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.

 

 

 

 

 

Whilst dusting the corners of her mind,

amongst the debris lost with time,

she came across an abandoned wish;

a forgotten plea, based on pure anguish.

 

And how she thanked the powers that be,

who crushed that dream, never meant to be.

So ill thought out when straws were clutched,

and the edge of insanity, almost touched.

 

For in the intervening years between,

grew a life well lived, from a shattered dream,

and countless blessings and guidance shown

towards a path of happiness she now did own.

 

And the longing yearned for, it was clear to see

would have been the certain death of she.

And oh the mess, had it come of age;

that wish never granted, by a wiser sage.

 

 

 

 

At one with you,

at two with her;

needing companionship

with an hour to spare.

 

At three with you;

an hours sleep to share.

The gaming table’s fixed

or so you swear!

 

At four with you;

no time to spare.

A lost sock left

under a hotel chair.

 

At five with her,

in daylight’s glare.

A quick farewell;

the day to prepare.

 

At six with her;

part of a pair.

A phone call home;

love waiting there.

 

At seven with you,

on the road to where

groundhog day begins,

on a wing and a prayer.

 

 

 

May 24, 2014

 

 

Our first line of defence;

so protective and bold,

and handy for cricket

if the batsman is old.

 

With ‘fortress like’ walls,

housing battalions of seeds,

they supply in each mouthful

most of our daily needs.

 

Oh, how a meal they enrich,

in one form or another.

They are packed full of iron

with no added sugar.

 

Big beef ones are great,

and little cherries, divine,

when just swallowed whole

or taken fresh from the vine!

 

This versatile staple

outsmarts all the fakes,

and sees off all the radishes

in the supremacy stakes.

 

So ebullient, so necessary,

so addictive and fine,

I must say that tomatoes,

are good friends of mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Always fighting for survival

in a world of feral beasts.

Like wolves devouring crumbs

from inedible phantom feasts.

 

Just like age-old lemmings,

forward, blindingly they leap,

at speed, clear off the edge,

without first, a single peep.

 

Putting all their trust in others,

who they scarcely know.

All lonesome, helpless souls,

with raw emotions laid on show.

 

Forced on by sheer necessity;

heartache, the common trait.

They cling on to the faintest hope

each new horizon may create.

 

 

 

 

The screen on screen;

a clever scheme,

where work is read

but never seen.

 

A trained ear to the rescue came.

Squeezed in so tight,

yet not the same;

so personal, this crazy game.

 

A word, a phrase,

at random picked,

like ice cream cones

that can’t be licked.

 

But evident

like all sore thumbs,

that stand out in

a bowl of plums.

 

A thought, a tune,

a sudden lilt,

thought out beneath

a duvet quilt,

 

takes on new life

in pastures green,

where work is heard

but never seen.

 

 

 

 

 

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 17, 2014

 

 

When Billy sat beneath your pram

by the waters edge, where cygnets swam.

No better sight was there to view,

than the closeness felt by he and you.

 

And when you started to toddle,

he followed your every stride;

a trusted, loyal companion

and ever watchful guide.

 

Until the inevitable day, that

we walked you off to class.

A sorry mess we were,

when we returned home, alas!

 

But what happiness we felt

when it was half past three;

we shared many lows and highs,

did our Billy and me.

 

Then old age came along,

and took our lovely boy,

who’d been our bond of strength

and constant family joy.

 

And then Uni finally beckoned

and you were on your way,

as I sat with Billy, reflecting,

under the tree where now he lay!

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

May 10, 2014

 

 

No depths of sorrow

could they convey

when Horace Ogden

passed away.

 

For he took with him

a soup recipe;

a secret version of

Ham hock and pea,

 

passed down through

generations, proud.

Never written down

or said out loud.

 

So after Horace Ogden,

turned up his toes,

they switched to peas

that had been froze,

 

but folks complained

and said ‘try harder’,

so they added garlic,

found in his larder.

 

But that tasted bitter,

causing some to spew,

and making the customers

switch to Irish stew.

 

You see Horace Ogden

used ham, from ‘Old Spots’,

and not being a fan of onions,

replaced them with shallots.

 

But the real secret lay,

in the steeping of his peas!

How Horace Ogden’s memory

still lingers, in the breeze!

 

 

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