Liz Hayward

Liz  has always been a scribbler.  In her poetry she is interested in the universal to be found in the particular and the big ideas in all the small everyday stuff. She works as a health visitor in Milton Keynes and loves dibbing in and out of the poetry scene when job, home and family allow.

 Football fans, the Magic Arts and a Mother

 It’s all a bit kicky and shouty for me,

but you can’t avoid it when

you live with three West Ham fans.

If only it was that simple,

and fortune was always hiding,

then they’d know where they were,

and could settle and make themselves

comfortable, somewhere in

the middle of the first (division).

But it plays fast and loose

And they’re in and out,

up and down

The Premiership and Leagues

like the proverbial

fiddler’s elbow and bride’s nightdress,

Barometer, talisman

for all sorts of stuff -

so when The Hammers start winning

we get a new car

or one of the girls comes top in maths,

and it gets confusing,

and interconnected

and they really believe that one thing

can influence another in this way.

At the end of the day

I’ve turned Voodoo Lady,

albeit subconsciously;

last week, whilst toasting them for tea,

I burnt the Chelsea buns.       

The Image of Her

You look as if you have seen a ghost.

Shock imprints a face, heavy boots on wet mud,

I try to find some words.

It happens to me sometimes when I look in the mirror.

It’s her standing there -

with her direct blue eyes looking into mine.

With her direct blue eyes looking into mine,

It’s her standing there.

It happens to me sometimes when I look in the mirror.

I try to find some words;

Shock imprints a face, heavy boots on wet mud.

You look as if you have seen a ghost