Fran Isherwood has been performing on the London poetry circuit and (sometimes back of) beyond for about 8 years and exhibiting exhibitionist tendencies for several years before that as a comedian, singer and actor. She has always written poems but, due to not paying attention at school, wasted years hiding lights under bus shelters. Her 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.Fran hosts a regular gig in East London. She has had poems published in The Pop up Poetry Anthology, Alternative Press's anthology "Publish You", a Forward Press anthology, RRRANTS 2,The Book Club Boutique newspaper & Spring 2011 edition of Poems In The Waiting Room. Her first collection Swimming With Endorphins was published in July 2015 and was Longlisted in the Saboteur Awards 2016. http://www.southlondonbooks.com/2015/04/18/swimming-with-endorphins-by-fran-isherwood/ She is available for bespoke commissions,festivals, private parties and workshops. http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=232553559948
Last Laugh The last laugh will not be a chuckle. It will be the blow from a hefty knuckle that brutally bruises the losing face, and constitutes your scenario’s worst case. ‘Twill blow as low as a bellowing bassoon and encircle the globe in a hot air balloon. The last laugh will follow after The News to replace the advertised Wallowin ’ Blues. The last laugh shall not ring hollow. It will be portly and hard to swallow. The last laugh will serve to vindicate, will be proffered on a golden plate - bangers of victory on a mash mountain, overlooking a gushing Champagne fountain. ‘Twill be Seventy -Six Trombones on a loop. It will be a cackling, cock-a hoop whoop, dolled up as a million- dollar holler- a velvet stole stealing over a satin collar; A skywards, erect finger, a tortured torch singer. It will wipe the smile off your pathetic boat and transfer it to mine, afloat on gloat. It will be gold buttons on a captain’s blazer. The last laugh will be a Taser of a smile eraser. 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? ©Fran Isherwood Countdown 11.56 & counting The tension is mounting A horse drawn cabbage waits At heavy leaden gates 11.58- we all await Our imminent fate The church clock strikes twelve We argue amongst our selves And don’t see an imposing figure Perpetrate his crime… At 11.59. End of the Road Above what is laughingly called a park at the end of our road seagulls, who took the wrong turn at Clacton, wheedle and whoop, on a loop. This place used to be a graveyard. They make no bones about that. Headstones pressed into redbrick walls provide a macabre mural. Barely anyone (anyone alive, that is) frequents the park at the end of our road save one or two dogged dog walkers, eyebrows knitted against the wind, and the group of globular nosed, mottled-faced career drinkers (Dog optional), cold claws clutching their crutches of cans of a chemical facsimile of cider. Now, in the thick of the coldest winter for God knows how many years, as storms threaten to smash the composure of stately oak trees; A two-person tent has materialized in the shadows of the last standing, savagely eroded, stone sepulchre with smashed statue as sentinel.I wonder who is loitering within this tent as I survey the scene. I imagine and hope it’s a couple huddled together for warmth. I am grateful they have at least a canvas roof to protect them. I wonder if they sleep soundly surrounded by spirits of the non- drinking kind. ©Fran Isherwood
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Swimming With Endorphins (10/05/2015)
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