I am not a loser
generally speaking, of things,
of cotton reels, identity, earrings,
and I’ve never lost a bet, a dare
a race – I was just differently placed.
I’ve often wandered wide of the mark,
and in a skylark rollicking bed,
I’ve frequently mislaid my head,
but if memory holds a seat in this morass,
I’ll find my face in the looking glass.
My catseye marbles and bumblebees,
and that old thing, virginity,
not lost, but foolishly forsaken.
And the plot? That’s where they put my friend,
I didn’t lose her, she was taken.
I have grown to dislike the smugness of your face
and the way you insist upon semaphore.
I know idle hands are the devil’s tools
but I’m not the fool you take me for.
It’s not a joke, running out on folk
nor is your perpetual leer
when you spring the startled cuckoo
from another stolen year.
I wouldn’t give you a second glance
if your advances weren’t so insistent
but your unwavering constitution
seems hell bent on coexistence.
It’s wearing me down this living on tick
the drip, drop, drub of the tally,
I wish you would stop or turn back for a while,
let me dawdle, hang out, shilly-shally.
The witching, it seems, is your finest hour,
when you put your hands together.
Are you applauding your power,
the lording of another day
or knowing it’s my time to kill,
is it your time to pray?
Originally from North Wales, Stella Wulf now lives in South West France with her husband and a menagerie of animals. She is passionate about poetry, both the reading and the writing, and her work has been published in various journals and online magazines. She is also an artist and exhibits her work under her real name, Claire Jefferson. Her work can be seen on her website http://www.stellawulf.com