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!

 

 

 

 

On days when sense

is hard to find,

and you feel ostracised

from all mankind.

 

Just be thankful

that you’re not a toad,

who’s been squashed to death

on a country road.

 

 

 

 

From yesterdays winds

an old stranger blew in,

totally unannounced,

wearing a sardonic grin.

 

And in that last moment

left to savour,

locked in forever,

as if a favour

 

came a haunting echo;

almost a semi quaver!

But no hope was there

to ever save her.

 

….and at the end,

waiting in the wings,

was the face of that stranger;

one of her wartime flings!

 

‘Life not much different

to earth’ she thought,

reflecting on the gospels,

she had been taught.

 

No getting away from

her chequered past.

No cloth to wipe clean the slate,

that now in stone cast.

 

Then floating next to her soldier

appeared her partners face,

and just like two tadpoles,

they hovered in space.

 

And then they were joined

by many, many more!

All familiar faces,

on this bottomless floor.

 

And then, to her horror,

she saw she was the same;

her head, all she had left

of her old earthly frame!

 

With this realisation, a thought

crossed through her mind.

‘There’d be no adultery committed’

she was relieved now to find.

 

But before she could bade

all the tadpoles a goodbye,

her guardian angel took her by the ear,

and winked with one knowing eye!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 9, 2014

 

 

Interpret what you will of this;

t’is yours to own, t’is yours to kiss.

 

In whole, or maybe just in part;

t’is yours to keep, t’is all my heart.

 

Interpret what you will, but rush;

t’is a fair offer, t’is no ambush.

 

Interpret what you will, sweet pea;

t’is your last chance, t’is my last plea.

 

 

 

May 8, 2014

 

 

…and at the end,

the saviour waiting

at the pearly gate.

 

All creed and colour

passing muster.

All love replacing hate.

 

 

 

May 1, 2014

 

 

She made Eccles Cakes

and Maids of Honour,

and spiced Tray Bakes,

when the mood was upon her.

 

She made Bakewell Tarts

and Coconut Squares,

and Vanilla Slices,

and Gingerbread Men in pairs.

 

She made Custard Pies

and Raspberry Buns,

and Chocolate Fondants,

that gave us the runs!

 

She made fruity Simnels

and Wedding Cakes,

and Lemon Shortbreads

and food for Funeral Wakes.

 

She made Brandy Snaps

and Treacle Toffee,

and Banana Bread,

long before Banoffee.

 

She made Fairy Cakes

with a Cherry glace,

and Christmas Puddings

that she set ablaze.

 

She made Currant Cakes

out of pastry waste,

and hot Easter Bunnies

topped with almond paste.

 

She made mini Trifles

and Wimberry Pies,

and Chocolate Donuts,

that hung around the thighs.

 

She made Apple Turnovers

and thick, nutty Flapjacks.

The aroma from her kitchen,

enough to give us heart attacks.

 

She made Coffee Cream Meringues,

and the best Parkin in town.

As a top class confectioner,

she was renown.

 

All this, she did alone,

as well as serving in her shop.

It doesn’t seem humanly possible,

but back then, work didn’t stop.

 

 

 

April 27, 2014

 

 

He took himself to a quiet place,

where twigs and leaves had claimed the space,

and settled on the sodden land,

once green with life, in every strand.

 

He needed time to be alone

and perched upon a staddlestone.

Then looking down to the valley floor,

dwelled on what might now, be in store?

 

He sat in peace, as night-time reared.

An owl hooted, then disappeared,

and pigeons coo’d their distinctive chant

from sinister branches, sounding triumph-ant.

 

He knew that changes were forthcoming,

and felt comforted, by nightingales humming.

These precious moments seemed to lift his mood;

his mind re-nourished, from natures brood.

 

And as another call came on his restless phone,

he decided this spot, he would call his own.

He then stood to leave, saying a silent goodbye,

as bats dived this way and that, in silent reply.

 

And around his feet, rabbits ran amok:

In only that short time, he had taken stock,

and compacted files in his confused head,

and most of his demons, he had put to bed!

 

 

 

 

 

 

An enraptured madness of a surrealist joke,

where all things possible, and thoughts provoke.

When wingless birds take to the air,

soaring through the thermals, without a care.

 

And widgets of the world unite,

for a Can-Can fest’ around midnight.

And lost leaders out of nowhere win;

with a twisted, barley sugared grin.

 

From his mouth comes spewing, lime green gunge,

as the devil dances on a bathtub sponge.

The surrealist route, an escape from hell,

when all other therapy, to the ground has fell.

 

 

 

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