31 poems in 30 days. Napowrimo.

31 poems in 30 days.

Napowrimo.

Has it been good?

Has it been fun?

Successful? Now that it’s done?

We’ll assess success...

I certainly was up to the test.

Managed a sizeable poem every day,

Not always the best; I’ll admit and say.

But I did it.

And feel quite smug.

I really caught the writing bug.

But.

There was a decided lack of credit.

Now, I don’t look for praise and don’t often get it...

Truth is – I was amongst hundreds of other participants

And so, I got lost, I didn’t really ever stand much chance.

I think.

But I’m not really sure.

That I wrote a couple of bits that were

Really quite good.

Didn’t I deserve more hits?

For those good bits?

Whatever.

And as for participant of the day.

Managing a four syllable landay

And an eight word gomolotay

Again. Whatever .  Nuff said.

I really enjoyed the challenge. And thank you all.

All told 7500 odd words (often quite)

My apologies if I wasn’t always polite.

Dave Strong.

x-rated pictures, all x-rated porn

(with my apologies to the faint-hearted)

X-rated pictures, all x-rated porn;

X-rated videos and film.

Even triple-x girls

All on their own website.

How much more is it you need

To feed your appetite?

Now, I know it’s nothing new.

We’ve been over-taxed

By the sexual act.

Since forever.

Just look at Egyptian hieroglyphs

And remember Roman orgy-ists

They wenched and slaved away,

Since before recorded time.

And presumably images scratched and daubed on walls

Were really quite rudely fine.

But we now have the media to record more...

And more.

Then there’s books.

Oh yes.

Shades Of Grey is nothing new.

Fanny Hill, Kama thing, the Perfumed Garden...

DH Lawrence had his Lady Chatting away with the gardener.

Then we come to Emmanuelle

Who gave her Arsan and even other bits

To any man that wanted its.

And she called it female liberty

I call it with incredulity, depravity.

Bless her! But she meant well.

And didn’t hurt anyone.

We have now so moved on.

Now it is just nasty.

Children in playgrounds on their mobile phones;

Can see scenes of sex clips free and on it drones.

We call out for censorship;

And perhaps we get a little bit.

But it is not enough!

Images.

And people get caught up in it all,

A little is not enough, they always want more.

And younger.

Nubile teen and little girl obscene.

The internet treats them as objects of desire,

Without choice and freely ready for hire.

There are people who profit from all this:

I hope their balls shrivel up and cause a lot of pain

Just a little would not be the same.

They resort to the dark web.

Where hidden to only them (at a cost)

Are images that should be gone and lost.

Expunged!

There are paedophiles who create these files.

To them I say..

You disgust me.

I abhor the way you are.

With you gratification and your self-satisfaction.

Next time you cough – I hope your dick drops off.

Bugger it all!

Bugger it all! It’s just so unfair!

Sometimes it seems more than one can bear.

How can a little child be so fragile?

So easily broken?

Children living with leukaemia: it’s all so sad.

Or born with aids – what chance do they have?

In third world countries living in filth and war;

Hunger, disease and even more...

And yet you still see them laughing and playing on the tv...

And now I’m saying just words.

And you glaze over. Yes you!

Bugger you too!

This could so easily affect you!

Illness strikes everyone

Sometimes.

And we recover, yes I know.

But some do not..

In and out of hospital is their lot.

Never completely free of pain.

The unfairness of it all is so insane.

And yet in their serenity they do not complain.

To see someone who is so brave

So quick to smile, so well behaved

So unassuming,  calm and yet seemingly unafraid.

I am awed.

The world is so much a richer, more worthwhile place,

With wonderful kids like these.

But that does not make it right anywhere,

It only exacerbates the unfair.

Now, I’m not asking you to be sad and moribund,

Or dash off to start a charity fund.

Or dedicate yourself to finding a cure.

What do I want? I’m not sure.

I don’t know.

Perhaps all I want is to rant and shout,

Have a chance to let my feelings out.

But then what’s left but to declare..

Bugger it all – it’s so unfair!

Under the undergrowth

Under the undergrowth of society;

Living amid the brambles, the bracken and the bushes.

The flowers, grasses and plants grow and fight

All clamouring for their share of the light..

In the borders and the hedges of human life.

Seeds germinate there constantly

And not all flourish.

Sadly so many wither and perish

And do not stand a chance.

Yet the weeds-with-attitude

They survive in all their plentitude.

And yet so much depends on fate:

What is an environmental state.

Lucky to be born in richer soil?

It helps you can be sure.

There is such an abundance of life,

And a beauty and a reverence.

So many species live in harmony:

Insects, little mammals, invertebrates.

Yet living in the dark corners, in the undergrowth,

There is a vampirical scum.

Feeding on the lives of others, it’s a blight

Elbowing out the good like a parasite.

They do so little that is good

Selfish is there way, they feed

On their violence fear and greed.

They don’t care about the good of all

They only care about themselves

And it’s controlling of these self same choking weeds

That holds the future of our undergrowth needs.

38262

38262 entries who open Summers door;

The cacophony of London Town,

Giving it all what for.

The Tower, Cutty Sark, up the Mall.

It makes you fair burst with pride.

Wonderful amazing people and all

Running along Old Thames side.

There’s always a few Spidermen

And a dalek or three or four

A grandfather clock,

A main in a frock

False boobs and wigs;

A team from London zoo.

Twelve guys from the fire brigade

And bring a ladder do...

38262 stories to tell

Of sweat and tears

Of dreams and fears.

Dedicated to friends they’ve lost

And as well, they count the cost

In blisters and pain and the sores remain.

But memories there are made.

Thousands cheering lining the route

The best of London marathon praised,

Charity millions too are raised,

By the very best of me and you.

All British through and through.

Lady, you are perfection to me

Girl

Lithe and graceful with perfect smooth skin,

Your maturity yet lies within.

Delicate hands, soft hair and bright eyes.

With your easy giggles, your natural confidence.

All must protect such precious innocence.

Woman

You are perfection to me. With the years and motherhood you grow so wise.

Always I never tire of your day’s disguise

The attire of colour and co-ordination

Lace and perfume, I live in constant infatuation.

But clothes are designed to cover the fragility beneath,

And that is the real you;  that I am really attracted to.

Lady

There is such feminine beauty in the way that you are.

Natural and easy, comfortable you.

Wrinkles of crinkly skin,

Laughter lines that long ago begin

You struggle a bit with your age; and then just a bit more.

And I know it’s not easy being a lady growing older..

Until laughter lights up your face

And then the age goes without a trace

And you are a girl again.

Over the hill?

Over the hill?                                                                      (ANNOYED/VEHEMENTLY)

What do you mean over the hill?

I could still race you to that tree over there... yeah?

Or make it 5K away..

Bet you wouldn’t even make it... I would!

Over the hill?

What do you mean over the hill?

Give me your Morry’s shopping list.

Make it 30 items, say..
And I could add it up in my head.

Bet you couldn’t even do that... I could!

Over the hill?

Oh!... You mean that hill over there?...                                  (OOPS!  SUDDEN CALM)

Oh!  I see what you mean... ah... yes...

               

There’s always a new challenge.

I always want to see what’s over the next hill..

What is in the next town; the next country.

I want to see it all.

I have spreadsheets. Oh yes, I do spreadsheets.

Austria: fly to Salzburg; Alp around; then train to Vienna and Schloss abound.

Sweden: fly to Stockholm; then train to Tromso; arctic circle and surround.

Canada: Fly to Montreal  only  £425 return.

Youth hostels all the way. Oh yes. I prefer that type of stay.

All-adventuring me. Sometimes, when I can afford...

Alone travelling and blogging.

As I go.

And yes. I’m afraid of going over the hill...

But.

Just because I’ve lost my hair.

And my back creaks: just there...

And I have trouble remembering the right words and where

They go.

Doesn’t mean that....

Umm... er... what was I saying?                                                 (LOST FOR WORDS)

Sport at its best

Sport at its best is a lively diversion from the everyday.

An encouragement to exercise in your own way.

Magnificently unimportant.

Allowing the ridiculously passionate and the armchair enthusiast

To indulge themselves at rest.

That is when sport is at its best.

Then when you consider:

The obscene amount of money it generates

That feeds and nurtures and exaggerates

And becomes itself corrupted and corruptible.

Sport does not look so good.

Then when you observe:

The racism and spectator violence and the often necessary brutality.

The chemical enhancing and doping and the cheating reality.

Then the unnecessary pain that is in the name of entertain.

And a horse writhing, jerking in wide-eyed agony... before it is shot dead.

The physical trauma of training and exercise every day.

For that one in a thousand chance of fame and pay.

The motor sport crash at the edge of speed.

Or a child robbed of a childhood indeed.

Where do we go from here?

Where does sport defend itself?

It is just another gamble.

Violet is a good number

Violet is a good number.

                But it does not buy you a lot.

                Nowadays.

Rectangle is a great colour.

                But not bright; a squarish grey would be duller.

Eighteen is a strange shape.

A straight line and another, I’d say.

Which goes round and round in a figureightively way.

Netball is a nice name.

Not as cute as Alice or Molly.

Or Suzie or Diana of Royal fame.

Wendy  is a cool letter.

Maybe its German or Greek the epsilon way.

Perhaps it’s French like doobler-vay.

Z is a sweet girlie game.

I’ve never played it.

And I’ve heard that it’s tame.

My words all got a bit confused!!

Connections getting all misused.

But I think I like them better this way.

Cos they have some unusual things to say.

Each story is but a hero's journey

Each story is but a hero’s journey

But there is no hero here.

Well, we hoped for one

But he didn’t come.

And there’s not much of a story left;

Just an ending.

My end will come swiftly.

That’s what they say.

A convulsion, a shaking tremor..

Will there be time for me to feel any pain?

Panic? Again, I know not... but it’s all the same..

It is so idyllic here.

Miles from roads and lanes and even tracks..

No traffic, no civilisation I have retired to such peace.

I love this place and would choose no other

I get a bit lonesome, but where others might choose to have lots of people around

I prefer to be alone. At any rate.

And I have so much, so much to contemplate.

The sun doesn’t know. It is warm and bright and reassuring.

The animals and birds don’t know

And I enjoy their company, their chatter, their everyday patter;

Happily all about and around me they are.

The view stays the same.

The trees, the fields, stretching to the hill

Over which I know there is a sea, constantly moving and shushing against the shore.

The sea doesn’t know. But it will.

I don’t know why they called it hero.

Seems a strange choice of name.

To begin with it was just called XTP4771.

I preferred that.

It should have been called plague or pestilence.

It does not matter how all this happened..  not now.

I did a lot of why-me-ing in the early days

But I can now be stoic.

The acceptance is about complete.

My needs are simple.

I have enough food to last me for these last few months.

Tins, jars, pickles and fruit.

And the garden is blooming with produce.

There’s always soup.

And the well gives me fresh water.

No tv. No radio. No e-mail or phone.

I do not need the news.

Above all. I do not need the news.

The swimming pool gets a bit dirty

 I clean it every day.

But the filter doesn’t work any more anyway.

They’ve tried to find a cure.

The famous minds

They can create the genome; see  quarks.. but they haven’t a clue.

They’ve tried nuclear blast on the moon

But the cracks they created don’t help...

November 19^th 2018.

That’s a date to remember,

Not for the thanksgiving..

I have nothing to be thankful for.

Just the past.

And that won’t last.

They even know the time.

4.27 GMT. And that will just be the countdown.

There will be no newspaper to tell the doom.

And chaos will prelude the end of the world I assume.

As hero hits the moon.

They probably know by now the exact time that the worlds will collide.

But, if you’ll excuse me; I’ll just reside.

Here.

With my peace and my tranquillity base.

I can imagine others. Just like me. Waiting.

And the turmoil, the violence, the anger and confusion

The profusion of disillusion.         

But I thank God it doesn’t reach me.

God.... Now there’s a thing.

I don’t think a lot of him.

But I am sure he carries a lot of the blame.

He sent the flood – now hero’s the name.

Question everything........(with a landay)

Question everything; don’t believe what they say..

     then you think it through and do it your own way.

A tiny little germ of an idea;

     and it becomes a worm of an idea...

And you work on it a bit there a bit here..

     and wriggles and slithers about becomes clear.

Easy to be glib and metaphorical

     perfectly sounding and allegorical.

But the truth is. And you must know it is true

     you just don’t know what’s around the corner for you.

May be good is probably gonna be bad

     much more likely to be boring even sad.

But just accept it. Life is just a trap

     in the end its eleven syllable crap.

Just a description

Just a description.  Of then and last night.

Sitting alone, sounds abound around.

The distant clack of golf ball thwack.

And travelling fast down fairway green to green.

Birds calling from tree to tree

To each other but not to me.

Distant voices, conversation out of my ear.

Shouts not clear.

And amongst it all.

There is such a silence to recall.

Hot tubs are amazing things.  

Bubbling steamy water, in unlikely places..

Out in the open, a chill breeze blowing and it’s dark and it’s late.

Plastic glasses of champagne floating on a plastic tray. And hey!

“It’s so much easier looking at a million stars above your head:

When you are floating in wonderfully hot water”  I said.

!!#!!#!!

!!#!!#!!

Do other languages

Have as much colour as ours?

And I say ours because patently...

You can see I write in English abc

I know the French have a bit of merde.

And the Italians have their ming.

But when there’s anger in the air and English feelings want to share,

We are so colourful. And rude and crude.

And spitting oaths and swearing vicissitude.

I struggle to imagine a Scandinavian gent

Letting words go and his anger vent.

Or a polite little Japanese lady

Using the vernacular words so shady.

Do the Masai swear?

Or Africaaner  vulgar anger share?

Probably.

Yes to all of these.

Perhaps it’s just a human trait

To mix together words of sex and hate.

And use them to language punctuate

Maybe they just aim to shock and bait...

The gentle and polite.

Zebras have stripes

Zebras have stripes,

Black and whites.

Camels have humps,

Great big lumps.

Kangaroos, now they have pouches:

Little Joey comfort couches.

And elephants – well, they have trunks

To suck through like giant straws...

Stripes and humps and pouches and trunks

Wonderful  wildlife in diverse chunks.

Clock tock tick

clock tock tick.                                       Clock tock tick. We used to have a clock

Springs and things                                       On the mantelpiece at home.

Cogs and wheels                                            25 years service my Pop had done

Making the                                                      Wooden shaped surround and chrome

Tick tock clock.                                        Tick tock clock.  (I loved the sound it made)

Unless it’s battery                                       Silver wedding day:

But then there’s still                                     Still at home,

A cog or two                                                  Cousins and aunties, uncles too.

That moves the hand                                        And my presents to Mum and Pop

And makes the sound                                        Silver watches I gave.

Tock tick clock.                                         Tock tick clock.

Watches are small on your wrist            Proud me! But sighed. (I got them back when they died)

Don’t you be late for school                        Bedside table; clock radio alarm;

Watch your watch:  that’s the rule                Music woke me up....we  even had the tea’s made.

Tock clock tick.                                         Tock clock tick.

Digital is different                                        Fashion accessory for you.. Rolex?

No sound there                                               Timex is more for me.

For you to hear..                                               And the watches and clocks still go

Clock tick tock                                           Clock tick tock

LED numbers on a screen                             Hours and days go by they mean.

To tell you where time has been                     To tell you where time has been.

Tick clock tock.                                         Tick clock tock.

You wake in the morning

You wake in the morning

And the first thing, the very first thing

Is that a veil drops over everything.

Worrier me.

Now.

I am fine. All with me is at it should.

Comfortable and comforted and good.

But I worry.

Extended families; near and dear

There’s always something here

For me

To think too much about.

And I worry.

Oh, I know!

There’s not a lot I can do

And if there was I would!

They have all grown up and gone.

My sons are married

But there’s always something to nag me, true.

So I try and block things out, I do!

But I don’t succeed.

And so I shouldn’t.

Softee me.

And there is a reason there

And it is because I care.

Remember this place, I remember it well

Remember this place – I remember it well.

My mum worked in that Tesco’s a long time ago

(It was one of the first)

But they’ve moved it, down a bit, it wasn’t  there.

Mr Cohen was the owner and he always

Remembered her name.  So she would say.

There’s a bank further down on the other side,

Where I first worked;

It’s not there any more, they sell furniture goods now.

And another where I worked upstairs

And met my future wife.

And love at last entered my life.

Market day; the cinema (Chitty Chitty Bang);

84 bus; Wimpy Bar; Golden Egg;

Library (it’s an up-market pub conversion)

Park, Roman Wall; Cathedral too (no conversion there).

It has not really changed a lot I’d say,

But I have now long lived, far away.

Just around the corner here

Was the Barclays Bank the IRA blew up.

I didn’t live here then

But the sound that blast made still echoes when  –  we remember.

WHS on that corner was my favourite shop;

Over there, that’s where I bought my first record player;

Opposite that was Foster’s where I had measured for my first suit... did I ever wear it?

And there... well, I could go on....

It’s all as clear as a bell.

I remember this place - I remember it well.

See? In that shop doorway..

We used to snuggle against the cold... just up the road and turn left you’ll see

Catherine Street; where I got down on one knee.

Don’t  count the years, it doesn’t matter now;

The love still echoes  –  when I remember.

And only a few weeks ago; oh yes!

I often come back to this place.

In that jewellers there

I bought my new love a ring.

See?

Time doesn’t change anything.

Good friend you once were

Good friend you once were to me.

I do not see a lot of you now,

But I often think about what we achieved. (Not bad, not bad at all.)

And how so often before, during and after

Such fun we had amid the laughter.

But then the work, the stress and the days

When we had nearly had our fill.

And I had, and I left; but I miss it still.

Was it that long ago?

No. But the time has passed and gone,

And probably not to return, not for me.

Things change and you have to move on; but..

Good friend you once were to me.

 I do not see a lot of you now.

But when I do: when we meet by chance.

It still feels the same.

And our times together were what we had in common,

They were fine and they were good and so not forgotten.

And we talk and chat and soon catch up;

And it is so good to know:

Good friend you once were to me.

65 million years ago, I lived just here

65 million years ago, I lived just here..

Down Cretaceous Way.

I’m only young, just a puposaurus

My mum calls me

And one day I’ll have a spikyback, just like she.

My name is Alfie

And I like to play with stones

That are round and roll and spin.

I make up games and play by myself,

That way I always win.

And I try and catch big juicy dragonflies,

You know, the ones with the great bulging eyes..

I like to squash and eat ugly beetles too...

I’m sure it’s just the game for you.

In our neck of the woods that stretch down the river and onto the plain,

There used to be lots and lots of us.

Now, not that many do remain

In the winter icy ages of old: it really gets so cold

And we die.

I have lots of cousins,

Lots bigger than me.

With long, long necks

And rows and rows of jagged teeth.

I don’t argue with cousin Tranny or his boys;

They get too angry and they make a noise.

I have Uncle Dons:

There’s Terry, he likes to fly a lot

And Iguana he trundles around a lot

And Dimmy, he’s got sharp teeth..but bright he’s not.

Uncle Terry he travels aways

He’s got the wanderlust he says

He flies way up and travels farther and farther...

He even once saw a mountain fire of lava

And an icthyasaurus he thought he saw

From the seashore, but he wasn’t sure.

Dad says so gloomily we’ll be extink one day

I don’t  know what he means and, well, anyway..

I just play...  by myself.

I like it best that way.

He said "well right..."

He said:  “well, right, but that’s what she said.”

And I’m not sure what he meant when he said that

So I said “ You mean, she said that’s what he said. She didn’t say anything else instead... “

“ I don’t know what he said, just what she said he said”

“Yeah, but she would say that” he said.

“I know she’d say that,” I said.

“That’s just the sort of thing she’d say.” He said.

“If only we knew what she said and not just what he said she said.” I said.

“That’s just what I said she said!”

But it didn’t make it any clearer.

Now, do I know my birds?

Now, do I know my birds?...

Well, I can recognise a robin, a sparrow, a blackbird and blue tit too.

On your bird table

That much I’m able

And I love to see a kestrel or a kite

Hovering, gliding, eagle-like.  

But I do not know which it is.

There’s something magic about hearing birdsong at dawn,

But I can’t say whether I can tell the difference

Between the blackbird call or skylark or the warbler.

Magpies are unlucky if you see only one.

The sound a woodpecker makes is very clear.

The first cuckoo of spring must be getting near.

That’s a thrush. That one I know.

But whether it’s mistle or songthrush

Or it could be a fieldfare or redstart.

That’s a finch. No probs, it’s a cinch.

But whether bull, chaff or haw... I wouldn’t know what I saw.

Greenfinch is probably green.

Goldfinch is probably gold.

But then apparently there are linnets and redpoll too

That’s enough to confuse you.

That’s a starling. Pigeons are pests.

Owls are beautiful but they won’t really go to-whit-too-woo..

(and let’s face it, neither would you...)

That’s a sparrow.  Oh yes!

But then dunnock knows which one it is..

Poetry to order

Poetry to order:     (is a bit contrived but these two pieces have survived):

Aubade

Isn’t every day just the same?

On my way to work:

People’s eyes look straight ahead

Lost in their own worried lives;

Walking, ignoring all but

The weariness of another early morning.

Routine repeated every day

And it has to be that way.

No escape.

No smile, no brightness in the eye,

Nothing to do but breathe a sigh.

What does each day bring?

Just more of the same everything.

I want so much to change

But life just slaps me down again.

And what do I get?

The weariness of yet another early morning

The sky is blue, the sun is shining..

So what? It’s all the same what another day brings

Amid the drudgery and self-pity dawning

That is the weariness of another early morning.

--------------

Three verses that spell ‘aubade’.

But I cannot continue in that vein.

It is so not me!

Each day is precious and should be treasured.

The sun is shining. Glory be! Yippee!

And my breath comes yet clear.

Perhaps when my mind and body fade

I can continue ‘aubade’

But now...  Right now... I know I might make you queasy...

But good cheer and happiness come so easy.

Gloomy soon goes, lifts away.

Cos I don’t do things that way.

Palinode

You don’t hear talk about flying saucers anymore.

Crop circles have had their day

Disproved as hoax and they've just gone away.

Alien abduction was just loose deduction

Funded by cheap newspaper hacks.

Bigfoot and his abominable friend

They might have been genetically found

But there is nothing left there to astound.

Does anybody contact the dead?

Or do they play ‘world of warcraft’ instead?

------

I once over thirty years ago believed in the Loch Ness monster.

Or was it that I wanted to?

As now... I wrote a poem...

I imagined a walk along the loch shore

And in my poem he saw: ‘a bony, knobbly, yet lordly head’

Raising out of the murky depths...

I wish I could believe now. I really do.

But,.

Well, it seems so childish, so out-of-date, so fanciful;

And I am afraid to say  -  mysteries have had their day.

There are no ghosts, no monsters, no little green men;

Science has killed off the X-files; area 51; tales of the unknown and unexpected;

And we are left with a world that is:

Boring boring boring boring boring boring boring boring boring boring boring...

Me don't do rhyming couplets

Me don’t do rhyming couplets or terza rima

Or blank verse; or the reverse.

Punchy  limerick things with a quirky ending

Or a rambling poem syncopating all the angles

Into neat haiku pentangles.

And a pretty sonnet, allegorical too

Or a quatrain and ode just for you.

Labels.

I just say what I am thinking.

Put it down with pen and pencil first

Give it a bit of a rhythm maybe, a rhyme, forced sometime..

And it is.

Pure me.

Not clever or arty; not precise, not perfect.

I’ll never be a laureate

But I want to be.

Remembered.

As just me.

Pure me.

Do you remember me?

Do you remember me?

Those that still walk the ways and paths

That I once, long ago, did tread?

Can you recall what I looked like?

How I talked and what it was I said?

There must have been funny moments

And must have been stories to tell.

I was here... I was so alive.

And I remember it all so well.

Do you remember me?

I walked in warm sun, sheltered from the rain,

I took deep breaths on cold dark days

And snuggled up warm on long bleak nights.

I loved and I was

Amongst you all.

Surely someone can recall?

My name... it was mine...

I stood where you stand now:

Do you remember me?

Or you?... or you?

I’ll ask again...

Do you?... or you?

I carved my initials on that tree.

Did I leave my mark for all to see?

Or does time wipe it clear?

I heard the birds singing;

Sat in the seat where you do rest;

They tacked a little plaque.. there on the back,

But I see it’s not lasted long.

My family would remember me,

But, it’s sad, but they are all gone too.

Soon, maybe not now...  but it’s not far away...

When my name will be said no more.

Only documents and file

Certificate and for a while

I know my name it is still there.

But I’m not remembered else anywhere

I was alive but now I am so not

And I fear that I will be forgot.

Flowers have strange names 6th

Flowers have strange names...

Not like Peter, Adam and Shane’s.

They are called antirrhinum, pansy and phlox;

Some are even called hollyhocks.

They have latin names too

And I don’t mean Caesar and Augustus  or Maximillian II

They are called grandifloras and multifloras,

Solanums, galanthus and cornus.

Names hard to pronounce and quite enormous.

Some plants are named after botanists

Who travelled the world in search of them.

Fuchs got his fuschias; Dahl found the dahlia

Douglas got his fir and Azy the azalea. (Not)

I wish there was a flower called Dave.

With multicoloured petals; now that would be brave.

He’d flower in the Winter; the roots would be an edible treat;

Bear purple fruit in the Spring that are really ever so sweet.

In Summer, he’d rest and let others take over (it’s only polite)

In the Autumn, he’d flower again, the scent would send you as high as a kite.

Oops!!   And Oh!

(He’d have to be labelled ‘not suitable for children’ though)

The dog sat on the window sill 5th

The dog sat on the window sill; living room 402.

He didn’t sniff, or bark or growl as other dogs might do.

He just sat.

Life size, staring at the wall;

Stretched out, laying, head up raised...

Plaster cast and painted/glazed.

It looked lifelike, well, quite a bit.

But all he’d ever do was sit.

And he seemed to be always there,

An ornament of fifties ware.

He was a collie dog, I think –

With pointed nose and light brown fur.

Not threatening, not angry, no snarling teeth,

And a flat white, chalky base underneath.

I cannot remember how old I was

I can only imagine now.

That I could have only been six or five or maybe less

And a bit timid and sensitive, I admit it, yes.

So.

One day I was at home, all alone.

And to my children’s active mind

He came alive.

It scared me to cry, sobbing tears of fear...

To stand on the window shelf

 (presumably next to the collie dog himself)

And to shout:  ‘help!’  ‘help!’  ‘help!’

Out of the opened top window..

Did he turn his plaster head or growl?

Move his eyes somehow?

I do not remember now.

But I was a little, alone and terrified me.

My cries they were soon answered...

By a neighbour from 400.

Mrs Hollis, I remember her name.

A round, posh, serious lady

And in she came.

(the back door was always open)

And reassured me, comforted me, cajoled me.

And I was ok again.

The moment obviously made an impression on me

Cos’ I can still remember it clearly.

And it leaves unspoken questions,

From well over 50 years ago.

That have  answers that I will never know.

I love numbers 4th

I love numbers.

When neat and ordered as in geometry

Or money amounts and dates in history

Or when there’s a satisfying symm-etry

About a book-keeping double ent-ery

Big or small or just lucky some...

I love letters.

Letters can be a bit of a scrabble

Or flow into words like a brook does babble

Or arranged neatly lined like us poets do dabble
Rapid sentences into eloquent gabble

And rhymes at best are just for fun...

I love symbols.

Especially when they clash together

With a tshssstsh..clang-ang-ang-ang-ang...

35 is not a big number 3rd

35  is not a big number.

It is but a handful of pennies or cents

In minutes or miles, it’s not immense.

In sweets or words, it is not a lot

35 spoonfuls wouldn’t fill the pot.

But in years.....  it is a long, long time.

A generation is less.

Between the Wars was only 21; oh yes.

Kings and presidents, prime ministers too

Come and go depending on how they do

And forgotten and the memory fades with days.

But some days are remembered always.

It takes just an anniversarial prompt and you’re there.

My Dad died this Good day 35 years ago.

Yeah, I know; it happens...  just let it go...

But it still seems so fresh, the pain so keen.

35 years ago is a long, long, long time.

But I still remember my Mum phoning me to tell me the news

And the drive to be with family: listening to Paul’s Boxer.

And the shock and disbelief, yes, and the grief

And my Mum now all alone and my brothers in tears (not me)

That day changes everything.

The soon sadness to come that Pop would never know

My two sons; wouldn’t see them grow

Into men.

And then... it was just another day.

Yeah, I know; it happens...  just let it go...

But it still hurts, even though it was 35 years ago.

Knight in shining armour 2nd

Knight in shining armour

That’s what I am

Who galloped into your life astride

A white steed.

Excellent, gallant me indeed.

With silver agleam armour and a sword and lance

You couldn’t resist.... you had no chance.

For my cutting sword I had a ready smile

My lance was warmth and a gentle guile.

My armour was but the caring me and while

We talked and talked and laughed a mile.

With my love I slayed your lone dragon

(which was dying anyway)

And I whisked you off to another life:

In a tornado of compassion.

Is that how it was?

Was I really that bold knight of old?

Or did I plod and bumble about..

Unsure, unconvincing and with lots of doubt

Not galloping... not vital and focussed...

But just letting it happen..  because we wanted it?

I was not your knight in shining armour.

I did not abduct you into a land of riches

To a life of a princess and contentment ever.

No, that wasn’t me, no, never.

It was just me bumbling about.

I am just me.

But if you want virtuous and true

And a love that is forever for you.   Forever.

And romance, honour, fun and humour.

Forsooth! Fair maiden for sures..

I am not a knight in shining armour, but I am yours.

Went for a bike ride today 1st

Went for a bike ride today

Not such a remarkable thing to say

Well, considering...

My perpetual back ache, my hernia lump

And that I’m getting old (well, nearly)

I’m feeling quite smug (well, clearly)

Along the Greenway, a measured 9k

Pedalling up the hill 1:3

Certainly wasn’t easy for me

It was the first time in ages..

And let’s face it; pumping up the tyres is easier

Than pumping up the enthusiasm

Well, considering...

I don’t cycle very well (bit dangerous me)

Arse over head she went

Hey! It wasn’t my fault

Dogs were running around

Boisterous, so playful... collision

She went flying over

Got up, brushed herself down... decision

Accepted my ‘ok?’

And stiff British upper lip

Went on her way. (fair play!)

Hedges just in bud abound

Daffs and blossom all around

Was a lovely Spring in England day

But that cold North wind! What to say?

It’s April... not Januaray!

Why don’t you just go away!!