February 21, 2014

 

 

The hammer blow;

the final straw.

The insult that hit home,

with truth so raw.

 

 

 

 

The advice I could give

might blow up in my face.

I cannot read your future

or suggest which path to trace.

 

They say ‘don’t ever go back’,

but that’s not strictly true,

as long as you approach it

with a different point of view.

 

The advice I could give

I will therefore withhold.

I cannot second guess,

nor profess to be so bold.

 

They say ‘don’t ever go back’,

but in the end it’s up to you.

You are not seeking permanence,

so for now, it probably will do.

 

The advise I could give,

you might not want to hear.

I don’t want to be the one

who makes you shed a tear

 

They say ‘don’t ever go back’,

or try to re-enact your fate.

It’s in the lap of the gods,

so sit tight and simply wait.

 

The advise I could give

is really of no help.

In truth, we are all in transit,

until the day we melt.

 

They say ‘don’t ever go back,

but in our minds we are still there,

stuck in the groove of reality,

trying to escape from that nightmare.

 

 

February 19, 2014

 

 

How refreshing is ‘dry’ January,

with no sluggish starts to the day,

as we recover from the party season

by keeping excess at bay.

 

The body begins to repair itself,

and the bloated look leaves our cheeks,

now the wine that seemed so essential,

is out of sight for four weeks.

 

And for a time, only still water,

flowing fast through each vein.

No dreaded trips to the bottle bank

and being caught in the pouring rain.

 

A chance to reflect in all seriousness,

what the lack of consumption makes,

to our mood and general demeanour;

no ‘morning after’ headaches or shakes.

 

And although February starts off cautiously,

with good intent to stay dry and have none

all too soon arrives good old Valentines Day,

when glasses clink and the game is back on. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cry wolf and then cry wolf some more,

and scare the blighters from your door.

 

Cry imbeciles and then consult.

No more to take their damned insult.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the year before he came;

her life unchallenged, without aim.

No wish had she to be tied down.

She was content to paint the town.

 

In the year before he came,

she ran wild and reckless without shame.

No responsibility was she looking for.

Her feet free to dance the floor.

 

In the year before he came,

her life fell apart; she was to blame.

She reached an all time low;

only days of heartache did she know.

 

In the year before he came,

she saw his face, and heard his name.

But never for a moment thought,

that by the love-bug she’d get caught.

 

In the year before he came,

she played and lost a dangerous game.

In the wings he waited to hold her hand,

and never judging, took command.

 

In the year before he came,

when life could never be the same,

he picked up the pieces of her heart,

and nevermore were they to part.

 

 

 

 

February 16, 2014

 

 

When in a confused frame of mind

where no solution is there to find,

and all the options on hope rest,

don’t ever settle for second best.

 

 

 

To wake from rest, only to find

that you still have a troubled mind

and the dull pain from the day before,

kicks in before you touch the floor.

 

And the problem that disturbed your slumber,

even when sheep you counted in great number,

has returned to challenge your point of view,

when under clouds you sit, awaiting skies of blue.

 

And when all decisions rest upon your action,

as others form queues for your reaction

to a problem that was never yours

but has been offloaded inside your doors.

 

Then to return to bed at the end of the day

with little accomplished, the mind in affray.

and without any ‘me’ time to flourish and grow,

can leave one disheartened, dismayed and low.

 

 

 

 

 

I’d turn it round

without compromise,

but the choice is yours

as you supervise.

 

I’d make it less

as it’s too large,

but it’s not up to me,

as you’re in charge.

 

I’d throw it out.

It’s been a flop,

but I’m not the one

who runs the shop.

 

I’d cut it up

into pieces fine,

but you’re the one

who has to shine.

 

In truth, I couldn’t

give a toss.

It’s on your head.

You are the boss.

 

 

 

 

The power of proof;

the coming clean.

The attacking force

of the rogue gene.

 

 

 

 

And in the hour before day break

when only pigeons are awake,

and cooing as if high on pot;

you wish the blighters could be shot.

 

True, they have as much right to be alive,

as all creatures, that through night, survive.

And if their ‘joy of life’ could be put in a bottle,

you’d feel less inclined, their throats to throttle

 

And though toilet habits leave a lot to be desired;

they’d wreck in no time, a building they acquired.

It’s not that I hate them, or think them a sin.

I just wish that now and then, they’d have a lie-in!

 

 

 

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