Wednesday, 29 June 2016

After the Referendum

It was never a romance.
There was no
Loved up
Goose bumpy
Doe-eyed dance
That no-one else understood.
But you always seemed right for me,
Like no other country could.

Now, though, you've changed.
And your obsession with demons out there has awoken
Within you a monster.
And I am
Heartbroken.











© 2016 Lucy Peacock

Saturday, 11 June 2016

Banner Poem

This poem was written in celebration of the banner-making activities of the Derbyshire Dales Labour Party Women's Forum. Our first banner is below: it may be only a banner, and a somewhat rustic one at that, but it was a true collaborative effort, and the start of something bigger.

We are the needle warriors
We weep, and therefore we sew.
We are the quiet revolutionaries,
Pouring our fury into the very
Stiches of the banners that we create,
And when we can, we’ll demonstrate,
And with our banners, we will be the voice
Of the powerless, the unprotected, and those without choice.
We are the needle warriors,
We weep, and therefore we sew.


Friday, 29 April 2016

It must be nice

It must be nice to know
That you’re better
And cleverer
And more deserving
Than "them"
And how easy it is
For you to condemn
Those people, who are all the same,
Because you know, of course,
That they’re to blame
For whatever it is that you believe is wrong.
But, though you feel that you belong
To the righteous few,
Remember, that to somebody somewhere,
You’re one of "them" too.




©2016 Lucy Peacock

Saturday, 23 January 2016

Poetry by Committee

At the meeting, it was agreed
That, though there is no need,
The lines in this poem should rhyme.
Or at least they should scan,
If they can,
And if an extra-long line isn't needed for some reason or other.
And that it should be
A tight ball of words
To be unravelled at leisure,
Though loose enough
To give immediate pleasure.
But not so loose that the words begin
To
  Fall
    Out.
But the most important thing
Is that it should rhyme.







©2016 Lucy Peacock

Saturday, 19 September 2015

Once Upon a Time

Back in the days
Of giants and kings,
Before iphones and wi-fi,
And all those things,

When seven short men put their cleaner
In a coffin of glass,
Having failed to rescue her,
Because they were too working class;

When a girl in domestic slavery
With supernaturally-produced clothes,
Married a powerful man
With a thing for small feet and small toes;

Lots of things were called evil
That were probably good,
And girls couldn't even
Walk alone in the woods.

And there were lots of abused women,
Whose only escape from servility
Was to marry a man
From the nobility.

We still tell those stories,
And we're fond of pretending
That changing the agent of those women's oppression,
Is a happy ending.






© 2015 Lucy Peacock

Wednesday, 2 September 2015

function forABetterLife()

function forABetterLife()
     For i = i to somethingBetter
           let i = i + anotherLetter
           if, according to the data,
                what i is now is something greater
           then
                add anotherLetter to i’s array
           else
                anotherLetter can be taken away.
           elseif it seems that what i lacks
                is freedom from unforgiving syntax,
           or if the value of this disjunction
                is true
           then
                exit function
           end if
     next
end function




© 2015 Lucy Peacock

Monday, 27 July 2015

When Karma Fails at Least I have the Smiths

If poetic justice
Worked properly,
Then vicious officials everywhere
Would get their share of misery.
Their lives would be ruled
By even pettier fools
Who fill them with dread.
They aren’t, but at least I have
The Queen is Dead

Or if karma was
Reality,
Then the bullies who tormented me
And made me lose sight of who I might be
Would live their lives
With less certainty,
And a lot more doubt.
They don’t, but at least I have
There is a Light that Never Goes Out.

And if karma was more
Than an initially appealing religious concept,
Then few would live in poverty except
Those who misuse their power over other people’s lives,
And for whom the word “elite” is an awful misnomer.
It isn’t, but at least I have
Girlfriend in a Coma.