Category Archives: On a Playful Note

Words from the mischievous me

My favourite new bookends.


Giving up the Fags

As you can see by the date I wrote this little ditty more than 20 years ago. The irony is more than 10 years after I stopped smoking, I was diagnosed with a smoking related lung disease. I now struggle to walk up the driveway unaided whilst friends who have continued to puff away are fine.
Giving up the Fags
Giving up the fags
It’s driving me round the twist
Feel like heading for the pub
Getting well and truly pissed
Wake up in the morning
The thing I think of first
The dirty filthy smelly weed
Next comes caffeine for the thirst
Hardest thing when giving up the fags
Is making the decision
Then coping with my smoker friends
The “you’ll never succeed” derision
Having made the terrifying decision
Shit! I’m really going to stop
I need one last binge of puffing
Till my lungs are ready to pop
Day one without a fag
Resolve is really strong
Just the occasional nagging doubt
Could my decision have been wrong?
The second day without them dawns
Mouth is not so gritty
Think I’m coping fairly well
Just the odd bout of self pity
At daybreak on the third day
Feel I’m starting to weaken
Just a puff or two wont hurt
No can’t let myself be beaten
Halfway through day four
I would kill for just one puff
So much harder than imagined
Will I be strong enough?
Starting to see some positives
People don’t treat me like a leaper
Taste buds are improving
Need less salt and pepper
As time goes by I notice
I don’t think of them quite so much
Just occasionally when having a drink
I know I mustn’t touch
Must remember if I don’t succeed
In giving up the poisonous fag
Sooner rather than later will be
My journey in the Body Bag   
Tricia 1988                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Something Different

Time Warp
In the hollow between cheek and eye is the story of my life
age and destiny have done strange things to the face I once knew
cheeks covered by a flourishing lawn of fine hairs
too many now for a quick flick with hot wax
lips thinning into nothingness
often startled by chance reflections.
Who is that obese, ageing woman?
It can’t be me
I am my father’s outspoken daughter
singing aloud in supermarkets
devilishly waving a black lace bra to truckies at the traffic lights
just to keep a sometimes conservative husband on his toes,
the lithe young woman who knows the freedom of splashing naked
at the edge of a deserted sea,
who once made glorious lust on Lorne beach
on a cold, dank winter’s night,
the woman who sees a well set table as a work of art
the dinner party wiz, sautéing, caramelising, flambéing
loves the planning, preparing, presenting
and the eating – oh the eating.  
Where is the courageous, spirited, thirty something
who gave up her job to study accounting
discovered a passion for words
realised she could never be an accountant
the blithe being who celebrated her 50th Birthday
strutting down Chapel Street
wearing a flowing red cape, purple feather boa
loving clutching a large, soft, teddy bear
smiling benignly at everyone she passed
Is that obese, ageing woman the struggling, questioning, mother
who buried her only child three weeks before his 27th birthday
survived the white water ride of why and what if
awoke shipwrecked on Prospero’s island
but instead of drowning her books
built a raft to float them home
and now finds joy meandering through toy departments
pushing buttons on all the talking Elmo’s
winking and chatting to small children she passes on the street
Who is that obese, ageing woman?
I am sometimes less than my truth
always more than perception.
Tricia 8/2007
(Previously published in Coastlines – Poems from Bayside)

 Lust Lives On

I have lived the wonder of love
Having known the best
I have no interest in the rest
Lust it seems does not die
Inside this battered bloated
60 year old mound of flesh
Lives a slender 20 something
Bodacious bitch on heat
As Jon Bon Jovi struts his stuff
Sings his songs
A voice within me
Sings its own song
My song is moist
Taut nippled
Not for love
But for the promise of pleasure
The knowing of the unknown
Wanting only to be nicely naughty
One more time