May 24, 2014

 

 

A town rebuilt and modernised,

on the footprints of past family ties.

Yet what still remains, we cling onto,

as old and new with us, easily, lies.

 

Important landmarks still recognisable,

like the church where they buried their dead,

and the milestone going forward,

where later we all were wed.

 

The gardens and the grand monuments,

unchanged and welcoming still.

Warm memories ongoing from yesterday,

when we climbed up yonder hill.

 

Each district having it’s own characters,

and where people walked for miles,

along cobbled streets and canal paths;

irony bringing forth many a smile.

 

No hardship ever worth worrying about;

everyone being in the same boat.

No competitive edge or boastfulness;

no-one impressed by them’ as did gloat!

 

Just a hard working town, and still,

as welcoming as anywhere on earth.

Where folks just get on with life,

whilst embracing it’s new re-birth.

 

 

May 1, 2014

 

 

She made Eccles Cakes

and Maids of Honour,

and spiced Tray Bakes,

when the mood was upon her.

 

She made Bakewell Tarts

and Coconut Squares,

and Vanilla Slices,

and Gingerbread Men in pairs.

 

She made Custard Pies

and Raspberry Buns,

and Chocolate Fondants,

that gave us the runs!

 

She made fruity Simnels

and Wedding Cakes,

and Lemon Shortbreads

and food for Funeral Wakes.

 

She made Brandy Snaps

and Treacle Toffee,

and Banana Bread,

long before Banoffee.

 

She made Fairy Cakes

with a Cherry glace,

and Christmas Puddings

that she set ablaze.

 

She made Currant Cakes

out of pastry waste,

and hot Easter Bunnies

topped with almond paste.

 

She made mini Trifles

and Wimberry Pies,

and Chocolate Donuts,

that hung around the thighs.

 

She made Apple Turnovers

and thick, nutty Flapjacks.

The aroma from her kitchen,

enough to give us heart attacks.

 

She made Coffee Cream Meringues,

and the best Parkin in town.

As a top class confectioner,

she was renown.

 

All this, she did alone,

as well as serving in her shop.

It doesn’t seem humanly possible,

but back then, work didn’t stop.

 

 

 

April 23, 2014

 

 

I see her now

as others saw her then;

an outcast and prisoner,

ruled by men.

 

I joined her briefly

when the tadpoles came,

but left before the frogs,

her name, could claim.

 

I see her now,

as though she is still here.

The outcome as yet,

alas, not being clear.

 

I joined her briefly

though she did exclaim,

with bitterness

about her given name.

 

I see her now

through eyes more wise.

An out of body

worthwhile exercise.

 

I joined her briefly

on a mercy trail,

but left after the wind

had taken sail.

 

I see her now

and feel that I can view,

a clearer picture of one

from whom I grew.

 

I joined her briefly

somewhere down the line.

She doesn’t know, I know,

that she is mine.

 

 

 

April 9, 2014

 

 

He says he is staying neutral.

He is sitting on the fence.

He wants to remain diplomatic,

by not causing any offence.

 

He is absolutely in agreement.

He thinks you both are right.

Through gritted teeth he is smiling,

with both thumbs raised in delight.

 

He can clearly see your points of view;

both of which, he says, have some merit.

Though he’d gladly bang your heads together,

and at times, both of you disinherit.

 

He is in a ‘no win’ situation;

In truth he couldn’t give a toss.

He doesn’t want to be implicated

in case your problems become his loss.

 

So he puts on that nervous smile,

each time he asks to be excused.

He just wants out of the situation

as he’s feeling quite bemused.

 

He knows he’d become a cropper

if only one of you he could please.

So silence being his saviour

no answer from him, will you squeeze.

 

 

 

 

 

Let him rule.

Let him win.

Life is much easier

when we see him grin.

 

Let him ride.

Let him decide.

Like a fragrant thicko

sit by his side.

 

Let him expand

his point of view.

For the subtle winner

in the end, is you.

 

 

April 2, 2014

 

 

and in his finest hour he wept

tears of relief as night-time crept

upon him like a mighty cloak;

that man of men, that solid bloke.

 

and far off in the distance rang

a fairground, as if angels sang.

His eyes lit up when he heard those folk;

that man of men, that solid bloke.

 

Though the smile about to leave his face

and be replaced by opium’s grace.

Oh, how he’d loved to laugh and joke;

That man of men, that solid bloke.

 

By him, a card with which he was smitten

‘a man of integrity’ on it, staff had written.

He stared with pride each time he awoke

that man of men, that solid bloke.

 

and with music in the background playing

he left this world from where he was laying.

How he’d loved an egg with a runny yolk;

that man of men, that solid bloke.

 

 

 

March 28, 2014

 

 

Put them in the store room

with all the other stuff,

that will someday be discarded

when I’m feeling strong enough.

 

Just for now I need around me

old relics from my past,

though I sense the day is coming

for their release, at last.

 

 

March 15, 2014

 

 

The rust has set in

around ancient nails,

exposed to the elements,

holding fast, twisted rails.

 

and rotting gates, at the

entrance to sacred land,

where fading words

on tombstones stand.

 

A once beloved wife

lies unattended

on top of her man;

both long since ascended.

 

The headstone crooked;

their plot now overgrown.

No ancestor’s names visible

or sign of existence shown.

 

And dogs, no sense

of reverence share,

just run amok

and are unaware,

 

that on the land

where they prance and frolic,

are many generations

where respect is symbolic.

 

Some kin will not visit;

they shudder and swear,

preferring to remember

loved ones as they were.

 

And so different are those

who cannot stay away.

They come with weeping hearts

each and every day.

 

On a new plot lies

a multitude of flowers,

with messages of condolence

in the deceased’s final hours.

 

Yet, when grieving mourners

from the graveside leave,

a scoundrel in the shadows

is waiting to deceive.

 

He gathers up the best blooms

to take to his mother,

as a peace offering

for some guilt trip or another.

 

So still, now the graveyard

under a darkened cloud.

The final resting place

for it’s towns folk, proud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 10, 2014

 

 

 

 

Mother always urging, and saying ‘Do it child’

Father so discouraging and saying ‘Don’t be wild’.

 

Mother saying ‘Go for it, and keep forward moving’.

Father shaking his head and always disapproving!

 

Mother’s nature copied, landed the child in a stew.

Father’s balanced scales, forced to go askew!

 

Mother right for Father; making him test the water.

Father right for Mother, but off ran only daughter!

 

Mother bereft trailed on, with more advice to give

Father tore his hair out; no longer wanting to live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She will beat my brow

and find comfort in saying

the repeated lines

that on her mind weighing.

 

She will tell a tale

of injustice and hurt

that sticks in her head

like a cloud of dirt.

 

She will plead assurance

that she wasn’t to blame,

but I find her excuses

are far too lame.

 

The harm so deep

it severed a nerve,

and away from the subject

I try to swerve.

 

But she won’t be swayed

and the long lament

must be repeated verbatim

and is set in cement.

 

 

 

 

« Older Posts — Newer Posts »