October 13, 2015

 

 

I found myself hesitant,

and even a little scared,

entering the hot house from hell,

amongst plants quite absurd,

 

and yet, entrancingly beautiful

in their unique kind of way,

sat warm Trifid’s aplenty.

in a mesmerist array.

 

Then back out into tranquillity,

where a heron, quite still,

was clearly spotted at peace.

Oh such a joy, such a thrill,

 

to walk in the footsteps

of those gone before,

to soak up the ambiance;

please go, I implore.

 

To read of the children,

who played in the grounds.

To horse ride and fish in

idyllic surrounds,

 

and reside in a nursery,

that was hard to leave;

The best childhood possible,

they had, I believe.

 

Winterbourne House,

so superbly maintained,

with past memories intact;

real life in there remained.

 

Thank you dear Rosie,

these lines I impart,

for sharing the gift,

so very close to your heart.

 

This gem near the city,

 a whole world away,

from the hustle and bustle

I shall return to someday.

 

This poem can be read on

blackbury-poems.com

 

October 7, 2015

 

 

And now her mind

drifts off to sea,

we are left with life

as it used to be.

 

‘Her steak pie suppers,

with that touch of finesse;

too full for more, but

plum pudding, nevertheless’.

 

And now her eyes

little sight can see,

Her touch so vital;

how I envy her dignity.

 

Her manicured fingers

gripping a warm tea cup,

though quite what to do with it –

Chaos could erupt?

 

Last weeks contents, she

poured into the sugar bowl,

when our eyes, for a moment

went on a stroll.

 

Cubes bobbed up and down

and glistened away;

she joined in the laughter,

that saved the day.

 

And now she is ready

for her pre-lunch nap.

Our cue to rise,

and gather coat and cap.

 

She opens her eyes

as we reach the door.

We are now but a blur,

so she closes them once more. 

 

 

 

 

 

I haven’t looked

but I know he’s there.

I sense his presence;

his out sprawled legs

ready to sprint off,

stopping my heart

in an instance.

 

I sit and wait; he

knows I’m there.

He senses my presence.

My body shakes.

I have a plan, and leave

the room to find the

death weapon.

 

When I return – he’s gone!

and I am left wondering

‘Was he ever there at all?’

 

 

 

October 6, 2015

 

 

Tune into

Tonys Time Machine

LIVE

Wednesday 7th October

11am – 1pm

for great chat, music and fun

This week

 

Tony will also be reading Harriet’s poem

‘For The Love Of Manchester’

 

Have a lovely time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Users of imagination,

forever swing on tall ship’s sails.

And talk of thrills and fascination,

with truth as clear as Manx cat’s tails.

 

 

 

 

 

And in the rat holes of dismay,

where ferrets hunt out daily prey,

and gunshots loud, cause shivered spines,

and rabbits flea their safe confines.

 

No warren, a haven, when vicious terriers

set free to instinctively act as couriers,

and naïve pheasants, at a lazy pace,

become tomorrow’s captured brace.

 

With hunters pleading ‘they were born to be dead,

whilst irate Salvationist’s see mists of red.

Who’s right?   Who’s wrong? – Life’s down to luck.

But caught in the cross-fire, limps off one lame duck!

 

And in the Badger versus Bovine debate

so much now sorted; some say too late.

Whilst those with a differing point of view,

still up in arms, as sense and reason stew.

 

So If you’re a lifelong animal lover,

then step this way, but do take cover,

for bullets flying through the air,

cannot distinguish who is there.

 

The Country fox, long since, saw some sense,

and with his cubs, headed for, the urban fence,

to a safer environment, he felt was right;

snuggling up in a wheelie bin for the night!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The house is still standing;

I drove passed, only last year,

and wondered if my forgotten copy

of ‘The Water Babies’ was still in the loft.

 

The nightmare is still in there.

I remember the chair by the sideboard,

where I sat in despair; unable to focus,

too bewildered to care.

 

The past is still in there,

wrapped up in cobwebs, individually rare.

The house abandoned at speed

when bombshells fell out of night air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh mind that sees me

short of rest,

in the wee small hours;

I do protest.

I need this time

to clear my head.

In the wee small hours

whilst in my bed.

 

Oh mind that keeps me

from shut eye,

in the wee small hours,

disturbed, I lie.

I need this time;

give me a break.

In the wee small hours,

for pity’s sake.

 

Oh mind that sends me

on the same dream,

in the wee small hours,

I awake and scream.

I need this time,

to keep my senses keen.

In the wee small hours

grant me, sleep serene.

 

 

 

 

For some reason which escapes me,

he drove us both to the railway station,

and as he opened the driver’s door,

it fell off and clattered to the ground. 

 

 

 

 

Don’t see them as ancient,

for their hand is outstretched.

Warmth still lives in their hearts,

though ‘time’ faintly sketched.

 

Don’t see them as lost

for they’ve found a way,

to cope with their lot;

every day’s a new day.

 

Take from them their knowledge;

be glad of their listening ear.

Treasure each moment spent,

whilst you still have them here. 

 

 

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