January 10, 2022

 

 

You are a part of my mental scaffolding.

A life support on a windy day.

Someone who I know to be reliable

to take all my blues away.

 

You are a part of all that I stand for.

You make me laugh when skies turn grey.

Someone to share my insecurities,

when hard times come my way.

 

You are a part of my well being,

in sickness and health, a real mainstay.

Someone there at the drop of a hat,

when on a recovery bed, I lay.

 

You are a part of my infra structure.

An intrinsic part of my DNA.

Someone who always comes to mind,

to keep all the clouds at bay.

 

You are a part of my forward journey.

There when edges start to fray.

Someone who, in return asks for nothing.

An absolute gem, I have to say.

 

You are a part of my mental scaffolding.

You made me who I am today.

Someone there for all eternity,

and for that, I give thanks and pray.

 

written by

Harriet Blackbury   January 2022

 

 

June 7, 2021

 

 

F is for freedom

and much needed space,

when so long, is too long,

locked in the same place.

 

F is for fear,

of the unknown,

complacency the enemy,

no place safer than home.

 

F is for force,

that unstoppable surge,

when out of nowhere,

one gets an urge.

 

F is for feather,

worn in one’s cap,

when a successful venture,

sees one, back on the map.

 

F is for family,

spread out, far and wide,

though side by side,

in one’s head, they reside.

 

F is for Football,

the game we love true,

that got us through a pandemic,

when good times were few.

 

F is for fish,

always a winner,

served with chips and peas,

for our weekly dinner.

 

F is for future,

and ongoing schemes.

A life built on hope,

and fulfilling dreams.

 

F is for faithfulness,

one mighty ask,

when as fallible humans,

so hard, can be this task.

 

F is for falling,

with no safety net,

though the thrill of a zip wire,

one will never forget.

 

F is for forever,

to infinity and beyond.

A love built on trust,

no better solid bond.

 

F is for fantasia,

where the mind travels to,

when imagination runs riot,

to get one out of a stew.

 

F is for fanatical,

that robotic state,

when sense out of nonsense,

the mind can create.

 

F is for figures,

that just don’t add up,

when sometimes half empty,

is life’s giving cup.

 

F is for fearless,

and forging ahead,

after finally dismissing,

an unkind word, said.

 

F is for fortune,

the giver of hope,

that lifts the heart upwards,

when signs saying ‘nope’.

 

F is for friendship,

the worlds greatest gift,

and best solver of problems,

when minds go adrift.

 

F is for fountain,

that high rising splash,

making one want to strip off,

when out on the lash.

 

F is for fixing,

that unsolvable thing,

which, for so long,

much misery did bring.

 

F is for feeling,

unsure and alarmed,

until open arms, once more,

find hearts that are calmed.

 

F is for fabulous,

and frightfully grand,

outshone by amazing,

now taking command.

 

F is for f—,

that all purpose verb,

and outright winner, it seems,

of a word, one should curb.

 

written by Harriet Blackbury.

 

 

 

September 24, 2020

 

 

We took for granted

the usual suspects,

that on our daily route

we would always see.

 

The same school children

The same shop workers

The same coffee shop occupants,

chatting over a pot of tea.

 

With joy we walked

by the riverside.

Hand in hand,

even at our age.

 

Taking for granted

the simple pleasures,

as each new decade

took us to the next stage.

 

Each day that came,

a new tomorrow,

full of fun and laughter –

what more could we ask?

 

Now all we see

are scary eyes,

peeping out from

over a mask.

 

A second wave of fear

hitting us all.

More so for those

who have suffered a loss.

 

As they watch selfish folk

not heeding the rules.

Is it any wonder

they all feel so cross?

 

Doing the right thing

like staying in a bubble,

will certainly

prevent the spread.

 

And bringing families closer

than ever before,

not a bad thing –

it has to be said.

 

So let sense prevail,

there is no short term fix.

We are in it together,

like it or not!

 

In a world where kindness

is sadly lacking,

we must do what we can

to stop this rot.

 

January 17, 2020

 

 

 

 

She called to me and I responded.

In a world of madness, she made sense.

Although I couldn’t see her,

I felt her presence was intense.

 

I knew the hell she had lived through.

I admired her capacity to always bounce back.

She taught me to be a survivor,

on days when my mind would backtrack.

 

She knew me like no other,

and accepted me for who I was.

She passed onto me her teaching,

for no other reason than for ‘because’.

 

She called to me and I responded,

when my confidence was at a low.

She seemed to know how I was feeling,

when I had lost my get up and go.

 

I heard the bell that she was ringing,

it had a familiar tone.

It came with a clang of fortitude,

when I was reaching the danger zone.

 

She knew me like no other,

better than I knew myself, indeed.

Just a push in the right direction,

is something, at times, we all need.

 

She called to me and I responded.

Her timing, always spot on.

Two minds that simply connected,

to ensure that another day won.

 

Written by Harriet Blackbury

January 2020

 

 

 

 

September 24, 2018

 

Eight wild baby Carrots

in orange, yellow and brown,

that brought a smile 

to replace a frown.

 

Organic Figs aplenty –

so nourishingly good,

and a final touch 

to homemade Rice Pud.

 

Eight Walnuts gathered,

and still in their shells –

A Waldorf salad

screams out ‘Hell’s Bells’!

 

And something I can’t christen

stares back at me,

from the Cauliflower family, 

I believe it to be ?

 

Two snow white Eggs

for breakfast time,

after fresh juice

of lemon and lime.

 

Next to get my attention

is a solitary Leek,

when into my Harvest box

I next take a peek.

 

And an Apple, whole

and quite grub-free !

I am overwhelmed

as anyone would be.

 

And a Colombian Pineapple –

taking pride of place –

my favourite fruit

in the ‘weight-loss’ race.

 

And Conkers – quite a handful –

in all, totaling ten –

I can’t wait for Autumn

to come around again.

 

Thank You Kind Friend.

 

March 10, 2018

 

 

We listen and we shake our head,

not always in agreement with what is said.

 

But listen we do – a friendly ear,

a silent soundboard – in neutral gear.

 

We do not comment, tis not our place

to get involved – we smile with grace,

 

as the latest saga is unravelled,

with repetition, and so well travelled,

 

as hot frustrations, are now aired –

steam coming with each hurried word,

 

whilst waiting for, the point of entry

to change the mood, with humour plenty.

 

To stop the rot – to have some fun,

before the will to live is done.

 

One tale’s good, til another’s told,

one thinks as this tale does unfold,

 

and just as advise, about to slip,

one thinks it wise, to bite the lip.

 

as no end does, there appear in sight,

a toilet visit – seems polite.

 

To stem the flow, to bring a change,

and the mindset, to re-arrange.

 

So good to get it off one’s chest –

to have good friends, one so is blessed  !

 

June 22, 2017

 

 

I rescued a Fatsia Japonica today

that sat begging for help

on the clearance tray

of the Garden Centre

up Blackbury way.

 

Some of it’s leaves were withered

in hopelessness,

whilst others discoloured –

a brownish mess.

 

But I was drawn to it’s plight,

and it’s challenge to survive,

spotting three young branches

keeping it’s hopes alive.

 

The instructions on feeding

read ‘easy care’,

but of it’s limited life

I was quite aware.

 

So fooling myself,

it got put in my trolley –

praying it would last four days,

as friends coming for ‘a Jolly’.

 

And at the cost of £2

I thought ‘great value indeed-

I’ll take you to death

if you don’t succeed’.

 

And your final hours

will have been worthwhile,

because Fatsia Japonica,

you will have made us all smile.

 

 

 

 

Oh, how we’ve worried

about the unexplained,

that came to light

when hearts were drained.

 

Oh, how we’ve puzzled

and felt so much guilt,

since discovering your life

inside the fortress you built.

 

Oh, how did it happen –

the double life you knew?

So gradual the mountain

becoming normality to you.

 

Oh, how did you cope

and put on that fine show,

trapped and boxed in

to that hell down below,

 

Oh, how did you function

when madness on trial?

Was that your release valve –

a laugh and a smile?

 

Oh, how did we not see

your anguish and stress,

which now seems so obvious

when we think and address.

 

Oh, how you were supportive –

A firm friend and true,

as one by one we unburdened

our troubles onto you.

 

Oh, how did you not scream

and yell and blow your top,

and tell us our selfishness

just had to stop?

 

Oh, how could you listen

with such loyalty and trust?

Did it even the score seeing,

another mind going bust?

 

Oh how? we ask now

when too late we digest,

glaring signs that were missed –

now in peace may you rest.

 

Oh, how lessons too late

have surely been learnt.

What starts out as a favour,

can see fingers burnt.

 

Oh, how easy to be known

and yet not known at all.

We missed warning signals –

pride comes before a fall.

 

Oh, how we’ll see others differently

from this moment on.

There’s real pain under the surface

of just about everyone.

 

April 28, 2017

 

 

Silver Service

out on view.

A luscious bite

with every chew.

 

A stolen spoonful

is pure delight!

whilst a finger full

dulls appetite.

 

And eyes said it all

without words spoken,

as silence fell

and hearts were broken,

 

as elbows rested

on the table,

and mouths wide open

saw teeth unstable,

 

when just by chance,

a random satellite

dropped by and set

the world alight,

 

and a candle that,

by force was blown,

created havoc –

rude words were sworn.

 

as whitest linen

set alight,

and napkins waved

in mid flight.

 

For Silver Service

out on view,

meant nothing to

the thousands who,

 

had gate-crashed there

from near and far,

to witness Edgar’s

last hur-rah.

 

And Sheffield’s finest

turned to rust,

now finger bowls –

a daily must.

 

And fish forks now

deemed out of date,

were seen stabbing pickles –

in a way most inappropriate!

 

And clamps for crabs

and winkle pickers,

replaced with fingers

by nose pickers.

 

And burps were heard

as tummies rumbled,

and chairs fell backwards

as folks tumbled.

 

And bread rolls pocketed

by the meanest,

as Daisy’s pants revealed –

and not the cleanest!

 

And around the room

the satellite still spun –

some guests too full

to move and run,

 

sat there in horror

fighting over clotted cream

dripping from a jug –

desert, now just a dream.

 

Until old Edgar’s mates,

quickly withdrew,

returning to the pub

and the life they knew,

 

where pork scratchings

were devoured;

cometh the men –

all action powered.

 

While ladies threw china

against the wall,

as Edgar’s wife – a dishwasher,

refused to install.

 

Now Edgar’s Retirement

a thing of the past,

But by God he had a good un

that went off with a Blast.   

 

 

February 27, 2017

 

 

And humour in the end won out,

the common theme, the raucous shout,

as usual suspects all in place,

including those fallen from grace.

 

And bon viveurs and raconteurs,

took to the stage and made it theirs.

And champagne flowed and fuelled the fire,

as eyes recalled love’s lost desire.

 

And once or twice or maybe more,

the same old tale, bounced off the floor.

Revived, recycled, yet still the same –

a favourite of Sir Wots-his-name?

 

and hands were shaken and both cheeks kissed,

as Farewells said, from some now pissed,

and promises flowed from meaning lips,

as one, too tightly, got to grips,

 

Seizing the chance – you know the type,

who wins a girl by talking tripe.

All in his head, part of his act.

there’s always one and that’s a fact.

 

And queuing black cabs form a line,

as bodies fall in – ‘Your place or mine’?

Others not knowing their destination,

get out at Piccadilly Station.

 

And wander off into the night,

A night still young – Go fly your kite.

For humour in the end won through,

the common ground, that buddies knew.

 

And usual subjects, play their ‘cards’,

staying up til dawn – these real die-hards,

until departing, with words of cheer

‘Same time next week – make sure you’re here’.

 

 

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