is immense,
Such things are emotionally tricky,
Taking risks doesn't make any sense.

I need to be where I'm protected,
I need to be out of harm's way,
Safe places and also safe people
Are where and what I need today.

There may be a time, some time later,
When the nightmare is over for me,
I'll be older and bolder and stronger,
Until then I'll proceed cautiously.

So don't ask me to visit those places
Or the people I don't want to meet,
Don't organise ghostly encounters,
Wait 'til my healing's complete.

Even then I won't want to go there,
Or to meet those from times now long gone,
I won't want to revisit the ghosts from the past,
Instead I prefer to move on.

Lynne Joyce 17.08.2017

PAUSE For Thought

Pray, what is the problem with silence,
Why on earth do most people get
Panicked by comfortable quiet
As if silence poses a threat
To discourse and communication,
To the unwritten social rules,
And so fill the silence with prattle
And thus end up sounding like fools?

Why can't people simply say nothing
When they have nothing to say?
Instead blether on about nothing
And in doing so simply delay
The time when a comfortable silence
Can allow everyone to relax,
Drop out of the words competition,
And the struggle for interesting facts.

I'm perfectly happy with silence,
But in that I think I'm alone,
I see people struggling with it,
So they reach out to text or to phone,
To engage in a faux conversation,
For anything's better, it seems,
Than moments of absolute silence
For thought and reflection and dreams.

Lynne Joyce 5.05.2014

Pack Time On The Bed

I'm being shoved out by a GSD bum
And pushed by another one's nose,
For sharing the bed with our two GSD's
Is unlikely to give us repose.

But pack time's important to them and to us,
It's close and it's bonding and nice,
So morning and night time they're invited up
And they jump on the bed in a trice.

The dog training purists will never approve,
They keep their dogs in a cage,
Make them obey every spoken command
If they don't then subject them to rage.

But we have a deal with our two GSD's,
We allow them to be who they are,
And within a clear set of quite reasonable rules
Nobody takes it too far.

I'm being shoved out by a GSD bum
So I'm cheerfully shoving him back,
And the nose pusher's getting the same back from me
This is how we all work as a pack.

Lynne Joyce 04.01.2014

Poem To My Dad On The Day That He Died

Me and My DadMe and My Dad

I was alone, quite quite alone
When I heard that you were dead,
A disembodied voice, a tape,
“Your father died at five,” it said.

You were alone with no-one there
When you let go of life and died,
We shared a bond of loneliness,
You went while I remained. I cried.

Everyone was too distraught
To guess how painful it would be
To hear an ansafone announce
Your death so very far from me.

“They were never close,” They say
To rationalise their thoughtlessness,
“She’s Tough,” they add. How very true.
Your legacy was willfulness.

We were as close as time and space,
As distant as proximity,
As far apart as circumstance,
But close as close as genes can be.

We both agreed, there is no God,
No spirit and no after life,
Our Atheist contempt for death
Meant we both made the best of life.

Now you are dead, there’s nothing left
Save grief and loss and memory,
But while there’s nothing left of you
Much of you remains in me.

Each time I see a looking glass
Reflected is your photo-fit,
I have your wicked sense of fun,
Your sarcasm, your rapier wit.

I hold the same contempt for fools
We never troubled to disguise,
The same despair of ignorance
And self-destructive scorn of lies.

I carry with me your disdain
For status, snobbery and wealth,
And suicidal joie de vivre
That forfeits power, rank and health

Like you, I can encapsulate
Myself within myself, exclude
Others from my intellectual,
Solitary interlude.

Impatient and irascible,
Sometimes aggressive, loyal too,
Sensitive and Passionate,
All parts of me that came from you.

Today you died and nothing’s left
But bloodless flesh and lifeless bone,
A heart that failed, a life that’s lost,
A message on my ansafone.

I never wanted you to die,
I wanted you to live, for me,
But now that you are dead and gone,
The best of you lives on, in me.

©Lynne Joyce, 21-2-1996

Poetic Outsider

I have always been peripheral,
I live on the margins of life,
Only contacted when useful
Or a handy soldier in strife.

I have never been a lynchpin
Or part of a family group,
So no one thinks to contact me
To keep me in the loop.

I have never had a best friend
Or been described as such,
Most people don’t think me important
So don’t bother keeping in touch.

They only contact me when they want
My services for free,
My time, my brain, my talents,
With no reciprocity.

But being an outsider
Made me independent,
I don’t have to follow social norms
On which others are dependent.

I don’t have to ingratiate
Myself into the herd,
I don’t have to obey their conventions,
Or to hang on to every word.

So I live on the periphery
I observe the way others live,
Then I make my own decisions
On whom to know and what to give.

I’m contented on the margins,
As a very astute observer
Who writes acerbic verses
And lives the outsider’s life with fervour.


Popularity - Who Gives a ****?

I’m not entirely likeable,
I’m not endowed with charm,
My very forthright manner
Is inclined to cause alarm,
I don’t try to be popular
Or to join the social scene,
They say I take no prisoners,
Whatever that may mean.

I am not prepared to compromise
The truth or what is right,
I very rarely back down,
And I’m quite prepared to fight
In pursuit of truth and justice,
And to help the poor and weak,
I don’t hold back my opinions,
When I need to I will speak.

I don’t try hard to please others,
To appease or pacify,
I am not a passive woman
As the world will testify,
I don’t stick to genteel language,
Instead I cut right to the chase,
Often using the vernacular
To emphasise my case.

I don’t suck up to those people
Others see as having power,
We all have to use the toilet,
We’re all naked in the shower,
I hold no regard for status,
I have no respect for wealth,
And though others may not like me,
I’m quite happy with myself.

Lynne Joyce 06-06-07.

Pruning The Contact List

Who's Left?Who's Left?

Whatever happened to Maggie,
And what of Chris and Jane?
I’m going through my contacts list
And pruning it again.

I’ve had no word from Ghufran
So out he has to go,
So must John and Shamsa,
But should I let them know?

I look in my address book
And I see lurking there,
People who longer
Call or write or care.

People who don’t answer
Messages I send,
They will all be pruned out,
But will it ever end?

My mother never calls me,
My father is long dead,
So I’ll just prune my contact list
And talk to the dogs instead!

Lynne Joyce 12.09.2010

Putting Off The Diet

I think that I am overweight,
I’d like to be more svelte,
But I’m not very disciplined
At tightening my belt.

Every time I’m offered wine
I know I should drink less,
But when I form my lips for “No”
The word comes out as “Yes.”

Today I went into Morrisons
And saw this lady here,
And so, instead of diet coke,
I bought a pack of beer.

For in comparison with her
I’m relatively slight,
So I have put the diet off
Until another night!


Shapeless Days

Shapeless Days

The days have lost their purpose,
Their structure and their form
Since I lost the elements
That together were the norm.

I used to have a husband
We planned the days together,
We prioritised commitments,
Work, duty and pleasure.

I used to have companion dogs,
They had fixed routines
And so I used to shape my day,
Around canine Kings and Queens.

My husband's in a nursing home
Dying as we speak,
My much belovéd canines
Died in the same week.

My days have lost their purpose,
So each and every morning
I wonder what the day will bring
Other than grief and mourning.

Lynne Joyce 06.08.2017

Solitude - The Choice.

Involuntary solitude
Is loneliness,
Whilst voluntary solitude
Is utter bliss.

No human's endless prattling
Invades your space
You can dress in old PJ's
Or expensive lace.

You can decide whether or not
To comb your hair,
You can decide to interact,
When and where.

You can sing loudly and freely
Out of tune,
You can decide to gaze at stars
And watch the moon.

You can eat candy for breakfast,
Chocolate for lunch,
You can drink the purest water
Or Planters' Punch.

You can determine what to watch
On TV,
You can play loud, rock music

You can have a conversation
With yourself,
You can be joyfully single
Not on the shelf.

So make sure your solitude
Is voluntary,
Say no to lonely
And yes to free.

Lynne Joyce 29.04.2017

Tell Me Where My Life Went

Tell me where my life went
Wherever did it go
I was only twenty two
Not so long ago.

I was young and vigorous
Now I'm old and weak
I feel like I was twenty
Just the other week.

What happened to my parenthood
What happened to my child
He looks just like businessman
But I remember him as wild.

Why am I here all alone
What happened to my wife
I think I must have fouled up
In my former life.

Please let me go and try again
Let me undo my crimes
Against those I should have cared for
Let me give them better times.

Make them all forgive me
And let me try again
Let me try to wipe out
All the things that caused them pain.

Give me a blank canvas
Let me paint my life anew,
In bright, fresh lovely colours,
Not this grimy, murky hue.

Let me rewrite history
Forgive me all my sin
Let me turn the clock back
So that I can try again.


The Afterthought

I am the afterthought
I am the kind of person who
People think they ought to keep in touch with
But never do.

I am the optional extra,
The peripheral one
Only contacted when I have
Something to give someone.

I am the extra soldier
You recruit when needed,
But when I need help
My needs are never heeded.

I am the distant relative,
Who never makes the party list,
I am “Whatever happened to”
Rarely talked about and never missed.

If you come across me
You either look away
Or say that we must get together
Some fine day.

That fine day never comes
So you emphasise
My isolation
With thoughtless lies.

I am the afterthought
I am the kind of person who
People say they want to keep in touch with
But never do.

Lynne Joyce 13.03.2016

The Day Before Surgery

I'm having yet more surgery,
A year on from the last
Time they carved me up, the time
I thought would be my last.

They'll stitch me up to heal again
On this my latest trip,
In case I need more surgery
I'd rather have a zip

A zipper would be so much fun
And save a lot of time,
In case they need to poke around
These insides of mine.

I'd like to have a stylish zip
In platinum or gold,
Its nice to have some jewellery
When, like me, you are old.

I suppose I'd need a locking zip
To keep my inside bits inside,
Have the key stay with the doctor,
'Til his skills must be applied.

I'm having yet more surgery,
Just a year on from the last
I'll make them fit a zipper
In case its not my last.

Lynne Joyce 16.04.2014

The Shopping List

(American friends, in England getting pissed means getting drunk.)

Salad veg and toilet rolls
Are on my shopping list,
But I never write the things I need
To buy to get me pissed.

Getting pissed's essential
To keeping me alive,
It circumvents the crap stuff
And helps my soul to thrive.

So I sneak down to the booze aisle
With shopping list in hand,
Grab wine as if at random
Just like it wasn't planned.

But anyone observing
Week after dreary week,
Would very quickly work out
What wine I choose to seek.

I'm partial to a Merlot,
I love a Pinot Noir,
And I've become an expert
At knowing where they are.

Salad veg and toilet rolls
Are on my shopping list
But they're the ones that I forget
When intent on getting pissed!

Lynne Joyce 31.07.2017

Things To Do Before I Die

Free FallFree Fall

I must watch some Grizzlies fishing,
Hire a carriage in New York,
Ride a mule down the Grand Canyon,
Hoist a sail and make it work,
I must ride a Penny Farthing,
And must plant some special trees,
Tell my loved ones that I love them,
Exact revenge on enemies,
Take a nose-dive from an aeroplane
And experience free fall,
I must fly a microlight and then
Wear denim to a ball,
I must ride high in a glider
And a single engined plane,
I must follow my desires
Until none of them remain,
I must paint some gorgeous paintings
And write stunning poetry,
I must get a novel published,
Have a thing named after me,
Of all these life ambitions,
Some I’ll do, some not, I fear,
But the ones I do successfully
Will prove that ‘Lynne woz ‘ere!’

Lynne Joyce, 24/04/2007

To People Who Have Wronged Me, With My Compliments

A humorous wish-list for those who have deliberately harmed me. Shocking, yes, but I defy anyone to admit that they have never felt this way.

Damn you, you bastards, may you suffer the pox,
May the burglar and arsonist unpick your locks,
May your grandmother's legacy all go in taxes,
And may you be punctured with knives and with axes,
May your complexion be covered in spots,
May your car get corrosion and rust till it rots,
May your partner run off with your very best friend,
May your bitterness last till your untimely end,
May you find that your father is not what he seems,
But the toast of the Gay clubs, the Queen among Queens,
And may you discover your mother's a tart,
In company, may you compulsively fart,
May you find that your mortgage is way past your means,
May they prove that your children do not have your genes,
May your roof beams have woodworm, your floorboards dry rot,
May your winters be too cold, your summers too hot,
May you gain weight and swell like a barrage balloon,
And go totally crazy with every full moon,
May you get gonorrhoea and catch leprosy
And take all of these things with good wishes from me !

© Lynne Joyce, 24/3/1993.

Ways To Kill A Noxious Person

Noxious RelativeNoxious Relative

We all have them, be they family, friend or colleague, those who poison the notion of family, friendship or teamwork, the spoilers at the party, the snipers, the underminers, the vicious ones, the petty ones, the just plain mean ones, so you can tailor the title of this verse to suit! You may not carry out any of the actions suggested in this verse but I promise that just reading it with the person in mind will make you feel better!

When they manipulate or bully
And pretend to be OK
With your spouse or child or partner
You have to make them go away,
Though murder is illegal
In your country and your state
Strong doses of pesticide
Weed out things you hate.

So plant a dose of DDT
In their garden spray,
Some in their favourite tipple
Will make them go away,
Then judicious washing
Removes the evidence,
Go on, you can do it,
You know it makes good sense.

You could always hire a hit man
From somewhere quite obscure,
I hear they're very good at
The noxious person cure,
But ensure that you can blackmail
The hit man that you hired
So that he doesn't bleed you
When the money has expired.

Take them on a cliff side walk
Somewhere lonely by the sea,
Then push them off the highest point
Into eternity.
But before you do that
Fix your alibi,
Many many miles from there,
You can do it if you try!

Spread a vicious rumour
That the person's dealing drugs
Then have them disposed of
By rival dealer thugs.
You only have to tell them
That they stole their turf,
Then you leave it up to them
To remove them from this Earth.

If you know mechanics
Tamper with their car
But do it in such a way
That they don't know who you are.
Rubber gloves, they tell me,
Leave no fingerprint,
But beware of DNA
So leave not the merest hint.

Stabbing is too messy
Though it might be fun,
But killing from a distance
Is best done with a gun
And though snipers are expensive
It might just be worthwhile,
Especially if you arrange
To be distant by a mile.

Use your imagination,
See what you can do,
Maybe a touch of grease on
A boot or Jimmy Choo
Would have them skating wildly
In the shopping Mall,
Then make sure they're pushed off the edge
By a Mafia pal!

Maybe well placed ball bearings
At the top of lethal stairs
Will ensure their beneficiaries
Get access to what's theirs?
Then they'll celebrate their passing
In serious, solemn places,
All wearing heavy black veils
To hide their smiling faces!

When they manipulate or bully
And pretend to be OK
With your spouse or child or partner
You have to make them go away,
Though murder is illegal
In your country and your state
A carefully planned accident
Can remove the things you hate!

Lynne Joyce

Sent from my iPad