A Selection of Poems from the Pen of P.S.Gifford

As I Sit ‘Ere.

As I sit ‘ere and try and type-
all the words jigging in me ‘ead.
I hope the words I finally say,
are the words I wanted said…

I hope that I can write them right,
and make meself so clear.
And you understand-as I planned,
and hear what I want you to hear.

I hope the prose that I propose,
makes sense to one and all.
Who knows, you might suppose,
I suppose, me to be quite the fool

Now I ‘m steady and equally ready.
to write right what I wanted to say.
But it seems to be that the words in me.
have suddenly jigged far away…


The Cricketers

I gaily observed the grasshoppers play cricket,
as bemused crickets watched on with glee.
It really was the most curious sight,
that I have even been privileged to see.


The Willow Tree

Why does the willow incessantly weep?
What dreadful secret might it keep?
Does it carry the grief of all mankind?
And refuse to leave that woe behind?
Or perhaps all man’s evils it might store?
And be destined to weep forevermore …


The image

Have you ever looked hard at yourself in the mirror?
Deep into your own eyes…
And simply stared-
And kept on staring until the image became fuzzy.
Indistinguishable, hazy, confused…
Yet you kept on staring until to realize,
to your horror,
that it is no longer your own face staring back at you.
But it is now the face of a stranger, but not quite,
as there is a degree of familiarity in the image…
But you cannot place it…
It is a distinctively evil face.
You long to look away.
But find your self obliged to stare deeper still…
Both captivated and entranced.
Then you grasp that the reflection’s hands are reaching out to you.
Spindly, ancient fingers, with long pointed grubby fingernails…
You watch on horrified.
Yet still unable to move…
The hands reach slowly towards you,
and you feel as the image is sardonic,
convinced it is somehow mocking you…
The hands edge closer and closer still.
And just as they are about to reach your tender throat,
And the claw like nails are about to penetrate into your flesh.
You suddenly manage one single blink…
And all at once
the image in the mirror is again that of your own…
You see the look of fear in your own eyes,
see the beads of sweat now streaming down your trembling face.
Only then do you realize who the image was.

Of course…
It belonged to the voice inside your head.



It is a love hate addictive relationship…
Understand that I am utterly incompetent without her.
I secretly refer to her as Sybil.
It is my private, personal joke.
At times I laugh uncontrollably –
I suspect she is depleting my reasoning –
and reducing me to a raving madman.
I know she mocks me,
perhaps even taunts me.
She recognizes, you see, that I cannot exist without her.
That I need her, that we are somehow spiritually connected.
I want to hit and smash her with my fists.
Oh how I dream of it!
Such exulted pleasure it would surely bring.
The notion makes me quite giddy!
Yet, I cannot do it…
She is, after all, my only computer,
and without her…
I couldn’t even write this.


No poem today.

I am not going to write a poem today,
I am running out of things to say.
And it really is such a lovely day…
No, I don’t think I’ll write a poem today.

I shall not write about the glorious weather,
or my anniversary -ten years now together!
No I won’t even mention my glorious wife,
and just how much she has enriched my life.

I shall not write about my handsome son,
and boast of all the stuff he’s done.
I won’t even mention his near perfect grades,
and as for passion he has it in spades!

I won’t even write of my darling dear pups.
(I think I have written about them too much!)
I wont mention how loving and sweet they are,
they are truly my best friends by far.

No I am not going to write a poem today,
As you see I have nothing to say..
And it really is such a lovely day.
No, I don’t think I’ll write a poem today.

For always and always

I instantly adored her more than I have ever known.
Those dreamy eyes.
those tender lips-
they made my soul melt,
then rage into roaring flames
Then I realized…
That you were meant for me,
and I could not be all alone…
Now as the drip drip dripping from my bathroom
drills through my mind,
pricking at my conscious.
I remember her laughing as she left,
as sudden rage screamed inside me
Then I realized –
I could not allow her to go,
that we needed to be together.
For always and always.
Then I reached out to her neck,
and slowly squeezed her life energy dry.
And I watched those nightmare eyes.
And I watched those whining lips.
Then I thrust my knife lovingly into her,
and ripped out her still beating broken heart.
Then I placed it in my bathroom,
allowing it to drip dry.

Now I will treasure my unsuspecting Avon lady …

For always and always.
For always and always.

P.S. Gifford

P.S. Gifford is a published horror author of great talent. He started submitting stories around 2005. His short stories are by far some of the best and most entertaining that I have read. Around that time he was invited to write columns which are titled "Paperback Writer."

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


Enjoyed this? Please spread the word :)