February 28, 2014

 

 

They’ll give you all pasting,

and you’re bound for a thick ear,

for stupidly playing the clown

and bringing trouble here.

 

Tying together their door knockers

and then ringing their bell,

was such a mindless act,

during an idle half-term spell.

 

Old man Scholes is ailing,

and confined to his sick bed.

He’d think it was the doctor ringing:

Why didn’t you use your head?

 

And dear Mrs Stoney can’t walk,

without the aid of her stick.

You’ll be old yourself someday son,

I can’t believe you could do such a trick?

 

Your time needs occupying;

go and find some jumble to sell.

Just wait until your father finds out,

for sure, he will play merry hell.

 

 

 

 

I see sadness fall upon you

like a gossamer shroud.

I know to keep my distance

and not raise my voice too loud.

 

I let you have your moment

in the world that might have been.

Acknowledging all the trauma

of a future never seen.

 

I hang around in case you need me,

( and invariably, you do.)

until the sadness that surrounds you

melts away like morning dew.

 

The mood swings come without warning.

I guess it’s just natures way.

We all often feel their presence

at some point of the day.

 

It’s just knowing how to cope,

and which way to turn the key.

There isn’t any set pattern,

to the length of time, that sad you be.

 

 (Sadness can hit us all like a boulder,

when we hear a line from a song,

that takes us back to the time,

we have cherished all life long.)

 

No words are ever needed,

for eyes say, ‘I understand’,

and the offer is accepted,

of a welcome, outstretched hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A man being at his most vulnerable,

when boastful and filled with bravado,

fails to notice envious opposition

passing as friends, dining on avocado.

 

Meanwhile, his watchful, silent partner;

taking it in and not missing a trick,

has easily identified in a moment,

those who think him, thick as a brick.

 

 

 

 

She said to keep our chin up,

as there’s plenty as good as we,

but certainly none better;

and that ‘belief’ we had to see.

 

 

 

 

Broken glass against walls

smashing, in the street below,

is picked up on tyres of traffic

crashing, swerving too and fro.

 

Drunken revellers shouting,

screaming, in the street below.

Manic laughter, then smudged eyes

streaming, as many tears flow.

 

All hell has broken out

uncontrollably, in the street below.

Police cars arrive and then

Paramedics, and only blood on show.

 

 

 

 

 

Her mistrust of the world,

when she as a player,

in search of the truth

turned to every soothsayer.

 

Yet her intuition right

on so many levels,

when her wisdom I mistook

for demons and devils.

 

All too late for forgiveness;

her voice rings out in my ear.

I now know I’ve become her,

and feel her presence near.

 

 

 

 

Her nail-bed repairing;

nail varnish she’s wearing,

and now for the right reasons,

folks at her hands staring.

 

 

 

 

 

The sun shades in winter.

The open top car.

The friend at the airport

giving tickets to travel afar.

 

The obvious likeness

in almost every viewing,

shines out like a beacon,

and has the barristers queuing.

 

 

 

 

She told me there was an incident

that had been dealt with and put to bed,

though not being completely obliterated,

still remained in the back of her head.

 

 

 

 

Pages of lines,

taken as if gifted.

Re-appearing by magic;

automatically air-lifted

 

by someone who’s loyalty

has certainly drifted,

and only coming to light

when evidence sifted.

 

 

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