The Waiting Room

A grim poem for the weekend!!

Worldly Winds

Eyeing up the empty seat,

she sat next to me,

a sweet little old lady.

She drew a breath, and talked non-stop.

My daughter-in-law says I’m nasty,

I’m not, I’m just proud.

She tells me about her childhood,

the blitz bomb that blew her fat aunt into the air,

one foot above her fireside chair.

My daughter-in-law says I’m evil.

How dare she, I’m just particular!

She tells me of her Airedale dog,

although, untaught, he did great tricks,

he’d eat with the cats, and begs when he sits.

My daughter-in-law says I’m a       b-i-t-c-h.

I don’t like her much either.

She tells me of the girls and boys,

wartime friends, of climbing trees,

broken wrists, skinned arms, and knees.

My daughter-in-law says I’m cold and cruel.

I’m just stand offish.

Then she’s back in the present,

to the pigeon on the bird table.

Suddenly a Goshawk…

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A Love Poem

Worldly Winds


You said you loved me from the start,

and in your hands you’d hold my heart.

So I will write a hundred lines,

and I will write a hundred times;

I must not be too literal.

I must not be too literal.

I must not be too literal…

So when you say you love my hair –

adore the sparkle in my eye,

I have no reason to believe you lie.

So just for you,

what I will do,

I shall make a gift to you.

My lustrous hair I will cut,

and Subha like my eye will pluck,

and in a box with my beating heart,

tied with a ribbon and a bow,

to you, these symbols, I bestow.

© A Love Poem 08.03.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

(photocredit – photo Pin)

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I Am Doing This For You


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St Paul's

I remember you…

Your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

teaching the universe,

the ways of the warrior.


We met in the church choir;

I was eight and you were six.

I am white and you were black,

already born to fight life’s prejudice.


Even then I was frightened;

cancer had claimed so many,

but they were old,

and you were six.


Do you remember the wedding?

Suited and booted, in cassock and gown,

you lifted your wig,

and the horror it caused.


I was only eight,

but I prayed for days and nights,

that God would give me your cancer,

and let you live…

He never did.


I heard your story, at the end,

it hurt for you to be held,

your mummy and daddy wept

whilst you comforted them.


You asked them not to cry,

and you said you’d be alright.

You never came back to choir.

Not long after, you died.


It was at this very time,

I stopped believing in God,

he never answered my prayer,

your prayer, or theirs.


I still remember you…

your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

and how we giggled as girls,

when you doffed your wig to the world.


© I am doing this for you 16.06.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo Credit: Dave Bevis




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IMG_2708 (2)

She wore it and bore it,

like an ill-fitting coat,

a name duly bestowed,

from his mistress’s throat.


Obsessed by the curse,

not her familial name,

an unfortunate victim,

of his clandestine game.


Dad told her a story,

again and again,

she should have been Phillip,

not a girl, shy, and plain.


This was cold comfort,

to be given this news,

as he’d also died young,

singing the sugar blues.


The Carpenter’s coat –

she wore that one too,

a mismatched fit,

she shrank from view.


She pondered a name,

ambiguous, and strong,

a spiritual death,

yearning to belong.


As she grew older and wiser,

and tired of this fate,

tipping the scales,

the deed sealed her fate.


The mistress was smug,

as her mother boohooed,

to use her new name,

they still staunchly refused.


Karen’s long gone now,

victim, weak, and lame,

too scared of life,

wearing that coat of blame.


It still cuts to the quick,

to be labelled as Karen,

a hollow reminder,

a moniker barren.


My choice name is Alex,

my phoenix rebirth,

from mouse to lion,

a feeling of worth.


I am sorry mother,

we were all taken in,

by the maleficent blarney

and their original sin.


© Karen 01.06.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm