Fran Isherwood (no relation)

Flibbertigibbety poet & punster

Resides in London

Acrostic biographer

Never knowingly subtle

Improviser and actor

Stand up/fall down comic

Heightened sense of the absurd

Ever optimistic

Rhymes sometimes

Writes all manner of things

Originally from Manchester 
Oldest of 6 kids

Devilishly dilletantish.

 What?

Fran's poetry is a wry, awry, word-playful gallop through the vagaries of life encountering mail stealing snails, lollipop ladies, Glam Rock, insomnia and macabre part time jobs en route.

Eros Got Sore

A candlelit dinner `a deux:

Celine Dion’s heart was going on.

         “I’ve had Mars in my sign,”

She said.

          “Oh!” Sounds painful,”

He said.

She tossed her hair somewhere over there

And lit her Lambert and Butler,

         “Y’know Jasmine that I work with?

She’s a medium”

         “Really she looks a large to me!”

Eyes rolled as smoke rose towards the ceiling rose,

         “Her dad can do it, too.”

         “Has he got crystal balls?”

She sighed as Celine’s heart went on & on ………

©Fran Isherwood

Cobwebs

If I could rummage in your brain

And I could blow away the pain

Fill bin bags with your fears                   

And buckets with your tears

Throw them in the gutter

If I could just de-clutter

Your soul, hose away the stress

Replace with fonts of happiness

If I could spring-clean in your brain

And buff up the parts that remain

Obliterate the thoughts that torment you       

Hoover away the thoughts that prevent you

From reaching what it is you seek

Come in, in a pinny, maybe once a week?

If I could polish your self esteem

Until I made it sparkle & gleam

If I could sand blast your defences

Place gold cushions around your senses         

If I could compost the weeds of pessimism

Nurture & water the seeds of optimism

If I could tuck your inner child into a cosy bed,

Safe in the clutching of a favourite ted

Employ bouncers to keep your demons at bay

If I could, what would you say?

Would you let me help you to be free?

Oh …and…Would you do the same for me?   

Her Stocking Trade

Never a laddered leg had she

For Laura Lycra had the capacity

To coax nylon from her fingertips

And kissing it out with air from her lips

She’d fashion tights to be rolled up

Or a brand new pair of hold ups

In the night spots of Stoke on Trent

Hour upon hour in the ladies’ loo she spent

Assisting maidens with their hose

But this was only the start of her woes

For Laura had to keep tight rein on her fears

To avoid a condition that had plagued her for years.

If she got stressed or had panic attacks

She would suffer from excessive earwax.

Honey brown sludge from her ceruminous glands

Would ooze south and emerge from her hands.

One night demand for her services grew too great

30 girls crowded round & she got in a state.

The gaggle of glammed up giggling girls

Screamed as wax slithered past her string of pearls.

As it spread across her clavicle

Girl after girl fled the lav-icle

By the time the waistband was well coated

All the women had gone & bolted

Save the chef on break from her toil

Who ran off to fetch her olive oil.

She drenched Laura in extra Virgin cold pressed

And as the wax softened, Laura became less stressed.

Thus cleansed, Laura rewarded new friend, Sue

With a pair of 40 denier in navy blue.

©Fran Isherwood