May 18, 2015

 

 

I know he,

who knows not me:

Lost is the bell

for liberty.

 

She and he

appear as one,

on camera film,

when selfies done.

 

It is the way,

it is today.

‘Happy snapping’,

no chance to say nay.

 

Arms flung round necks,

and big bear hugs,

then click and flash,

those captured mugs.

 

I know not he,

nor he knows me,

but what the hell,

just smile with glee

 

No use today,

just a scribbled name,

begged for, to some

honoured Dame.  

 

Now stars assaulted

in daylight,

without respect;

powerless to fight.

 

I know he,

who knows not me,

but now no difference,

can there be.

 

No escape;

nowhere to go.

All privacy lost;

a bitter blow.

 

I promise you,

she knows not me,

The photo not,

what it seems to be!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The climb so steep,

as if to Everest’s shelf.

Each step, a journey

in itself,

 

as familiar memories

flood the mind,

when we recall good times,

as we unwind.

 

All relived, as if

just only heard;

Old fables told,

word for word.

 

Well maybe some,

exaggerated,

just a little

now we elated,

 

as fire and passion,

from the heart,

revived the battery,

with a jump start.

 

But the reality,

now truth be faced,

to discover one,

is so outpaced.

 

And not as fit

as other climbers,

who’ve headed off,

and left old timers,

 

to arrive there

at their steady pace,

like losers in

a marathon race,

 

when all the leaders

wait in vain,

to greet the stragglers;

half dead with pain,

 

who staggered in

dishevelled and windswept,

on all fours,

with eyes that wept.

 

But, oh the view,

when at the top.

A breath to catch;

heart beats clip-clop.

 

The quest achieved,

to reach Peel Tower:

Cometh the man,

cometh the hour.

 

And the descent,

such a thrill,

on reaching the bottom

of Holcombe Hill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 12, 2015

 

 

She came through today

and said ‘Calm down,’

‘See it as it is,

take away that frown’

 

She came through for me,

as she always did;

my human brake,

when I was in a skid. 

 

She came through again,

rescuing me from myself,

in the place she sits

on a hidden shelf.

 

She came through today;

a red rag to a bull.

Making me so mad;

calling me ‘ a daft numb skull’.

 

She came through to sort

another situation,

and won me round once more,

with her manipulation.

 

She came through again,

as I know she always will;

to give me merry hell,

and sense in me, instill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The things she wanted

before she died:

Like artex ceilings replaced,

as ‘good taste’ they belied!

 

The things she insisted

she wanted right:

Like colour co-ordination,

though subtle, not bright!

 

The things she flung out,

to make a fresh start:

The six lawn mowers he kept;

the silly old fart!

 

The things she embraced,

now she lived as one:

How wonderful the world,

now she was ninety one!

 

 

 

May 11, 2015

 

 

Tune into Tony

LIVE

Every Wednesday.

11am – 1pm (UK time)

as MAY ROCKS on.

Tony will be reading

Harriet’s poems –

‘Fruit Rap’

and

‘For The Love Of Music – Part 2’

(both, specially penned for the show)

Repeats of the show  can be heard

all week at the usual times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 10, 2015

 

 

So still the blades of

grass on Springside,

that welcomed home

at close of day,

the one reliable

in his routine,

who came and went

with easy sway.

 

So watchful in

anticipation;

the blades of grass

searched with intent.

But now sit so lonely,

and respectful;

missing familiar steps

that came and went.

 

So still the blades of

grass on Springside,

now it’s sunk in

they’ll never hear

the engine stopping,

the car door shutting,

as raindrops, for each,

produce a tear.

 

So sad, the blades of

grass on Springside,

for they feel too,

their time is nigh.

They know that sound;

it’s all too familiar,

as the lawn mower

comes ever closer by!

 

 

 

 

 

May 7, 2015

 

 

Oh, for the sound

of Fortisimo!

His voice at a screech;

he sure let me know,

when he was lonely,

or tired of being ignored.

When in need of human affection,

oh how he yelled and implored.

 

Oh for the sound

of Fortisimo!

I’m half the person I was

as he probably knows.

I could win the Lotto,

that had rolled many a week,

and not feel as happy

as when his love I would seek.

 

Oh for the sound

of Fortisimo!

That little Siamese bastard,

just won’t let go

of my stolen heartstrings,

my mind, and each thought.

But my family would leave home,

if another I bought!

 

 

 

 

And of the ones he

thought who might,

he found Delphinia

a total delight!

 

She tapped into,

his inner senses.

They experimented with

unknown consequences.

 

And of the ones he

thought who might,

his gut feeling was

to prove him right.

 

By dawn Delphinia

was on her way.

No questions asked

at close of play.

 

But how small the world

with the travelling elite;

she found Mendotta to be sat

in the very next seat.

 

(They had once attended

the same ‘Finishing School’,

in Switzerland,

where the air is cool.)

 

And she passed on to Mendotta,

the number of a guy,

who she nicknamed ‘Perry’,

who she suggested, she try.

 

Astonished, Mendotta

accepted with grace;

at the same time feeling

a flush to her face!

 

Later, the ladies ‘air kissed’

and went separate ways.

How temptation, tantalisingly,

with the mind, stays!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Billy was only,

halfway to paradise,

when he left us broken hearted,

and made the final sacrifice.

 

and Dusty; other artists,

always outsold,

left a catalogue of music,

with hits of pure gold.

 

Robert Palmer, the coolest:

Sheffield’s king of smooth.

Effortlessly crooning;

our troubled minds to sooth.

 

and Adam, the one;

another hit machine guy,

with whom we kept faith,

until his untimely goodbye.

 

The exodus of Bob Marley

had us wailing all day,

and three little birds also,

had so much things to say.

 

‘Twenty four hours from Tulsa’

sang this storyteller singer:

Gene’s gentle, moving words,

in our hearts still linger.

 

and taken so young,

suddenly Mark was gone,

off into the clouds

to ride his white swan.

 

and Roy Orbison sang,

for only the lonely, too,

before leaving on a journey

back to his Blue Bayou.

 

Paul from Cockney Rebel,

in the cruellest way left:

when a twist of fate took him,

leaving fans bereft.

 

Phil fulfilled his dreams,

to become a pop star.

His loyal fans still toast him,

with whisky in a jar

 

The wind cried Mary,

and he had to go;

our great guitarist, Jimi,

who we all loved so.

 

and not just in Massachusetts

did the lights all go out,

when Robin joined his brothers,

leaving us sad beyond doubt.

 

Most recently, Ben E King

drifted off to sleep.

Under the boardwalks of our mind,

his memory, we will keep.

 

Our love affair with Errol

started with a kiss.

His smooth, seductive voice,

we sure are going to miss.

 

So many more were taken,

So many, I could name;

It comes with liabilities,

this fickle game of fame.

 

So many idols lost;

sudden death hard to digest.

Their music, their legacy;

our gain at their bequest.

 

May 2, 2015

 

 

It’s a brave man now

who will sell hot spuds,

at two in the morning,

if he values his goods.

 

 

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