Poetry Now

Fling words at the page until they cling,

no need to rhyme at the end of each line

poetry today is pointed, sharp.

Thoughts do not flow, they pounce, they flash

they light the moment and are gone-

play ‘catch me if you can.’

Now, like modern jazz, we seek the melody in vain-

verses no longer swing, instead dissected, clever

lines confound, while poems of the past

are remembered for ever.

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Anniversary verse

August 2019

Fifty three years we’ve been wed. ” You’ll be sorry,” father said

Not to me, but to my beau ( to warn you what you did not know)

That life with me would be a game and no two years would be the same.

While you appreciate the past, knowing that treasured memories last

I want to learn and strive and change, often our future rearrange,

With gratitude for all that’s been, discovering what life’s lessons mean.

Together, settled, we were sure- in Education and the Law

Ambitions matched, until the time when motherhood added to mine.

An accident curtailed our dream but still, undaunted it would seem

That, as a couple, we’d adapt and soon a different route was mapped.

We moved, and watched our two boys grow and give us grandchildren to know

And when our working lives were done we paused, to find what we’ve become.

For here, as we age, we retain so few regrets-ignoring pain

And problems caused by growing old.  That’s life – ‘Just bear it’ we are told.

Our lives are filled with tunes and song, the knowledge that we both belong-

I write, and you connect on line. We share a joke, go out to dine.

We’ve home and friends and family and time to spend beside the sea.

So I’ll wish you and you’ll wish me a Happy Anniversary.

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tortoises

 

On the Line

Am I the only person to think that sheets on a washing line look so beautiful they could be a work of art? I did take a photo of white ones once but today I snapped blue ones. Is it something about the light and shade, or the draping? I thought of a little rhyme:

Remember once there was a time

When sheets upon a washing line

Meant that Monday morning’s fine?

It still does, and these sheets are mine!on the line

 

Performing

I was surprised and delighted to be asked by Geoff to read a poem at his great friend Angie’s memorial event, which unfortunately turned out to be a celebration of Mike Paine’s life as well. Geoff, of the Village Stage, Angmering fame, arranged a charity evening with 20 different performers who knew one or both of them, folk singers, country singers, groups and soloists and me – reading a couple of my poems. I read Mood Hues from ‘Coconut Ice’ and then a little verse I had penned for the occasion which I reproduce here. I may also have room for my reward sticker!

Folk

Throughout the ages men have sung of feelings felt and deeds well done

All history recorded by a song, to make one laugh or cry.

No matter what the singer’s choice, guitar or banjo, pipe or voice

To share and care we all combine to air our thoughts in tune and rhyme

For modern minstrels carry on traditions both of tales and song

Our common heritage awoke the bonds of friendship forged in Folk.

village stage

Summer Morning ( verse)

Today the curtains open wide to show the bright sunshine outside

And there, just waiting, at the gate – my friendly blackbird, am I late?

No, pigeons have devoured the seed and left, so he has space to feed

I’ll rise and juicy currants find, for now the larger birds have dined

On corn and peanuts, he can have a breakfast that I know he’ll love

And I can watch his handsome form – so sleek, so black, he greets the dawn

With song that’s always my delight. It’s like a thank-you, and the sight

Of yellow beak and beady eye just complements the pale blue sky.

To share the summer with the birds encourages me to find the words-

For simple pleasures can bring cheer. It isn’t miserable all year!

 

Filling a Root Canal

” Open wide so I can numb, then inject, your upper gum.

A tiny prick and you will feel no more of this two hour ordeal.”

I sign the form with shaky hand, still so afraid – I understand

that my infected tooth is dead, to be replaced with pins instead.

A clamp inserted in my jaw, no time for questions any more.

I lie there with my mouth agape, eyes closed, unable to escape

and then begins that awful whine that makes me fearful every time.

The drill is ringing in my ear, although I know I’ve naught to fear.

There is no pain, only the sound of grinding, digging and I found

a spray of water hit my face as, mentally, I float in space

so calm I am almost asleep, until a sudden high pitched beep

shows that a different drill’s in use, then heat, a flash, I dared not peep.

” Are you OK?” the dentist said and in response I nod my head.

“It’s almost done, but don’t forget there’s more appointments to come yet.

Next month a crown must go on top,” Will dental visits ever stop?

I sit up, glad to get away. There’s nothing left to do but pay.

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Communication – verse

Alone, one night, I had a fright, walking along beside the road

I thought I’d nearly trod upon a turd – but it was just a toad.

A turd with legs? This cannot be, I thought as I went on my way

And smiled to think it was unharmed. ” Goodnight, you toad,” I had to say.

This habit strange, I must admit, began at home where, on the sill

A tiny spider’s made a web and I appreciate its will

So did not clean it right away, in case it captured a stray fly,

Instead I talk to it each day ” Good morning, spider, don’t be shy.”

I put out currants for the birds and whistle to tell them they’re there.

Perhaps it seems a trifle odd but I am old and do not care!