July 20, 2014

 

 

To give of love

and nothing more,

is sometimes

not enough.

 

To do what one

is asked to do,

can be a

double bluff.

 

To give of time

and feel a bore,

is sometimes

really rough.

 

To do what just

comes naturally,

proves one is made

of stronger stuff!

 

 

July 1, 2014

 

 

You waved goodbye

and crossed the lane,

and waved again;

I felt your pain.

 

I found it hard

to close the door,

in case you waved

again once more.

 

And that you did;

I thought you might.

You waved at the corner,

and were gone from sight.

 

Your wave stayed with me,

for the rest of the day;

the heartache you suffered

clearly on display.

 

Oh the power of a wave,

when a wave is returned;

it brings a lump to the throat,

and leaves a tummy churned.

 

And what bond of friendship

is always there,

that starts off with a wave,

that says ‘I care’.

 

 

 

June 18, 2014

 

 

My worst enemy

I need to touch.

I can at least be civil,

though I don’t care to, much!

 

My worst enemy

I need to follow.

Though this impossible;

the truth so hard to swallow.

 

My worst enemy

I need to please,

and on the stranglehold,

the tension, ease!

 

My worst enemy

I need to outgrow,

and ‘up’ the standards

that are set too low.

 

My worst enemy

I need to meet;

to come face to face

in the scorching heat.

 

My worst enemy

I need to love,

and call my own

little turtle dove.

 

My worst enemy

I need to see,

in a mirror image,

that may well be me!

 

 

June 5, 2014

 

 

and Nancy told her

when she was nine,

as they played skipping rope

with the washing line,

 

and she ran indoors

calling Nancy a liar,

but it was no lie,

it did transpire.

 

Her mother’s face

now white with shock,

beckoned her to sit

by the ticking clock.

 

That child is

never his, she said;

and she should know,

for she was led

 

along the same

path of disgrace;

a tormented future

so to face.

 

But that child, not his,

did still remain

within their loving

family frame.

 

Unlike the one

without a name

who was never destined

to stake that claim.

 

And her loyalty switched

with the changing tide,

as she jumped ship

to the other side.

 

And poor young Nancy

was never forgiven,

for blurting out the truth

that should have stayed hidden.

 

 

 

May 17, 2014

 

 

It’s hard to imagine

that they are real;

those electronic hybrids

who themselves conceal.

 

It’s hard to believe

that they do exist;

those beings of ether

that of no flesh consist.

 

It’s hard to believe

in my tactile head,

that through such energy,

word can spread.

 

It’s hard to grasp, that,

which can’t be touched,

exists at all,

if not tightly clutched.

 

It’s hard to set free

an inner soul,

when the offside rule

prevents the winning goal.

 

 

April 27, 2014

 

 

Such fun, the tide, to be beside,

until it flows and takes our pride.

Then we dash off, mouths open wide,

on a tram to Lytham, for a ride.

 

 

 

April 18, 2014

 

 

The joy of thankfulness;

a moment to caress.

With friends to rely on

in times of stress.

 

To return home and find

a pot of jam at the door,

gives a warm sensation

and an inner glow.

 

To then reciprocate

in the same small way,

makes friendship fun

with no price to pay.

 

But no finer gift is there,

than six eggs, newly laid.

And such a change from porridge

with soldiers on parade.

 

 

 

 

Those devils linked to eventide,

who out of blackness come to ride,

and flatten all our counted sheep

in the hope that we, have lack of sleep,

 

forget that they have woolly coats,

and that off lanolin, disturbance floats.

Or perhaps the devils never knew,

this advantage point for me and you.

 

 

April 9, 2014

 

 

I read something only yesterday             

that made me think of you.

Today I received four photographs;

the writing on the envelope, I knew.

The snaps devoid of people;

one being of a dining table

laid out for Sunday lunch

whilst another had an empty sofa

near a vase with tulips in a bunch.

A third was of a large picture

hanging over a kitchen sink bowl.

The fourth, of course, contained

the window to your soul.

There was nothing written

on the reverse sides,

nor even a letter attached.

But I knew instinctively

you’d read the same article

and thought of me, and the

photo’s despatched.

The feeling was uncanny,

and proved to me once more,

that keeping in touch mentally

is as good as banging on any door.

 

  

 

 

You’ll have to leave.

I’m selling up.

My life is moving on.

 

You need to grow

outside this space.

It’s best that you move on.

 

Such harmony

within these walls.

How sad, when we move on.

 

Such depths of sorrow

must we embrace,

when finally we move on.

 

 

« Older Posts — Newer Posts »