February 13, 2014

 

 

And in that moment

when sense goes on the blink,

and you buy red roses

when you know she loves pink!

 

And a bottle of bubbly,

thinking glasses will clink.

Until you remember

she no longer, takes a drink.

 

And the trouble you now face

for getting caught up in the hype,

makes you think, ‘never again,

it’s all just a load of tripe’.

 

 

 

 

February 9, 2014

 

 

Sturdy winter pansies,

smiling through the snow.

Surviving February’s treachery,

their faces all aglow.

 

 

 

 

 

‘Let’s throw the pots out of the window’

was the favourite, familiar refrain,

of my future Mother in law,

when last at the table, we did remain.

 

How I loved those Sunday dinners

with her roast beef and apple pie.

She’d shout of hubby to carve the meat;

he would smile with a twinkle in his eye.

 

The aroma as he entered her kitchen,

drifted into the dining room nearby.

where I’d obligingly laid the table,

which she’d checked with an exacting eye.

 

We shared the job of carrying the tureens,

containing the vegetables, steaming hot,

and then the piece d’ resistance arrived,

and into our seats we immediately shot.

 

We tucked in, enjoying each mouthful,

and became so full, we did gasp and sigh.

After which, she’d give me the choice,

of whether I wanted to wash or dry!

 

We would set the world to rights;

she made washing dishes fun.

And made me feel I was the one,

that she wanted for her son.

 

My next job was to return the silverware,

to the correct boxes in the welsh dresser,

as she summoned her son to pour the brandy,

whilst she made the coffee, bless her.

 

There was no sign of a dishwasher.

I know she would think it a scream

to watch this generation rinse plates,

and then stack them into a machine!

 

and that a job we privately savoured,

that took five minutes, at the most,

had now fallen to new technology;

making the days of washing up – toast.

 

 

 

 

To give of love

and nothing more

is sometimes

not enough.

 

To do what one

is asked to do

can sometimes

be a double bluff.

 

To give of time

and feel a bore

is sometimes

really rough.

 

To do what just

comes naturally

proves you are made

of stronger stuff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank God we are air signs

and of the same mind,

and able to fly over obstacles

and happiness find.

 

Thank God we have freedom

and bags packed to go,

but to what destination,

we never do know!

 

 

 

Take one gram of imagination,

and two grams of inspiration,

then mix together rampantly

with a few drops of perspiration.

 

Now set aside for an hours duration,

using the time for deserved relaxation,

whilst counting your many blessings,

to spread on top, as divine decoration.

 

 

 

 

 

In times of hardship

you were there;

a constant in my set.

Re-assuring and cajoling,

and to you I am in debt.

 

In times of heartache

you were there;

the first to hold my hand.

Re-affirming and supporting,

without question or demand.

 

 

 

February 4, 2014

 

 

Inside my bag of troubles

nestles hidden gems.

Strange, but true, believe me;

as bright as diadems.

 

I’ve seen them for myself.

I glimpsed their light reflection.

Only for a second, did,

they beg for my inspection.

 

They teased and gave me hope,

when I looked in their direction,

Inside my bag of troubles,

I felt momentary affection.

 

Perhaps I looked too deeply,

beyond the junk and clutter.

‘I am really such a thick sod’,

to myself, I had to mutter.

 

It came out of the blue,

and took me by surprise.

A second of self loathing,

A quick flash of old despise.

 

I recovered almost instantly,

as stark reality set in.

l gazed into my bag of troubles,

and almost cracked a grin.

 

What I knew, and always had known,

and what was obviously quite clear,

was that I couldn’t exist upon this earth,

without my bag of troubles near.

 

 

 

 

You are the soul that calls to me,

who reads me like a book.

The one who knows me inside out,

when others, purity, mistook.

 

You are the link that joins me to

the heartache I’ve endured.

You feel my pain, as I feel yours;

we both have been Midge Ure’d.

 

 

 

 

 

Promise you won’t sell up

and move house, Mum.

We’ll have no place left

to call home!

 

Where will we dump

all our stuff, Mum,

when we return from

our travels to Rome.

 

Please don’t downsize

and move on, Mum.

This house holds,

for us, so much joy.

 

and bruv needs his room

to crash out in, Mum,

when his assignment

is finished in Illinois.

 

Please don’t get on

with your life, Mum.

It’s not as if you’ll

never see us again.

 

There’s still lots of

reasons to stay, Mum.

Why on earth would

you move to Spain?

 

 

 

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