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When it comes to my taste in books, movies or art, I’ve always been a bit odd and I blame thank my Father. When other children were being told bedtime stories about princesses and frogs, I was listening to tales about impossible cross-atlantic journeys by one-winged ducks or three legged men who had great difficulty riding motorbikes.  These were the absurd little fantasy tales that I grew up on thanks to my Dad, completely unaware of how they were shaping my appreciation of story, art and imagination.

Though I didn’t realise at the time, I guess this is also why I had posters of Salvador Dalí’s, The Persistence of Memory  on my wall when I was 14 instead of Limahl from Kajagoogoo (crikey, can you believe they’re still performing!!). It also explains why I liked reading stories by Ed Gorey,  hated The Famous Five but loved Tales of the Unexpected.  The weirder, more bizarre, more absurd the story, the more eager I was to hear or read it.  Of course, when I was a kid, writing the strange little poems and stories that got me into quite a bit of trouble with many of my teachers, I hadn’t made the connection with my Dad.  Fast forward 30 years and the penny has dropped ( and I have somebody to blame my bizarre little ramblings!)

So, here’s one of my favourites little rhymes from a collection of ahem … poems (that’s stretching it!) that I hope someday to complete called “Poems of the Forgotten Dead”

Wanda 1938 – 1984

Wanda discussed new wallpaper while Tom polished his shoes.
He liked to dance the Foxtrot on Friday afternoons,
with Betty Grey from Windthrop, a stringy but graceful lass,
who glided in his outstretched arms with time honored class.
Tom had his fill of Wanda and the endless jumpers she knit.
Twenty years drinking her tea and kissing her shabby lips,
had left him feeling quietly sure of what he had to do.
He decided that he’d kill her on the 25th of June.
When the day arrived, Wanda was making tea.
She called out from her tiny kitchen, “Which is it to be? …
Kimberly or Mikado .. the choice is yours my dear !”.
“I’d rather have a dance with you! We haven’t danced all year”
Wanda appeared from the kitchen with a coy and gracious grin.
Her eyes met with Tom’s as he sipped from his glass of gin.
“Come dance with me, my lovely. We’ll foxtrot to the moon”
Before Wanda knew it she was lost in a timeless tune.
She never felt the bottle as it smashed against her head.
It cut her flesh from ear to ear and left her almost dead.
Her blood spread across the floor faster than Tom
could swallow his gin. With panicked thoughts he smashed
her skull intent on finishing his sin.
Three months later, the smell was rife and the bedroom
wall began to drip. To Tom’s dismay and shameful horror Wanda’s
grave had started to rip.

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