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.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

February 16, 2014

 

 

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!

 

 

 

February 9, 2014

 

 

‘Let’s throw the pots out of the window’

was the favourite, familiar refrain,

of my future Mother in law,

when last at the table, we did remain.

 

How I loved those Sunday dinners

with her roast beef and apple pie.

She’d shout of hubby to carve the meat;

he would smile with a twinkle in his eye.

 

The aroma as he entered her kitchen,

drifted into the dining room nearby.

where I’d obligingly laid the table,

which she’d checked with an exacting eye.

 

We shared the job of carrying the tureens,

containing the vegetables, steaming hot,

and then the piece d’ resistance arrived,

and into our seats we immediately shot.

 

We tucked in, enjoying each mouthful,

and became so full, we did gasp and sigh.

After which, she’d give me the choice,

of whether I wanted to wash or dry!

 

We would set the world to rights;

she made washing dishes fun.

And made me feel I was the one,

that she wanted for her son.

 

My next job was to return the silverware,

to the correct boxes in the welsh dresser,

as she summoned her son to pour the brandy,

whilst she made the coffee, bless her.

 

There was no sign of a dishwasher.

I know she would think it a scream

to watch this generation rinse plates,

and then stack them into a machine!

 

and that a job we privately savoured,

that took five minutes, at the most,

had now fallen to new technology;

making the days of washing up – toast.

 

 

February 4, 2014

 

 

Promise you won’t sell up

and move house, Mum.

We’ll have no place left

to call home!

 

Where will we dump

all our stuff, Mum,

when we return from

our travels to Rome.

 

Please don’t downsize

and move on, Mum.

This house holds,

for us, so much joy.

 

and bruv needs his room

to crash out in, Mum,

when his assignment

is finished in Illinois.

 

Please don’t get on

with your life, Mum.

It’s not as if you’ll

never see us again.

 

There’s still lots of

reasons to stay, Mum.

Why on earth would

you move to Spain?

 

 

 

 

 

They lived as one, side by side,

but now their house is for sale.

How sad to see the changes come,

as time, makes us all so frail.

 

 

 

January 29, 2014

 

 

How good it feels to be alive;

to open eyes and see the sky.

And know that through the night I slept,

surviving dreams in which I wept.

 

How good it feels to be on earth;

safe in a place that was my birth.

And be surrounded by those most dear,

surviving sleeps most dreaded fear.

 

 

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