We sit in our chairs

Each in our separate space

Watching each other’s thoughts

One on each side of the fire

Reading the flames

Waiting for something

Waiting for something

One day it will come

But in the meantime we sit here

Like two borrowed cats.

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I looked at the bed.

My mother had left the room.

The nurse took my arm

And led me away.

She told me

When her father died

A robin

Came into the garden

And sat upon the handle of his spade.

After the funeral

I went into the garden

And waited for the robin.

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CHILDHOOD

HAPPINESS

High up in heaven

Angels guard

Precious charges – sleeping

Peacefully

In their arms

Nothing can

Ever disturb their

Slumber, above a blue

Silk sky.

DEATH

Darkness falls and all the

Earth is still

Another soul wings its way

Towards

Heaven.

MIDNIGHT

Moonbeams turn moths into mythical creatures

Illuminated against the

Darkness

Near the light for an

Instant, their

Ghostly forms

Hurtle headlong and disappear without

Trace.

CHRISTMAS

Candles and

Holly

Robins

In the

Snow

Tinsel and trees and

Merry faces all aglow

Angels watching from above

Softly sleeping is my love.

SPRING FEVER

Sun wakes the smiling

Primroses after

Raging winter has passed

Islands

Of jewels

Nestling in the

Grass

Faces open – raven for the warmth

Each adding a

Visual voice of

Ecstasy for it’s

Rebirth.

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Pen and ink branches

Against a darkening sky

A blackbird singing

Monotonously

Water drips onto the roof

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip

Rose petals falling

On to polished surfaces

Reflecting silence

Sepia faces

From faded photographs

Forever watching

Labels fluttering

Panic-stricken climbing plants

Cling – restrained by vines

Crystal white landscape

Snowflake branches etched on blue

Winter wonderland

Ships of the desert

Boats tossed on the sands of time

Sails fleeing the wind

Yellow Iris dance

With their deep reflections

In still green water

Flickering candle

The smell of polish and time

Only ghosts remain

Feather-light wings

Flutter against the window

Beseeching vainly

Green willow branches

Bending to brush the surface

Of sunlit water

Bright silver moonlight

Shimmering on pewter waves

Calm after the storm

Ebony velvet sky

Reflecting sparkling jewels

On to deep dark pools

(Top)

Now this dreary war is over

Once more our island home is free

Ships again sail into Dover

Now this dreary war is over

No more blackout, and moreover

Banana sandwiches for tea

Now this dreary war is over

Once more our island home is free.

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VICIOUSLY WE EYED ONE ANOTHER

I HAD FED IT, PLEADED, CAJOLED AND THREATENED

BUT IT CROUCHED – DEFYING ME – ITS RED EYE GLARING.

SUDDENLY IT GROWLED, AND GNASHED ITS TEETH

FRIENZEDLY.

I WAITED.

IT SPAT – CLOSED ITS EYE – AND WAS STILL.

CAUTIOUSLY REACHING FOR THE TYPE WRITTEN SHEET,

I WHISPERED MY THANKS.

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Morning is my favourite time and

Afternoons I quite like to sit

Underneath the

Rose arbor, but

Every

Evening and late at

Night, I sip champagne.

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My fluffy kitten once so small

Could barely climb upon my knee

But now she has grown very tall

My fluffy kitten once so small

She jumps upon the garden wall

And scales the very highest tree

My fluffy kitten once so small

Could barely climb upon my knee.

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What is this life if full of care

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to sit and nurse the cat

Or call a neighbour for a chat.

No time to walk beside the sea

Or look for birds’ nests in a tree.

No time to sip a cup of tea

With friends who’ve come to visit me.

No time to watch a film and weep

And see the cat dream in her sleep.

No time to sit at the computer

And write a poem for my tutor.

A sad life this if, full of care

We can’t take time to stand and stare.

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What is this life if full of care

We have no time to stand and stare

No time to sit with my sketchbook

Into the kitchen, there’s dinner to cook

No time to have a game of chess

Because the house is such a mess

No time to dream beneath a tree

The car’s due for its MOT

No time to watch the baby sleep

There’s the garden path to sweep

No time to sit at my computer

To write a poem for my tutor

A sad life this if full of care

We can’t make time to stand and stare.

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A Villanelle

I love to walk beside the sea

And hunt for shells upon the sand.

I wish that you were here with me.

Those days when we were so carefree,

when you were there to hold my hand.

I love to walk beside the sea.

At a small café we stopped for tea,

or sat and listened to the band.

I wish that you were here with me.

We watched the boats that left the quay

glide out of sight round the headland.

I love to walk beside the sea.

We knew there was no guarantee,

and things may not go as we had planned.

I wish that you were here with me.

The future we could not foresee,

Our love was built on a quicksand.

I love to walk beside the sea,

I wish that you were here with me.

(Top)

“I didn’t expect this lot Matt,

pop to the market – see what you can get – while I light the Barbie.”

Matt was soon back

“Sorry Guv’ – only two loaves left.”

The ground rumbled.

“What’s that?” asked Pete.

“It sounded like an earth quake” replied Tom.

Hundreds of dead fish floated ashore.

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The struggle over – warm and safe

We are three

Nestled in warm sacs

Eyeing each other, my brothers and I

Waiting –

To be chosen to live or die.

Ripples disturb our watery home –

Steel sword of death approaches!

Watching my brothers writhe and die,

I,

The chosen one,

Must wait.

(Top)

In 1947, when china cups were scarce,

My aunt served tea in jam jars –

They had no other use.

No sugar had she to make jam

Nor cups to serve the tea,

So jam jars came in handy

When she had guests, you see.

(Top)

In my neighbour’s garden

There’s a child called No

She’s visiting her Grandma

Who loves her garden so.

No likes to pick flowers

And throw stones in the pond.

She’ll dig for worms for hours

The little vagabond!

But Grandma grows the flowers

And the pond is full of fish

So it’s ‘No, don’t do that’

And ‘No, don’t do this.

No, don’t touch the pansies

No, keep off the grass

Granddad has just seeded

You’ll make him very cross.

No, you’re getting dirty

Don’t touch the doggy’s dish

No, you can’t play in the pond

You’ll frighten all the fish.

No, don’t do that, it’s naughty

You’ll get dirt in your hair.

No dear, that is not a weed

No, please leave it there.

No, come and eat your dinner

No, please put down that hoe.

Oh good, here comes your mother

It’s time for you to go!”

(Top)

Through the winters snow on the ground

They struggle forth without a sound.

They hang their heads, just barely seen

Then lift white trumpets, edged with green.

We know that spring is on the way

When snowdrops herald in the day.

Summer maidens in their bower

Cannot compete with this brave flower.

Companions that are almost as bold,

Regal in their purple gold,

Like jewels sparkling in the grass

Crocus help the winter pass,

Opening their faces to the sun

And closing up when the day is done.

They brighten up the darkest glades

But all too soon their beauty fades.

Next comes the sprightly Daffodil

Marching over field and hill,

Yellow trumpets lifted high

They shout their message to the sky.

Battling against the wind and rain

They make their feelings very plain,

“Begone dull winter – let it be clear

That spring is definitely here.”

(Top)

A motley group of strangers

We gathered at the start

To learn creative writing

The hope was in our hearts

For three years she has taught us

Great knowledge she imparts

But Maggie says we’re not allowed

To mention body parts.

Though our heads seem in the clouds

Our feet are on the ground

With noses to the grindstone

Our minds with thoughts abound

It was an upward struggle

To school us in the arts

And Maggie says we’re not allowed

To mention body parts.

When reading works profound

Our stomachs often flutter

But tongues can wonder round

And it’s not poetry we utter

Sometimes we get distracted

From lessons we depart

But Maggie says we’re not allowed

To mention body parts.

Now friends – who once were strangers

All struggle in our quest

We take things very seriously

And try to do our best

But eyes water with laughter

Ribs ache, when Glynis starts

Then Maggie cries, “You’re not allowed

To mention body parts.”

Now I have to say farewell and go to foreign parts

But Maggie I will promise not to mention body parts.

(Top)

Australia is rather hot

But I like it quite a lot.

Though there isn’t any snow

And out here Christmas trees don’t grow

The tall palm trees, and Jacaranda

Enhance the view from my verandah.

The Robin on the Christmas card

Doesn’t sing in my backyard.

The Blackbird’s song I sorely miss

But cooing doves make up for this,

And Kookaburras laugh at dawn

At sprinklers sparkling on the lawn.

The ocean wide is very blue

And rivals flowers of every hue,

And splendid sunsets – red and gold –

An artist’s delight to behold.

And a barbeque, or sausage sizzle

Beats a picnic in a drizzle!

I’ve made some friends – seen many places,

And though I miss your smiling faces,

When the temperature reaches forty

And I don’t feel very sporty,

I think of a cold wet winter’s night

When I longed for the warm sunlight.

So I think I’ll stay in this new land

And dream my dreams of old England .

(Top)

Here he comes, old Josh

With his sack upon his back

And is clay pipe belching

Turning his white beard yellow.

Grumbling his way along the path

Smokey blue eyes searching

For something forgotten.

A bit of bread and water

Is all he asks.

A chalk cross on the gate

Signals a welcome.

(Top)

The sun rose

Slowly

To the centre of the sky

And the dry, sandy footway began

To throw up the heat

That lay buried beneath it.

Some birds chirruped

In the forest around.

The men trod the dry leaves of the sand.

All else was silent.

Then

From the distance

Came the faint beating of the ekwe.

It rose and faded in the wind –

A peaceful dance

From a distant clan.

(Top)

Where did it go

That other life

When we were close

Belonging to each other?

Our house was our house

Where we lived

Together

The chairs where we sat

At the table

By the fire.

We did not know

We had no thought

That it would not always be so

That one day

We would not belong.

(Top)

Their voices twitter like birds in a bush

Light flickers on empty faces

Hands pull and soothe

Fresh soapy linen cool against my skin

Shadows move and dance – too fleet to catch

In my twilight world

I float on downy pillows

Monotonous bleeps reassure.

The squeak of trolley wheels, clinking metal

Water – cool against dry lips

Gone away before my throat can catch the teasing wetness.

Rhythmic whispers invade my time

Somewhere, close by, the scent of freesias

Warm hand on mine – fingers seeking

Footsteps retreating

Alone in my private world.

Dark grey shadow – it is my brother

Sister, daughter – perhaps my son?

In and out of my mind

They drift like ghostly sailing ships.

Bright lights – a swift sharp pain!

The steady beat goes on and on and on

The tide ebbs and flows

Footprints fill with sea.

(Top)

With their colourful caravan homes, and camp on the grass verge.

Neat as a pin – horse brasses glint in the sun

And piebald ponies crop the grass and wood smoke scents the evening air.

Dolly pegs and wooden flowers; bits of this and that.

“Can you spare a crust lady?” the brown faces plead

And dark-eyed children peep behind their mothers’ skirts.

“Bless you lady and good health to you and yours.”

Next day the verge is empty. Ghosts vanished in the night without a sound.

Only a ring of black ashes shows where their fire has been.

They have gone to work in other fields

As the seasons go round and round.

(Top)

I can’t hear the radio, or voices of people around me,

But children are laughing – and waves crash onto the beach.

I can’t see to watch TV or read a book,

But there are bluebells under the trees and daffodils in the lane.

I can’t taste the minced up pap I am fed –

But blackberries are warm from the sun.

I can’t smell the disinfectant on the ward –

Only the lilac blossom – meadow sweet and wood smoke.

I can’t feel the bedclothes that cover me –

But a baby’s breath fans my cheek.

I can’t speak,

But I can sing glorious anthems in my head.

I can’t walk,

But I can dance until midnight and drift home in the moonlight.

I can’t write a best seller,

But my mind holds the wonderful stories of my life.

(Top)

The lonely hours pass

as we wait

our hearts cold and empty.

Across the room my alter-ego – my twin,

steadfast and patient – standing square,

stiff backbones belie our soft hearts.

Giving support at the end of the weary day

arms enfold weary travellers,

home to rest.

Over the years witness to love and sorrow,

bearing the weight of the old,

our souls trampled and bruised

by the feet of the young.

Worn down and faded by the years,

then dressed anew

in bright coloured raiments

Empty twin across the room

draped with ghostly shadow;

my arms comfort

the aged fragility.

(Top)

They loom out of gloaming

Like saviours of our stomachs,

Out of season market umbrellas

Cooling their heels until summer,

A cover for a Conrad catalogue.

Beside the door-manned door

A hot pink ZINC logo

Split level grill divided

Between cocktail bar and restaurant

Each parasitically feeding off the other.

And a good humoured ‘Thank God it’s Friday’ crowd

Doing a good impression

Of young people enjoying themselves.

Floor staff – young puppies – falling over big feet,

Eager to please.

(Top)

You were so beautiful

Shiny – smelling of newness –

Wrapped in crinkly blue tissue paper

In a smart box.

I was so proud.

Hoping my friends would see me

Walking home, with my new black shoes.

On that first day of school

I treated you with such care

Dodging puddles, walking sedately.

But you let me down – you were not true –

You became scuffed, dull, your beauty lost,

Cornflake cardboard inner soles soggy.

I hide you beneath my desk –

My poor old shoes.

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THERE ONCE WAS AN OLD MAN CALLED SANTA

WHO DECIDED TO GO FOR A CANTER

HE JUMPED IN HIS SLEIGH

AND YELLED ‘CHOCKS AWAY’

SAID RUDOLPH ‘FIRST PASS THE DECANTER’

(Top)

The first child – a daughter

Mother’s longed for miracle

Father’s little Princess

Will always have

Her special place.

The second child – first son

A new experience

Blue for a boy

Father’s pride and joy

For him a special place.

The third child – boy or girl

Doesn’t really matter

Nothing special.

The youngest daughter

A post-war baby

Father’s pet

Spoilt by all

She has her special place.

The youngest son

The last one

Taken so young

Tragedy gives him

His special place.

But the middle child

Will never be

Anything special.

(Top)

Dear children

Cherish your days

Cleave to your brothers and sisters

Gather your childhood around you

Guard it closely

For it will not come again.

Mark your days

With sunshine and laughter

Look upon the faces

Of those you love

Memorise their truth

Lest you forget too soon.

The feel of their souls

Wrapping you in loving arms

Play in the woods

While your heart is still free

This time of innocence

Fleet in its passing.

(Top)

At the crest of a hill

bright yellow paint and Lara’s theme

beckoning, a newly awakened buttercup.

The star attraction

ready for my adoring fans

coins tainting hot grubby hands.

Dark clouds roll in,

only forlorn echoes of laughter remain

eclipsed – on a wet windy corner.

Glimpses of faces through lighted windows,

wafting across the street.

The mouth-watering warmth of McDonalds.

(Top)

I will put in my box

My pillow full of pictures

Teddy’s chuckle

The silliness of my granddad

I will put in my box

The sparkle of sunshine on the river

Red boats

The colours of rainbows

I will put into the box

Comfort from my old blanket

The sound of Christmas morning

A drawing of God

My box will hold

My fear of the dark

The fiery breath of a dragon

E.T.

My box will be made of ginger biscuits

With jelly-baby handles and

Roller-skate feet and

Locked with secrets

I will take it to the top of the

Faraway tree on Treasure Island

In the middle of the world.

(Top)

I will put in my box

The agony and betrayal of friends and the bitterness of broken promises.

The savage wounds of old age and the bleak pain of loneliness.

I will put in my box

The delusions of a suicide bomber and the malevolence of a murderer’s heart.

The poison echoes of sin and the black holes of a universe of lost souls.

I will put in my box

The harsh shriek of angry voices and the ugliness of envy.

The stench of decaying dreams and the brokenness of despair.

Finally my box will hold

A photograph of forgotten vows, the lost fervour of love, and the kiss of Judas.

My box will be made of the last remains of hope and shreds of shattered dreams, woven with a lizard’s tongue of lies, and locked with humiliation. The hinges will be serpents of self-pity, and the feet sculpted from the stone of a cold heart.

And I will take my bad box and throw it into a bottomless pool in the remotest corner of the earth.

(Top)