December 3, 2014

 

 

I was given her ‘5 year Diary’

many decades after she died.

My name appeared quite often;

a tear came to my eye.

 

She wrote about her children;

all five were married then.

Some would visit daily,

and others, now and then.

 

But the thing so overwhelming,

I discovered as I read;

each one she thought of lovingly,

whilst lying in her bed.

 

It was her nightly ritual,

before switching off the light:

Sometimes she’d had ‘a good day’,

whilst other’s, were ‘just alright’.

 

But it was a spooky feeling

to re-live her hourly routine.

Especially on days I’d visited, and

‘hadn’t stayed long’: I felt so mean!

 

What I’d give to roll back time,

and sit with Gran that extra hour,

when I dashed in after school,

and watched her sieving flour.

 

And see Gramps in his armchair,

taking tobacco from his pouch.

His pipe was his great pleasure,

but had me rising from the couch.

 

As the smell from his old pipe,

would waft over past my nose.

He knew each time I did it,

the reason why I rose!

 

And he knew my exit imminent,

when the smoke caused me to cough.

I’d make up some weak excuse, like,

‘I have to walk the dog – I’m off.

 

After two and a half years in,

Gran’s diary entries all but stopped,

as Gramps went into hospital,

and her writing instinct dropped.

 

The saddest page of the diary

is when she put ‘My lad has gone’.

They’d been together for sixty years;

she had no strength to carry on.

 

She said ‘I’ve never missed his birthday’,

‘and I’m not missing it today’.

And after breakfast, without warning,

she too, peacefully passed away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

December 2, 2014

 

 

Haunted paths

of Christmas past,

and old romance

never meant to last.

 

Days of merriment,

and high jinx.

Thoughts drifting back

to that party minx.

 

When ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’

rang out through the air,

and the only place

to be, was there.

 

 

December 1, 2014

 

 

His hands were very beautiful.

His feet were perfect too.

His teeth, screwed in, but passable.

His eyes the deepest blue.

 

His smile was just adorable.

His nostrils flared when he lied.

But he was right for her in every way,

and her choice for the long term ride.

 

 

November 30, 2014

 

 

Why goad the one,

with your clenched fist,

who cannot see

through tears of mist?

 

Why force your power

onto one so weak?

Hold back your words:

Don’t even speak.

 

Why goad the one

who means you well,

with no hidden agenda,

or wares to sell?

 

Why not back down,

and compromise,

and see the joy

within their eyes.

 

Why goad the one

who cannot deliver?

Their Achilles heal,

shaking with a quiver.

 

Why start a dual, and be,

an unrepentant sinner?

When different worlds’ collide,

there can be no winner.

 

 

 

 

And the devil produced

a large iced bun,

in the hope, to temptation,

we would succumb.

 

And the nutritionist

said ‘Oh no, no, no!

All that fat and sugar

will have to go.

 

And the devil returned

with chocolate truffles,

to slow down our pace,

to lethargic shuffles.

 

And the wise nutritionist;

back in the race,

suggested fruit and pulses,

to increase our pace.

 

And the devil re-appeared

with his trump card,

of Jam Roly-Poly,

laced with artery-blocking lard.

 

And the frustrated nutritionist,

shook her head in despair,

whilst sitting alone, eating salad,

with sliced avocado pear.

 

And the devil, still taunting,

waved a chocolate digestive,

and a slab of stollen,

just to be festive.

 

And the food nutritionist

sank to her knees,

after eating a stick of celery,

with cottage cheese.

 

And the devil ate all the cream,

that had been left to curdle,

then collapsed and died

at the final hurdle.

 

And the smiling nutritionist,

with the race won,

sipped pomegranate juice,

to toast a job well done.

 

But the devil incarnate,

always waiting there;

tempting and goading,

the sweet-toothed unaware.

 

And the well meaning nutritionist,

raises her hands in admission:

She’s on a hiding to nothing,

on this hopeless mission.

 

 

 

 

 

November 23, 2014

 

 

At the country property

auction sale,

I met a man who

looked quite pale.

 

His fortune he had

all but lost;

many heirlooms sold,

much to his cost.

 

At peanut prices,

to a bargain hunter:

An eagle eyed

impulsive punter,

 

without compassion

for those in need:

Each deal nailed down,

at breakneck speed.

 

All memorabilia

from childhood days,

bound for hands of a stranger,

then lost on selling bays.

 

Until the last item

of the day,

when good news about

to come his way.

 

His castle bought

by this same oil tycoon,

with no plans to live there

or to evict him soon.

 

He was told he could stay

completely rent free,

until the time came,

when dead, he be.

 

He was promised that everything

would remain the same,

including the family crest

bearing his grandfathers name.

 

The tycoon’s only stipulation;

the exclusive use of the left wing,

for family and friends

he may occasionally bring.

 

And the promise that the castle,

which was sadly in decline,

would be brought back to life,

retaining it’s ‘resident’ blood line.

 

As no better person was there,

to oversee it’s restoration,

and no better greeter to the public

than this man of reputation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like a trickle of water

that started the flood.

Like a prick of a finger

that released the blood.

 

Like a backward glance,

after walking away.

These things all start off,

in the smallest way.

 

Like a crumb of comfort

from newly baked bread.

Like a handshake, polite,

that stayed in the head.

 

Like a brush of the shoulder

from an accidental collision;

the anticipation there,

in the mind’s inner vision.

 

Like a first blade of grass,

from a newly sown lawn.

The workload to follow,

is no idle yawn.

 

Like a wish of a lifetime,

when young and a teen.

Like a tip of an iceberg;

the danger unseen.

 

 

 

 

November 22, 2014

 

 

When shadows creep

under moonlight’s beam;

no swans apparent

on the stream.

 

The water still,

at dead of night,

as forgotten souls

exert their right,

 

and dance along

the grassy bank;

half crazed when on

some ghoulish prank.

 

Performing handstands,

and back somersaults:

Rejoicing in escape,

from ancient vaults.

 

And in wild abandon,

floating through the air;

bewitched and spooked

by starlight’s glare.

 

Until, exhausted,

they fade from sight,

as fast as they came,

back into the night.

 

For when order left

and chaos came,

one last wish granted,

and life, never the same.

 

For in death, as in life

the soul never rests;

appearing out of the blue,

like uninvited guests,

 

who will return;

they always do.

Their purpose being,

to get a glimpse of you.

 

So when shadows creep

under moonlight’s beam,

and no swans apparent

on the stream,

 

do not back off

or turn away;

see them as mortals,

who found another way.

 

Face them, head on.

Look them in the eye.

Do not cower away,

or let them think you shy.

 

Say ‘Hello my friend,

I once knew you well’.

And I promise you this:

They will run like hell,

 

when their cover blown,

and you are seeing,

one who thought them self

an invisible being!

 

For when order left

and chaos came,

one last wish granted,

but with no time frame.

 

 

 

 

November 3, 2014

 

 

Oh, the horror

of that disease!

As yet no cure

can science tease.

 

Oh, the saviour

of minds exploring.

Help from above,

we are imploring.

 

Oh the sadness

for those so near,

to see them daily

shed a tear.

 

Oh, the loyalty,

and love waiting there,

for those lost in a world

they are unable to share.

 

 

 

 

 

And all above

and all below,

cast out by

a single blow.

 

No testament.

No evidence.

No smattering

of common sense.

 

And all above

and all below,

gone from this land

as rivers flow.

 

No warning came.

No chance to defend.

No plans prepared

for journey’s end.

 

 

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