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October 8, 2017
Ten years I’ve been without her.
Ten years I have been free.
Still passing her belov’ed Plane tree
that she first pointed out to me.
Ten years of doing my own thing.
Ten years without reprimand.
Still acting as impulsive as ever,
without being slapped on the hand.
Ten years not hearing ‘I told you so’.
Ten years of missing unconditional trust.
Still re-opening age’d battle scars,
from the times we did combust.
Ten years of heartache and agony.
Ten years it’s taken, til time forgot.
Now at last I’m ready to admit it –
She was right sometimes, but not a lot!
Ten years of thinking it could have been different.
Ten years of knowing it simply could not-
‘We were too alike’ as she said often –
on that, she hit the spot.
Ten years without my sparring partner.
Ten years on freedom’s trail.
Still a decade on I so miss her –
Mother Dear, I’m starting to wail.
April 28, 2017
Why go back and seek out ancestors
when living elders you no longer see?
Why retrace steps into the unknown
searching for a lost family tree?
Where leaves long since perished
and branches strangled by mistletoe,
and what you may find out anyway,
you’d be better off not to know.
Why go back looking for heartache
when living isolation on show?
Why not put right what is possible
before being lowered below.
With leaves that long since perished
and where future generations may tread,
so that what they may just find out
will bring them happiness instead.
February 27, 2017
Don’t let her go to your Ethel’s,
she’ll give her something we can’t give.
She’ll spoil her and make her dissatisfied,
and make her hell on earth to live with.
Don’t let her go to your Ethel’s,
she’ll only get into her mind,
and give her false hope and aspirations,
that when she returns, she won’t leave behind.
Don’t let her go to your Ethel’s,
we’ll bring her up our own way,
scratching each crumb together-
there is nothing more to say.
Don’t let her go to your Ethel’s –
but too late our cry of distress!
She’s already besotted with her thinking,
more so than if we hadn’t cared less!
December 6, 2016
It’s only me – I’m not stopping,
I really have loads to do.
I shouldn’t even be calling,
but this duty visit I owe to you.
So tell me – how are you doing?
Crickey, is it that time so soon?
I’ll drop in again next weekend,
for ten minutes sometime around noon.
Just text me if you need something,
as my ‘phone’s always on silent mode.
and I’ll get back to you presently,
when I’ve dealt with my work overload.
‘Well thanks for popping in darling;
it’s good to get a glimpse of your face,
Now clear off, if you don’t mind –
I’m about to watch Bradley on The Chase.
Our hearts as normal,
ticked away,
as we awoke,
at break of day.
A regular day
like any other,
until the phone call –
God help us Mother!
Fast forward goes
a beating heart;
the mind a jumble –
where to start?
So much to do,
now doesn’t matter.
Alarm bells loud,
disturb the chatter.
The laughter that
was yesterday,
replaced by thoughts
in disarray.
Then to the appointment,
unexpected.
What had the test
results detected?
With baited breath
hands clasped together;
through thick and thin this pair,
seen off bad weather.
Then joy of joy –
the gods align.
No need for panic –
all would be fine.
Though the call to see
the Doctor a s a p,
nearly was the death,
of he and me.
November 2, 2016
and Winston called
en-route to the river,
a morning welcome
to deliver.
That Golden Retriever
from across the way –
a trusted pal became
from the first day.
and Penny came by
every now and then-
the name we christened,
a very cute pea-hen,
who visited from
Harcourt Arboretum
at Nunenham Courtenay,
looking for a crumb.
And next door’s cat-
a fluffy ‘black and white’,
in her magnificence
appeared at daylight.
Our Siamese boys
always the first to see
her prompt arrival,
would then alert me.
and our ageing Setter,
when turning grey,
lived out his life
in the best way,
with daily walks
along Sandford Lock-
a place we still re-visit
when taking stock,
of the dreaming spires
and seats of learning,
and autumns bliss,
when leaves were turning.
Though short lived was
to be our stay-
A place in our hearts,
Oxford, to this day.
A life lived through animals
who came and went.
Everyone a gift
from heaven sent.
The joy of nostalgia-
that two-edged sword.
A constant reminder
life shouldn’t be ignored.
October 1, 2016
Oh weekdays
when I have to face
groundhog day –
that same rat-race.
Oh weekends
when I become a chauffeur,
ferrying son
and impatient daughter.
Oh weekdays
when dear Monday arrives,
and I find stimulation
on which the brain survives.
Oh weekends
when I become handyman,
fixing plumbing jobs
the best way I can.
Oh weekdays
when I return to my chair,
sifting through emails
which become a blur.
Oh weekends
when I yearn to relax
and put my feet up
and play my sax!
Oh weekdays
when chaos starts up
The new MD decides
this old dog, swapped for a pup!
Oh weekends
now I need the family most,
they’re out doing ‘their thing’ –
no sign of Sunday Roast!
Oh weekdays
that were once salvation,
now an unsure future
heading for starvation.
Oh weekends, weekends
now I’ve faced the facts;
and on weekdays too
I’m belting out that sax.
August 16, 2016
I’ll take this hour God granted me –
Three-fifty on the clock.
A call of nature awakened me.
So quiet the house, just a tick-tock.
I’ll take this moment every time
For ‘now’ is all that’s real.
The family safe and sleeping;
this time is mine to steal.
Though not for long my solitude,
as behind me gently creeps,
one who’s on my wavelength,
with four paws, a vigil keeps.
One who no-one else can see,
but one who’s at my core.
Who gently tempts me back to bed,
to rest my mind once more.
Well more or less
we’re both alright.
I could say more,
but then why spite
the other half
of this great fraction,
when 50/50
the main attraction.
I love this man
so much it hurts,
although I hate
ironing his shirts.
Not something that
the young ones do
for their dear men,
who love them true.
But for us, tradition
carried on.
Old habits formed
are never gone.
When ‘Come for Tea’
meant ‘Silver Service’,
And Blue Peter starred
dear Peter Purves.
And slow to change;
our ways that work.
A small price to pay –
ironing that shirt!
And heaven forbid the day
that’s superseded,
when the shirt I’ve ironed
no longer needed!
June 30, 2016
A name from birth
so much disliked.
A growth inhibitor;
the thorn that spiked.
A name from birth
not of ones choosing,
and therein lies
a life of losing.
A name from birth;
a crippling shackle.
The first words said,
one has to tackle.
A name from birth
so cruelly given,
by one half mad,
post-natally driven.
A name from birth;
a real non-starter.
A nickname sought,
by one much smarter.
A name from birth
on a certificate shown,
until changed by deed poll.
or a marital scroll.